
Book _j--->D B 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIK 



HAKPER'S CYCLOPAEDIA 



OF 



BEITISH AND AMERICAN 



POETRY 



3i 



EDITED BY 

EPES SARGENT 




^*ftf>s 



MAY 24 1881 

No.j,f/„:j../)-c^ 



NEW YORK 

IIAUPEU & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 

18 81 







Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1881, by 

UARPER & BEOTHERS, 

In the OfBce of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



All rights reserved. 



\l 




o\ 



yy- 



pi^efa.ce:. 



Poets have multiplied during the present century as at no previous period. Never 
was the accomplishment of verse so general as now. "Weren't we in the luck of it," 
said Scott to Moore, " to have come before all this talent was at work ?" If the remark 
was apt in their day, how much more so is it at the present time! Works in verse, 
that would have made a reputation a century ago, fall now almost unnoticed from the 
press. It is hard for the most diligent critic to keep pace with the fertility of onr 
poets. The present compiler had despaired of doing this long before he had proceeded 
far in his labors. The consequence is that there liave been omissions for which no 
better reason can be given than that they were unavoidable. An apology under such 
circumstances would be out of place. 

It cannot be overlooked, too, that much of the best poetry of recent times has been 
tlie product of feminine genius. The progress of women in enlarging the sphere of 
their occupations, and competing with the employments of the stronger sex, is repre- 
sented in no department of intellectual work more signally tliaii in verse. Every 
month new poetry, far above mediocrity, if not of really superior quality, is sent forth. 

This is a sign to be welcomed. True poetry, like the religious prompting itself, 
springs from the emotional side of man's complex nature, and is ever in harmony with 
his iiighest intuitions and aspirations. It cannot l)c poetry if it conflict with these. 
Its cultivation, therefore, apart from all calculations of profit or of reputation — since few 
can now realize their dream of fame — must always be an elevating pursuit. There are 
some great truths for the expression of which the speculative understanding is less 
fitted than that which is the issue of right feelings and noble impulses. That poets 
have not always practised what they have preached, only shows how hard it is for a 
man to act up to his best ideals. 

It is profoundly true that poetry is to be found nowhere, unless we have it within 
us. Here, as throughout all nature and all art, we receive but what we give. And 
so it is that great poets like Goethe — of whom it was said that his praise of some 
of the younger poets of his day was "a brevet of mediocrity" — often detect in what 



PREFACE. 



may strike an inferior judge as commonplace, sometliing to which the broad poetical 
nature may respond. 

In poetry, as in other forms of art, tastes must difEer widely, not only among dif- 
ferent persons, but among tlie same persons at different periods of their lives. Tlie 
youth, in whose estimate the verse of Byron once had the highest place, often finds 
iiimself, as he grows older, transferring his affections to Coleridge or Wordsworth. 
Tiien, too, it frequently happens that our fondness for a certain poem may lie uncon- 
sciously in some early association witli it, or in the fact that it was admired by some 
one near and dear to us. We shut our eyes to minor flaws, and are "pleased we know 
not why and care not wherefore," — wholly regardless of the critic's shrug or even the 
grammarian's objection. All, then, that the compiler can do is, while admitting largely 
what he may regard as best and highest, to remember still that in the exercise of his 
individual taste he must not arbitrarily rule out the representation of any legitimate 
style or topic. Some of our best humorous poems, like Thackeray's "Ballad of Bouilla- 
baisse," have in them an element of pathos which redeems tlieir character as poetry. 

There are many minor poets who, by some felicity of subject or of treatment, 
have produced one successful piece, but never repeated the achievement. Like the 
boy who shot an arrow through a ring, but would not make a second trial lest he 
should fail, they have been constrained to rest their fame on the one little waif by 
which they have been made known. This class, and such anonymous writers as have 
produced pieces that the world does not allow to become obsolete, are largely repre- 
sented in the present volume ; and our Index of First Lines will be found a conven- 
ient concordance for the discovery of many a poem which everybody remembers, but 
few know where to find. 

In the introductory' notices of poets, in reference to the inost distinguished, the aim 
has been to condense, or to sum np briefly, the most interesting incidents of their lives, 
and the choicest characteristics of their writings. In doing this, occasional forms of 
expression, not designated by quotation-marks, have been adopted, with alteration or 
abridgment, from biographer or critic ; but credit has been given in cases of any im- 
portance. Original matter has been largely introduced ; but, inasmuch as the license 
of a compiler has been used to enrich the work with all that is most apt in the way 
of facts and of criticism, whether new or old, no pretensions to uniform originality in 
these respects are made. Epes Saegent. 

Boston, December, 1880. 



PUBLISHER'S NOTE. 

The concluding pages of this voliimc were put in type only a few days before 
the genial and cultured editor passed away from the scene of his labors. It was the 
crowning work of a life devoted to literature. Projected several years ago, it en- 
grossed Mr. Sargent's thoughts and time almost to the very last day of his life, and 
every page passed under his careful supervision. Altliough he did not live to see it 
published, he had the pleasure of putting the tiual touches to it, and of knowing that 
his work was finished. 

Mr. Sargent was eminently fitted for tlie preparation of a work of this kind. Few 
men possessed a wider or more profound knowledge of English literature, and liis 
judgment was clear, acute, and discriminating. He designed this volume especially for 
household use; and he could have desired no kindlier remembrance than that associ- 
ated with the innocent pleasure and refining influence it will carry to many a domestic 
fireside. 

IIarpkk S: Bkothers. 

Franklin Square, Xkw York, 
Fcf»itary 22, 1881. 



inSTDEX OF -A-TJTHOHS, 
AVITH CONTENTS. 



Adams, John Quincy. pace 

To a Bcicavcd Mother 535 

Adams, Sarah Flower. 

Nearer, my God, to Thee G08 

The World may Change (from Schiller) (iff.) 

Thy Will, not Mine GO'J 

Addison, Joseph. 

Hymn 1:27 

Ode from tlic Nineteenth Psalm l:*i 

Paraphnise on Psalm xxiii lUS 

Cato's Soliloquy on tlie Immortality of the Soul. 129 

Ode : How are Thy Servants Blest l->0 

Aiken, Berkeley. 

Uncrowned Kings .552 

Ainslie, Hew. 

Sighings for the Sca-sidc 441 

The Ingle-side 44J 

Aird, Marion Paul. 

Far, Far Away 733 

Aird, Thomas. 

The Swallow 5S0 

Akenside, Mark. 

Tlio Soul's Tendencies to the Infinite ixii 

The nii;h-born Soul 1H7 

.Mind, tlie Fount of Beauty I''" 

Tlie Ascent of Being 1S7 

Tiirougli Nature up to Nature's God l.SS 

Akin, Mary Elizabeth. 

Psalm cix.vvii .568 

Alden, Henry M. 

The Ancient " Lady of Sorrow " 881 

Aldrich, James. 

A Death-bed 001 

To One Far Away 6U1 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. 

Lines on BrowncU 773 

Plseataqua River 8(i7 

Before the Kain 8(i8 

After the Kain 808 



Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. mck 

Unsung 868 

Sonnet 868 

Alexander, Mrs. Cecil Frances. 

The Burial of Moses 836 

Alexander, Joseph Addison. 

The Power of Short Words 007 

Alexander, William. 

Waves and Leaves 797 

Jacob's Ladder 71(7 

Alford, Henry. 

A -Memory OW 

Alison, Richard. 

Hope 32 

Clierry-ripe 23 

Allen, Elizabeth Akers. 

Kodi Me to Sleep 8.50 

Till Death 8.50 

Allingham, William. 

Song 825 

The Touchstone 835 

Autumnal Sonnet 825 

Allston, Washington. 

Sonnet on Culcridire 3.50 

America to Great Britain 3.50 

Anonymous and Miscellaneous Poems of the 
15th and 16th Centuries. 

Chevy Chase 03 

Sir Patrick Spcns &5 

Give Place, You Ladyes All 06 

Tak' Yonr Auld Cloak About Ye 67 

Tlic Heir of Linnc 68 

The Nut-brown .Maide 71 

Sir John Barleycorn 75 

Trutli'a Integrity 75 

The Twa Sisters o' Binnorie 76 

Dowie Dens o' Yarrow 78 

Kobin Hood's Uesenc of Will Stutly 7\l 

Begone, Dull Care 80 

Man's -Mortality, by Simon Wastell 81 

liobia Hood and Atliua-Dalu 81 



INDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Anonymous and Miscellaneous— Conftnucrf. page 

Waly, Waly 83 

Edsvard 83 

Love Me Little, Love Me Long 83 

True Loveliness 84 

Lines by One in the Tower, by Chidiock Tychborn 84 

Bonnie George Caraptiell 84 

Silent Music, by Thomas Camptou 85 

Tlie Heavenly Jerusalem 85 

Helen of Kirkconnell 86 

Anonymous and Miscellaneous Poems of the 
17th and 18th Centuries. 

The Lincolnshire Poacher 156 

Tlie Twa Corbies 156 

Still Water, liy Tlionias D' Urfey 156 

The Jovial Beggars, by Richard Brome 157 

Harvest-home Song 157 

Time's Cure 157 

"When Shall We Three Meet Again?" 158 

God Save the King 158 

Winifreda 158 

Wliy Should We Quarrel for Riches 159 

The Fairy Queene 159 

Tlie Maiden's Choice, by Henry Fielding 160 

The White Rose 160 

From Merciless Invaders 160 

Willie's Visit to Melville Castle 160 

Our Gude-man 161 

Jock o' Hazelgreen 163 

Love Not Me for Comely Grace 163 

How Stands the Glass Around ? 163 

Ye Gentlemen of England 164 

Annie Laurie, by Douglas of Fingland 164 

The Soldier's Glee 164 

England's Vote for a Free Election 085 

Anonymous and Miscellaneous Poems of the 

18th and 19th Centuries. 

Meny May the Keel Row 537 

Oh Saw Ye the Lass ? 537 

The Pauper's Drive, by Tliomas Noel 537 

Sonnet: December Morning, by Anna Seward... .538 

Song of Birth ^ .538 

Song of Death 538 

Young Airly .539 

Love's Remonstrance, by James Kenney .539 

Sonnet : Comparison .530 

The Crocus's Soliloquy, by Miss H. F. Gould 530 

The Managing Mamma .530 

A Riddle on the Letter H, by Miss Catlierine M. 

Faushawe 530 

Sweet Tyrant, Love, by James Thomson 531 

The End of the Drought 531 

Tliree Kisses of Farewell 533 

The Sailor's Consolation, by William Pitt 533 

Wliere is He ? by Henry Neele 533 

Heaving of the Lead 533 

Coming Tlirougli tlie Rye 533 

Oh ! Say Not Woman's Heart is Bought, by 

Thomas Love Peacock 584 

Love and Age, by Thomas Love Peacock 5:J4 

Go, Sit by the Summer Sea 534 



Anonymous and Miscellaneous— rojifinncd. page 
To a Bereaved Mother, by John Quincy Adams^. 535 

Again 535 

Never Despair 536 

My Philosophy 536 

Progress 536 

Reliquiie 537 

Faith 537 

Genius 537 

Deirdre's Farewell to Alba 538 

Tlie Mystery of Life, by Jolin Gambokl 538 

Fame (from the German of Schiller) 539 

Tlic Clown's Song 539 

The Song of the Forge .540 

Sunrise Comes To-morrow 540 

Wliere Are Ye ? .541 

Come, Sunsliine, Come ! (from the Freneli of 

Cliarles Vincent) 543 

When tlie Grass Shall Cover Me 543 

Battle Hymn and Farewell to Life (from the Ger- 
man of Tlicodore Korner) .542 

The Going of My Bride 543 

Erin, by Dr. Williain Drcnnan 543 

The Swans of Wilton 544 

Hymn to tlie Stars 544 

Summer Days 545 

With a Rose in Her Hair 545 

A Hundred Years to Come, by William G. Brown. .546 

Lines on a Skeleton 546 

Sonnet: The Seen and the Unseen 546 

Thou Wilt Never Grow Old, by Mrs. Howarth... 547 

Happiest Days 547 

I Am the Lord ; I Change Not, by Arrali Leigh. 547 

Invocation of Earth to Morning 548 

Ode to Washington, by Mrs. A. B. Stockton .549 

Requiescam, by Mrs. Robert S. Howland 549 

The Departed Good, by Isaac Williams 549 

A Spring Song, by Edward Youl 550 

My Treasures 550 

"I Would Not Live Alway," by Rev. William 

Augustus Muhlenberg 551 

The Beautiful, by E. H. Burrington 551 

The Joy of Incompleteness 553 

Uncrowned Kings, by Berkeley Aiken 5.53 

W^onderland, by Cradoek Newton 5.53 

Mischievous Woman, by "The Ettriek Shepherd." 5.53 
The Water-drinker, by Edward Johnson, M.D. .. 553 

Glenlogie 554 

The Place to Die, by Michael Joseph Bui'ry 554 

To My Wife, by William Smith .5.55 

Love and Absence, by James Asheroft Noble 5.55 

Dreams 555 

Epigram, by S. T. Coleridge 5.55 

The First Spring Day, by John Todhuuter 556 

Unbelief 556 

On a Virtuous Young Gentlewoman Wlio Died 

Suddenly, by William Cartwriglit 5.56 

The Way, by William S. Shurtleff .556 

Anster, John. 

The Fairy Child 443 

The Days of Youth (from Goethe) 443 

The Soul of Eloquence (from Goethe) 443 



JXDEX OF AUTHORS, WITS CONTENTS. 



Armstrong, Edmund. 
From Darkness to LigUt . 



PAGE 

. 913 



Arnold, Edwin. 

After Death in Anibia 851 

A Ma Future 851 

Arnold, George. 

In the Dark ivJS 

Cui Bono ? 8.58 

A Summer Longiuj; 8o'J 

Arnold, Matthew. 

Lines on Byron 3W 

Self-Dcpeudcuee 783 

A Wisli •CSS 

Dr. Arnold 781 

Austerity of Poetry 7*1 

Askew, Anne. 
From "The FIsUt of Faith" 7 



Aubanel, Theodore. 
Tliirteeu (translated by Miss Harriet W. Picstoii). 919 

Austin, Arthur Williams. 
From " The Greek Anthology" Oil 

Austin, Mrs. Sarah. 
The Passage (from the German of Uhland) 451 

Aytoa, Sir Robert. 
On Woman's Inconstancy 35 



Aytoun, William Edmondstoune. 
The Old Scottish Cavalier 



713 



Bailey, Philip James. 

Love, the End of Created Being TIM 

Thouglits from " Fcstus " 735 

Ballantine, James. 
Its Ain Drap o' Dew 013 

Baillie, Joanna. 

To a Child 20C 

Fame ^ aiC 

Ballou, Maturin M. 
Flowers 772 

Banim, John. 

Soggartli Anion TM 

From " Damon and Pythias," Act V 605 

Barbauld, Anna Letitia. 

Life 230 

Lines written at the Age of Eiglity-thrcc Tcnrs. 220 

Wliat do the Futures Speak of? 327 

The Death of tlic Virtuous 237 

The Unknown God 227 

For Easter Sunday 328 



Barbour, John. 
Freedom 



PAGE 

. 3 



Barham, Richard Harris. 

The Jackdaw of UUeims 405 

Song 407 

Barker, David. 

Tlic Covered Bridge 743 

Tlie Under Dog in the Fight 742 

Barker, James Nelson. 
Little Red Riding Hood 8?2 

Barlow, Joel. 
From " Tlie Hasty Pudding" 340 

Barnard, Lady Anne. 
Auld Robin Gr,ay 236 

Barnes, William. 

Plorata Veris Laclirymis 67:5 

Sonnet : Rur.-il Nature 073 

Barr, Mary A. 

White Poppies 939 

Out of tlie Deep 939 

A Harvest-home 939 

Barr, Matthias. 

(iod's Flowers 848 

Only a Baby Small 848 



Barry, Michael Joseph. 
The Place to Die 



554 



Barton, Bernard. 

To a Grandmother 368 

Farewell 369 

A Winter Night 369 

Bates, Charlotte Fiske. 

Satisllcd 933 

After reading Longfellow's "Morituri Salutanins." 93:5 

Woodbines in October 9iJ 

Evil Thought 933 

The Power of Music 93:5 

Sonnet : To C. F 933 

The Telephone 931 

Hopes and Memories 931 



Baxter, Richard. 
Thy Will Be Done. 



100 



Bayly, Thomas Haynes. 

The Soldier's Tear 501 

I'd be a Butterfly 503 

She Wore a Wreath of Roses 503 

The Premature While Hat 502 

Beattie, James. 

Nature and Her Votary 218 

Life and ImuiorUtlity 319 



INDEX OF A UTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Beattie, James. fiOE 

Morning Melodies 219 

Arraignment of Providence 230 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Melancholy 46 

CiBsar's Lamentation over Pompej's Head 46 

Song from ' ' Valentinian " 47 

On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey, by Francis 

Beaumont 47 

Invocation to Sleep 47 

Song from " RoUo, Duke of Normandy" 47 

From "The Humorous Lieutenant" 47 

From "Tlie Maid's Tragedy" 48 

From " The Custom of the Country " 48 



Beddoes, Thomas Lovell. 
To Sea I 



Beers, Mrs. Ethel Lynn. 
The Picket-guard 



Beers, Henry Augustin. 

Psyche 

Carfamon 



Bell, Henry Glassford. 

From "The End" 

Cadzow 



591 



818 



930 



609 
609 



Bello, Emilio (Spanish). 
Meeting (translated by Mrs. Conant). 

Bennett, William Cox. 
A May-day Song 



773 



A Thought -. 

Beranger, Pierre Jean de (French). 
Popular Recollections of Bonaparte (translated by 
Francis Mahony) 

Berkeley, George. 
Verses on the Prospect of Planting Arts and 
Learning in America 

Bethune, George "Washington. 

It is not Death to Die 

Sonnet, introducing " Lays," etc 



599 



139 



610 
610 



Blackie, John Stuart. 

The Hope of the Heterodox 

Beautiful World 

To the Memory of Sydney Dobell. 

Blair, Robert. 
Death of the Strong Man 



Blake, William. 

Night 

The Tiger 

On Another's Sorrow 

Introduction to "Songs of Innocence". 



660 
666 
607 



155 



350 
250 
250 
251 



Blamire, Susanna. 
The Siller Croun . . 



PAGE 

. 333 



Blanchard, Laman. 

The Eloquent Pastor Dead 581 

The Bird-catcher 583 

Sonnet : Hidden Joys 583 

Sonnet : Wishes of Youth 583 

Blood, Henry Ames. 

Pro Mortuis 897 

The Last Visitor 897 

Bloomfield, Robert. 
The Soldier's Home 271 

Boker, George Henry. 
Dirge for a Soldier 791 



Bonar, Horatius. 

How to Live 

The Inner Calm . . 



650 
650 



Botta, Mrs. Anne (Lynch). 

Love Wins Love 770 

In the Adirondacks 770 

The Lesson of the Bee 770 



Bourdillon, Francis W. 

Light 

Ca'li 



938 
938 



The Home of My Heart. 

The Difference 

Let us Love 



Bowles, William Lisle. 

The Touch of Time 265 

The Bells of Ostend 265 

Sonnet : October, 1793 365 

Sonnet : On the River Rhine 365 

Bowring, Edgar Alfred. 

What Songs are Like (from Goethe) 818 

Youth and Age (from Goethe, .^t. 77) 818 

Bowring, John. 
Ode to God (from the Russian of Gabriel Romano- 

witch Derzhavin) .« 439 

Wisdom and Wealth (from the Russian of Khcra- 

nitzer) 440 

True Courage 440 

Brainard, John Gardiner Caulkins. 

The Sea-bird's Song 484 

Stanzas 484 

To the Daughter of a Friend 485 

The Falls of Niagara 485 



Brome, Richard. 
The Jovial Beggars. 

Bronte, Anne. 
If This Be All 



157 



744 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS, WITS CONTEXTS. 



Bronte, Charlotte. 

l.ile 

From "The Teacher's Monologue' 



PAGE 

. 743 
. 743 



Bronte, Emily. 

From "Aiilieipation" 74.3 

A Death Scene 74;j 

Brooks, Charles Timothy. 

Such is Life 711 

The Two Grenadiers (from the German of Heine). 711 
Alabama 713 



Brooks, James Gordon. 
Greece: 1833 



Brooks, Mrs. James Gordon. 
Psalm c.\x.xvii 



5G8 



5G8 



Brooks, Maria (GowenV 

Lines to Southey 47.5 

Song of Egla 475 

Brown, Frances. 
Losses 741 

Brown, William Goldsmith. 
.\ lliiiulreil Years to Come 540 

Browne, Sir Thomas. 
The Niglit is Come 87 

Browne, William. 

Shall I tell You whom I Love ? .53 

The Siren's Song 54 

Brownell, Henry Howard. 

At Sea : A Fnigmcnt 773 

From " The Bay Fight" 773 

The Burial of the Dane 775 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. 

Sonnet: Cheerfulness Taught by Reason 068 

Cowper's Grave 008 

The Sleep Oti'J 

A Woman's Question C70 

Sonnet : Futurity 070 

Sonnet : Insufllciency 070 

Four Sonnets from the Portuguese 670 

Bro'wning, Robert. 

How lliey Brought the Good News from Ghent. 709 

The French at Katisbon 710 

Meeting at Night 710 

Evelyn Hope 710 

Linos on Alfred Domett 7:14 

Bruce, Michael. 
From an "Elegy Written in Spring" 231 

Bryant, John Howard. 

The Valley Brook 630 

The Little Cloud 037 

Sonnet : Autumn 637 

B 



Bryant, William Cullen. moe 

Novenibcr : a Sonnet 463 

The Antiquity of Freedom 463 

Tlianatopsis 464 

Summer Wind 465 

The Future Life 465 

Meeting of Hector and Achilles 4(i0 

The Battle-lieUl m) 

From "An Evening Kcverie" 467 

To tlic Fringed Gentian 467 

Song: Dost Thou Idly Ask to Hear? 467 

The Return of Youth 468 

To the Ucv. John Picrpout 468 

Brydges, Sir Egerton. 

Echo ;uul Silence 264 

The Approach of Cold Weatlicr 26t 

Written at Paris, May 11, 1836 264 

Written at Lee Priory, August 10,1830 264 

Buchanan, Robert. 

Dying 907 

Hermione ; or, Differences Adjusted 907 

Langley Lane 908 

To Triflers 909 

Buckingham, Duke of (see Villiers). 

Burbidge, Thomas. 

Sonnet 747 

Even-tide 748 

Burleigh, William Henry. 

The Harvest-call 705 

Sonnet : Rain 705 

Solitude 705 

Burns, Robert. 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 3.53 

A Prayer under the Pressure of Violent Anguish. 2.56 

Epistle to a Young Friend, May, 1786 256 

Bannockburn 257 

To a Mountain Daisy 357 

For A' That and A' That 358 

Highland Mary 2.58 

Bonnie Lesley 2.59 

Auld Lang Syne 3.59 

To Mary in Heaven 359 

Ac Fond Kiss 200 

John Anderson My Jo 200 

Duncan Gray 260 

Somebody 301 

A Red, Red Rose 261 

The Banks o' Doon 361 

Alton Water 361 

Burrington, E. H. 

The Beautiful 5.51 

Burroughs, John. 

Waiting 873 

Butler, Samuel. 

The Learning of Hudibras 104 

From " MisccUaucous Thoughts " 104 



INDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Butler, William Allen. '^oe 

Nothing to Wear 799 

Byrom, John. 

My Spirit Longetli for Thee 153 

An Epigram on tlie Blessedness of Divine Love. 1.53 

St. Ptiilip Neri and the Youth 153 

Jacobite Toast 154 

Byron, Lord. 

Lines on George Croly 359 

Lines on Henry Kirlie White 377 

From " Cliilde Harold " 395 

Scenes by Lalie Leman 395 

Waterloo 396 

Address to the Ocean 397 

Evening 398 

The Isles of Greece 398 

From the "Ode on Venice" 399 

She Wall<s in Beauty 400 

On His Thirty-sixth Year 400 

The Dream 401 

The Destruction of Sennacherib 403 

When We Two Parted 403 

Modern Critics 403 

Maid of Athens, Ere We Part 404 

To Thomas Moore 404 

Sonnet on Chillon 404 

When Coldness Wraps This Suffering Clay 404 

From " The Prophecy of Dante " 405 

Calderon, Don Pedro (Spanish). 
Lines translated by Mrs. Conant 895 

Callanan, Joseph Jeremiah. 
The Virgin Mary's Banli 409 

Calverley, Charles Stuart. 
Lines Suggested by the Fourteenth of February. 844 

Calvert, George Henry. 
On the Fifty-lifth Sonnet of Shakspeare 591 

Campbell, Thomas. 

Ye Mariners of England 333 

Lochiel's Warning 333 

Hallowed Ground 333 

Song of tlie Greelcs 3:34 

Lord Ulliii's Daughter 3.35 

Hohcnlinden 335 

Freedom and Love 336 

The Soldier's Dream 336 

Valedictory Stanzas to John Philip Kemble, Esq. 337 

Exile of Erin 337 

Adelgitha 338 

Battle of the Baltic 338 

The Parrot 339 

To the Rainbow 339 

Hope's Kingdom 340 

Unbelief in Immortality 340 

Campion, Thomas. 
Silent Music 85 



Canning, George. tage 

The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-grinder: 
A Parody on Southey's Lines, "The Widow".. 375 

On the Death of His Eldest Son 376 

Song by Rogcro 376 

Carew, Thomas. 

Disdain Returned 53 

On Returning Her Letters 53 

Mediocrity in Love Rejected 53 

Song : Ask Me No More 53 

Carey, Henry. 
Sally in Our Alley 165 

Carleton, Will. 
Over the Hill to the Poor-house 928 

Carlyle, Thomas. 

Cui Bono ? 475 

To-day 476 

Carrington, Noel Thomas. 
The Pixies of Devon 341 

Cartwright, William. 
On a Virtuous Y'oung Gentlewoman 556 

Cary, Alice. 

Alice's Last Hymn 768 

Thou that Drawest Aside the Curtain 769 

Cary, PhcBbe. 

Thou aud 1 769 

Nearer Home 769 

Chadwiok, John White. j 

Auld Lang-syne '■'Ol 

By the Sea-shore 903 

Carpc Diem 903 

Channing, William EUery. 

To My Companions 744 

A Poet's Hope 744 

Channing, William Henry. 
Mignon's Soug (from Goethe) 6T9 

Chapman, George. 

Of Sudden Death 19 

The Highest Standard 19 

Give Me a Spirit 19 

Charles I., King. 
A Royal Lamentation 86 

Charlton, Robert M. 
The Death of Jasper C33 

Chatterton, Thomas. 
The Bristow Tragedy ; or, The Death of Sir Charles 

Bawdin 239 

1 On Resignation y 343 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS, IflTff COXTENTS. 



Chaucer, Geoffrey. "«e 

An Earthly Paradise 1 

To his Empty Purse 2 

The Parson 2 

Good Counsel of Chaucer 3 

Cherry, Andrew. 
The Bay of Biscay 303 

Child, Lydia Maria. 
Lines on Whittier C34 



Chorley, Henry Fothergill. 
The Brave Old Oak 



043 



Churchill, Charles. 

Remorse 307 

From "The Rosciad :" Sketches of Yates, Foote, 
Murphy, Mrs. Clive, Mrs. Pope, Quin, and Gar- 
rick 307, 308, 209 



Cibber, CoUey. 
The Blind Boy . 



13: 



Clare, John. 

On an Infant Killed by Lightning 453 

The Thrush's Nest : a Sonnet 453 

Spring Flowers 453 

Lines in a Lucid Interval 453 



Clark, James Gowdrey. 
Leona 



8.34 



Clark, Willis Gaylord. 
"They that Seek Me Early shall Find Me" 090 

Clarke, James Freeman. 

Prayer of Mary Queen of Scots C77 

The Rule with no Exception (after Goethe) 678 

White-capped Waves 078 

A Reminiscence (after Paillcron) 078 

Tlie Perfect Whole (after Gcibcl) 079 

Clarke, Miss Lilian. 
A Shelter against Storm and Rain (after tho Ger- 
man of Riickert) 078 

Clemmer, Mary. 

Waiting 889 

A Perfect Day 890 

Nantasket 890 

Alone with God 891 



Clive, Mrs. Archer Wigley. 
The Wish 



509 



Clough, Arthur Hugh. 

I will not Ask to Feel Thou Art 7.5;5 

Consider it Again 7.53 

Qui Laborat, Oral 7.53 

Dulce ot Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori 754 

Qua Cursum Ventus. . .'. 7.54 

lu a Goudola 755 



Cockburn, Alicia Rutherford. tmb 

The Flowers of the Forest 194 

Coffin, Robert Barry. 
Ships at Sea 815 

Coleridge, Hartley. 

Still I am a Cliild 496 

Song: She is not Fair to Outward View 490 

No Course I eared to Keep 497 

Sonnet to Wordswortli 497 

The Flight of Youth 497 

November : a Sonnet 497 

Wisdom the Gray Hairs to a Man 497 

Sonnet to Shakspeare 497 

Liberty: a Sonnet 498 

No Life Vain 498 

The Waif of Nature 498 

To a Newly-married Friend 498 

The Same, and Not Another 498 

On Receiving Alms 498 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. 

Love 300 

Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale ot Chamouni.. 307 

Complaint 308 

Human Life 308 

Fancy in Nubibus ; or. The Poet in the Clouds.. 308 

Love, Hope, and Patience in Education 309 

From " Dejection : an Ode " 309 

Death of Max Piceolomini 309 

Epitaph on an Infant 809 

Tlic Rime of the Ancient Mariner 310 

To the Author of "The Ancient Mariner" 317 

Epigram on Poetasters 555 



Coleridge, Sara. 
Sonnet on Blanco White . 



325 



Collier, Thomas Stephens. 

A Windy Evening 917 

A Sea Echo..... 918 

Collins, Mortimer. 

First of April, 1870 817 

In View of Death 817 

The Positivists 817 

CoUins's Last Verses 817 

Collins, William. 

Ode, Written in the Tear 1746 188 

Ode to Evening 189 

Ode on the Death of Thomson 189 

Tlie Passions: an Ode for Music lUO 



CoUyer, Robert. 
Saxon Grit 



Colman, George, the Younger. 
Sir Marmaduke 



Colton, Caleb C. 
Life 



793 



363 



353 



INDEX OF AUTHORS, JTirn CONTENTS. 



Conant, Helen S. page 

From thu Spanish of Caklcron 895 

Alas! (from tlie Spanish of Ileredia) 895 

Spanish Song 895 

Meeting (from the Spanish of Emilio Bello) 895 

German Love Song 895 

Conant, Samuel Stillman. 

Release 880 

A Vigil 880 

The Saucy Rogue (from the German) 880 

Conrad, Robert T. 
From " My Brother" 611 

Constable, Henry. 
Diaphenia 40 

Cook, Clarence. 
Abram and Zimri 823 

Cook, Eliza. 
The Old Arm-chair 746 

Cooke, John Esten. 
May 838 

Cooke, Philip Pendleton. 
Florence Vane 736 

Cooke, Rose Terry. 

Trailing Arbutus 819 

ludolence 819 

Cornwall, Barry (see Procter, Bryan Waller). 

Cotton, Charles. 
No Ills but what we Make 114 

Cotton, Nathaniel. 
To-morrow 175 

Cowley, Abraham. 

My Picture 109 

Tentanda Est Via 110 

A Happy Life (from Martial) 110 

Mark that Swift Arrow 110 

On the Death of Crashaw Ill 

From "The Wish" lU 

Cowper, William. 

Rural Sounds 310 

Affectation 210 

Industry in Repose 211 

Welcome to Evening 211 

An Ode : Boadicea 211 

A Winter Evening in the Library 213 

On the Receipt of My Mother's Picture 213 

Loss of the lioi/al George 313 

To Mary Unwin 214 

Character of Lord Chatham 314 

The Diverting History of John Gilpin 214 

Cox, Christopher Christian. 

One Year Ago 737 

Haste Not, Rest Not (after Schiller) 737 



Coxe, Arthur Cleveland. tage 

Watchwords 7.50 

Matin Bells 750 

Crabbe, George. 

The Sea in Calm and Storm 345 

The Pilgrim's Welcome 245 

It is the Soul that Sees 346 

Craik, Mrs. Dinah Mulock. 

To a Winter Wind 813 

Too Late 813 

Philip, My King 813 

Cranch, Christopher Pearse. 

Sonnet 714 

Gnosis 714 

From an "Ode" on Margaret Fuller Ossoli 715 

Crashaw, Richard. 

In Praise of Lessius's Rule of Health 101 

From "Wishes to his Supposed Mistress" 101 

Two went up to the Temple to Pray 103 

Croly, George. 
The Death of Leonidas 556 

The Seventh Plague of Egypt 357 

Catiline's Defiance to the Roman Senate 358 

Cross, Marian Evans (George Eliot). 

Oh, may I Join the Choir Invisible 771 

Day is Dying 771 

Croswell, William. 

Drink and Awiiy 603 

De Profiindis 604 

Cunningham, Allan. 

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 366 

It's Hanie, and It's Hame .366 

The Spring of the Year 367 

Cunningham, John. 
May-eve ; or, Kate of Aberdeen 204 

Curry, Otway. 
Kingdom Come 605 

Curtis, George William. 

Egyptian Serenade 794 

Pearl Seed 794 

Ebb and Flow 794 

Major and Minor 794 

Music i' the Air 794 

Cutler, Elbridge Jefferson. 
A Poem for the Hour (1801) 846 

Cutter, George Washington. 
Song of Steam 733 

Dale, Thomas. 

Stanzas for Music 499 

Dirge 499 



ISDEX OF J VTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Dana, Charles Anderson. ••*<=» 

Sonnet : Manhood 756 

Sonnet : Viu Saem 757 

Sonnet : To R. B 757 

Dana, Richard Henry. 

lunnortality 383 

Washinston Allslon 383 

The Island 3Si 

The Pirate 384 



Daniel, Samuel. 
Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland. 

Fair is my Love 

Early Love 



Dju-ley, George. 
From "The Fairies" ... 
The Queen of the May . 
Suicide 



Darwin, Erasmus. 

Tlie Goddess of Botany 

Eliza at the Battle of Mindcn . 



Davenant, Sir William. 

The Soldier (ioinij; to the rield 
To the Queen 



Davidson, Lucretia Maria. 

To my Sister 

Prophecy : To a Lady 



Davidson, Margaret Miller. 

Dedication of "Lunorc" 

Joy. 



Introduction to "Lenorc".. 
From "Lines to Lucretia". 



Davies, Sir John. 

The Soul's Aspirations . 
Myself 



Davis, Thomas Osborne. 
The Welcome 



20 
21 
21 



378 
379 
379 



206 
206 



87 
87 



043 
044 



C44 
644 
645 
646 



45 
46 



719 



Davy, Sir Humphry. 
Written after Recovery from a Dnn^rous Ill- 
ness 341 

Life 343 

ThouKht 342 



Dawes, Rufus. 

To Genevieve 

Love Unchangeable. 



De Kay, Charles. 

The Blush 

Fingers 

On Revisiting Statcn Island . 

Denham, Sir John. 
Description of the Thames .. 



589 
589 



93.3 
933 
933 



104 



Derzhavin, Gabriel R. ""s 

Ode to God (Bowring's translation) 4S9 

De Vere (see Vere'. 

Dibdin, Charles. 
Poor Jack 228 



Dickens, Charles. 
The Ivy Green . . . 



Dimitry, Charles. 
Viva Italia 



Dimond, William. 
The Mariner's Dream. 



700 



886 



350 



Doane, George Washingtoa 

What is that, Mother ? 518 

Dobell, Sydney Thompson. 

How's my Boy? 794 

Sonnet : America 795 

Dobson, Austin. 

" More Poets Yet !" S96 

The Prodigals SSHi 

You bid me Try 896 

A Song of the Four Seasons 890 

Chansonette 897 

The Child Musician 897 

Doddridge, Philip. 

Yc Golden Lamps ; 171 

Anake, Ye Saints 173 

Epigram 172 

Hark, the Glad Sound 172 

Dodge, Mary Mapes. 

In the Canon 903 

Shadow Evidence 904 

The Two Mysteries 904 

Now tlie Noisy Winds are Still 90."i 

Domett, Alfred. 

A Christmas Hymn 7o4 

Donne, Dr. John. 

Sonnet 43 

The Soul's Flight to Heaven 43 

Elegy on Mistress Elizabeth Drury 42 

Dorr, Mrs. Julia C. 

Quietness 808 

Heirship 808 

To-day : a Sonnet 809 

Somewhere 809 

Twentv-onc 809 



Doten, Lizzie. 
"Gone is Gone, and Dead is Dead' 



829 



Donbleday, Thomas. 
Sonnet : The Wallflower 413 



INDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Douglas of Fingland. 
Annie Laurie 



PAGE 

. 104 



Dowden, Edward. 

Aboard tlio Sea-swallow 931 

Oasis 931 

Wise Passivencss 933 

Tlie Inner Life 933 

Two Infinities 933 

Drake, John Rodman. 

He put his Acorn Helmet on 473 

Tlic American Flag 4T3 

Ode to Fortune 473 

The Gathering of the Fairies 473 

Drayton, Michael. 

A Parting 34 

The Ballad of Agiucourt 34 



Drennan, William. 
Erin 



543 



Drummond, "William. 

Tlie Universe 49 

Man's Strange Ends 50 

The Hunt 50 

Dryden, John. 

Alexander's Feast 115 

Veni Creator 117 

Sliaftesbury Delineated as Achitophel 118 

Buckingham Delineated as Zimri 118 

Enjoy tlie Present 118 

Dufiferin, Lady. 
Lament of the Irish Emigrant 

D'Urfey, Thomas. 
Still Water 



671 



150 



Durivage, Francis Alexander. 

All 737 

Chez Br6bant -737 

Jerry 737 

Dwight, John Sullivan. 

Translation from Friederike Brun 300 

True Rest 717 

Vanitas ! Vanitatum Vanitas I (from Goethe) — 718 

Dyer, Sir Ed-ward. 
My Mind to me a Kingdom is 8 



Dyer, John. 
Grongar Hill . 



170 



Eastman, Charles Gamage. 

Scene in a Vermont Winter 738 

Thanatos 739 

Eliot, George (see Cross, Marian Evans). 

EUet, Elizabeth Fries. 
Sonnet : Weary Heart 749 



Elliot, Miss Jane. 
The Flowers of the Forest . 



PAGE 

. 193 



Elliott, Ebenezer. 

Epigram 360 

Farewell to Kivilin 360 

From " Lyrics for my Daughters " 360 

Hymn 361 

Not for Naught 361 

Spring : a Sonnet 361 

Tlie Day was Dark 362 

A Poet's Epitaph 363 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. 

The Snow-storm 593 

Goodbye, Proud World ! 593 

Sursum Corda 593 

To the Humblebee 593 

Tlie Soul's Prophecy 593 

The Apology 593 

Concord Monumental Hymn 594 



English, Thomas Dunn. 
The Old Mill 



768 



Everett, Alexander Hill. 
The Young American 413 

Everett, Edward. 
Alaric the Visigoth 459 



Ew^en, John. 
O Weel may the Boatie Row 224 

Faber, Frederick William. 

The Life of Trust 733 

Harsh Judgments 733 

Fairfax, Edward. 
Rinaldo at Mount Olivet 37 



Falconer, William. 
From "The Shipwreck". 



205 



Fane, Julian. 
Three Sonnets, "Ad Matrem" 823 

Fanshawe, Catherine M. 
A Riddle on the Letter H 530 

Fawcett, Edgar. 
Criticism 930 

Fanner, Cornelius George. 

Winnipiseogee Lake 779 

Gulfweed ISO 

Ferguson, Samuel. 
The Forging of the Anchor 611 

Fielding, Henry. 
Tlie Maiden's Choice 160 

Fields, James T. 

Last Words in a Strange Land 748 

Agassiz '"'48 



n'DEX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



XV 



Finley, John. 
Baclieloi's Hall. 



PAGE 

. 503 



Fletcher, John (see Beaumont and Fletcher). 

Fletcher, Maria Jane (Jewsbury). 
Birth-day Ballad 



568 



Ford, John. 
Musical Contest with a Nightingale. 

Foster, Stephen Collins. 
Old Folks at Home 



Freneau, Philip. 
May to April 



Frere, John Hookham. 

Tlie Proem 

Wbistlccraft and Murray. 

Frisbie, Levi. 
A Castle in the Air 



Frothingham, Nathaniel Langdon. 

The Siglit of the Blind 

O Gott, Du Frommer Gott ! 



Fuller, Margaret (Marchioness Ossoli). 

Sonnit : Orpheus 

Sonnet : Beethoven 

On Lcavin;; the West 



Gall, Richard. 
My only Jo and Dearie O . 



Gallagher, William D. 
From ".My Fiftielh Year". 

Lines 

The Laborer 

From " Miami Woods " 



Gambold, John. 
The Mystery of Life 

Gannett, William Channing. 
Listening for God 



Garrison, William Lloyd. 

The Guiltless Prisoner 

Freedom of the .Mind 

To Benjamin Lundy 

Sonnet 



40 



810 



aw 



273 
274 



360 



445 
440 



G77 
077 
077 



330 



051 
051 
051 
053 



538 



898 



614 
614 
614 
015 



Gascoigne, George. 

Tlie Lull;iby 



Gay, John. 
Sweet William's Farewell to Black-eyed Susan... 
The Hare and many Friends 



151 
153 



Gibson, William. 
From the "Hymn to Freya" 



Gifford, William. pace 

To a Tuft of Early Violets 348 

From "The Baviad" 340 

Gilbert, William Schwenck. 

To the Terrestrial Globe 871 

Mortal Love 871 

Gilder, Richard Watson. 

The River 024 

A Thought 934 

Song 924 

O Sweet Wild Roses that Bud and Blow 934 

Call me not Dead 935 

My Songs are all of Thee 935 



Gillespie, William. 
The Iliifhhuuler. . . . 



331 



Gilman, Mrs. Caroline. 

From " The Plantation " 458 

Annie in the Graveyard 458 



Glen, William. 
Wae's me for Prince Charlie., 

Glover, Richard. 
Adniinvl Hosier's Ghost , 



411 



179 



Goethe, John Wolfgang von. 

The Days of Youth (Anster's translation) 443 

The Soul of Eloquence ( Anster) 443 

The Rule witli no Exception (Clarke) 678 

Mignou's Sons (Channina;, W. H.) 679 

Vanitas ! Vanitatuni Vanitas ! (Dwight) 718 

What Songs are Like (Bowring) 818 

Youth and Age (Bowring) 818 

Goldsmith, Oliver. 

The Deserted Village 195 

From " Tlic Traveller ; or, A Prospect of Society" 199 
Retaliation 200 



Good, John Mason. 
The Daisy 



209 



Goodale, Dora Reed, 

Ripe Grain 943 

April ! April ! are you here ? 943 

What is Left ? 943 

Goodale, Elaine. 

Papa's Birthday 941 

Ashes of Roses 943 

Gosse, Edmund W. 

Villanelle 920 

The God of Wine :— Chant Royal 937 

Gould, Hannah Flagg. w^ 

The Crocus's Soliloquy 530 

Gower, John. 
Medea gathering Ucrbs 3 



INDEX OF A VTBOBS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Graham, James (Marquis of Montrose). tage 
I'll never Love Tliee more 103 



Graham, Robert. 
Oh, Tell me how to Woo Thee. , 



235 



Grahame, James. 

Sabbath Morning 269 

A Winter Sabbath Walk 270 

A Present Deity 270 

Grant, Mrs. Anne (of Laggan). 
Oh, Where, Tell me Where ? 247 

Grant, Mrs. (of Carron). 
Roy's Wife of AUUvalloch 235 

Grant, Robert. 
Whom have I in Heaven but Thee ? 378 

Gray, David. 

Wintry Weather 888 

Die Down, O Dismal Day 

If it Must Be 

An October Musing 



889 
889 
889 



Gray, Thomas. 

Elegy Written in a Country Chureh-yard 183 

Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College 184 

Green, Matthew. 
From "The Spleen" 154 

Greene, Albert Gorton. 
Old Grimes 578 

Greene, Robert. 
A Death-bed Lament 19 

Greg, Samuel. 

Paiu GOO 

Beaten! Beaten! 001 

Greville, Fulke (Lord Brooke). 

Reality of a True Religion 18 

From "Lines on the Death of Philip Sidney"... 18 

Griffin, Kdmund D. 
Lines on Leaving Italy 604 

Griffin, Gerald. 

Song : A Place in Thy Memory, Dearest 586 

Adare 586 

The Bridal of Malahide 586 



Gustafson, Zadel Barnes. 

ZIobane 

The Factory Boy 



906 
907 



Habington, William. 
Nomine Laljia Mea Aperies 88 

Hageman, Samuel Miller. 
Stanzas from "Silence " 933 



Hall, Joseph. page 

Anthem for the Cathedral of Exeter 40 

On Love Poetry 41 

Hall, Mrs. Louisa Jane. 

Grow not Old .■ 580 

Waking Dreams 580 

Hall, Samuel Carter. 
Nature's Creed 571 



Hallam, Arthur Henry. 

Three Sonnets 

To Alfred Tennyson 



695 

695 



Halleck, Fitz-Greene. 

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake 470 

Marco Bozzaris 476 

Burns 478 

Alnwick Castle 479 

Halpine, Charles Graham. 
Janette's Hair 833 

Hamilton, Elizabeth. 
My Aiu Fireside 253 

Hamilton, William. 
The Braes of Yarrow 173 

Hamilton, William Rowan. 

A Prayer 613 

To Adams, Discoverer of the Planet Neptune 013 



Harney, William Wallace. 
Jimmy's Wooing 



853 



Harris, Thomas Lake. 
The Spirit-born 785 

Harte, Bret. 

Dow's Flat 877 

Jim 878 

Plain Language from Truthful James 879 

Hawker, Robert Stephen. 

Song of the Cornish Men 584 

"Are They not all Ministering Spirits?" 585 

Hawthorne, Julian. 

Free-will 939 

Hay, John. 

A Triumph of Order 893 

My Castle in Spain 894 

Hayley, William. 
The Departing Swallows 230 

Hayne, Paul Hamilton. 

From tlie Woods 848 

Lyric of Action 849 

Sonnet 849 



IXOICX OF AUTHORS, If ITU COXriCXTS. 



Heber, Reginald. "ob 

From Bishop Hebcr's Jourual 363 

The Widow of Naiii 363 

Missionary Ilvnin 364 

Cliristmas lljmn 364 

Early Pkty 3M 

The Moonlight March 364 

May-day 365 

Hedderwick, James. 

First Grid'. 



739 



Hedge, Frederic Henry. 

The Crncili.xlon 61.5 

Questionings 61.5 

Heerman, Johann (German^ 
Ilyiuu (translated by Frothinghani) 44G 

Heine, Heinrioh (German\ 
Sie riabcn Mieh Gcquiilct (Martin's translation). 740 
The Excellcut .Man (Martin's translation) 740 

Hemans, Felicia. 

Calm on the Bosom of Tliy God 447 

The Graves of a Household 447 

The Pilgrim Fatlicrs 448 

The Home of the Spirit 44S 

Casablanca 44>S 

Sonnet on Grasmere 449 

The Messenger-bird 44!( 

Leave Me Not Yet 4.50 

Evening Song of the Tyrolese Peasants 4.50 

Hymn of the Monntaineci-s 4.50 

The Greek I>lander iii Exile 4.51 

Sunday in England 451 

Henryson, Robert. 
A Vision of /Esop 5 

Heraud, John Abraham. 
The Emigrant's Home .510 

Herbert, George. 

Man 60 

The Elixir 01 

Sweet Day 61 



Heredia, Jose Maria (Spanish). 
Alas ! (translated by Mrs. Couant). 



89.5 



Herrick, Robert. 

To DaflbdiLs .54 

Not a Prophet Every Day .54 

Ode to Ben Jonson .54 

Litany to the Holy Spirit .55 

Night-piece to Julia .55 

To Blossoms. .55 

To Corinna, to Go a-Maying .56 

To Dianemc .56 

Prayer to Ben Jonson 57 

The Primrose 57 



Herschel, Sir John. 
Throw Thvself on Thy God. 

c 



441 



Hervey, Thomas Kibble. i-aoe 

Hope , 601 

To One Departed 602 

Cleopatra Embarking on the Cydnus 003 

To Ellen— Weeping 603 

Heyrvood, Thomas. 

Fantasies of Drunkenness 36 

Song : Pack Clouds Away 87 

Search after God 37 



Higginson, Mary Thacher. 
Gifts 



701 



Higginson, Thomas 'Wentworth. 

"I will Arise and go to my Father" 701 

Decoration 703 

The Reed Immortal 703 

Hill, Thomas. 

The Bobolink 751 

Antiopa 751 

The Winter is Past 7.53 

Hillhouse, James Abraham. 
Interview of Iladad and Tainar 410 

Hirst, Henry B. 
Parting of Dian and Endymion 718 

Hoffman, Charles Fenno. 
Monterey 617 

Hogg, James. 

Honny Kilmeny 277 

The Skylark..! 281 

When Maggy Gangs Away 381 

Mischievous Woman 553 



Holcroft, Thomas. 
GafiVr Grav 



o.»q 



Holland, Josiah Gilbert. 

Gradatim 766 

Wanted 766 

Holmes, Oliver 'Wendell. 

Bill and Joe 6.53 

Old Ironsides 0.53 

Kudolph, the Headsman 6.54 

Nearing the Snow-line 6.54 

The Chambered Nautilus 0.54 

The Two Streams 6.55 

To James Freeman Clarke 0.55 

Contentment 6.55 

The Voiceless 6.56 

L'lneonnuc 656 



Holyday, Barten. 
Distichs 



Home, John. 
The Soldier-Uenuit . 



59 



193 



INDEX OF AUTHUES, WITH CONTENTS. 



Home, F. Wjrville. riGE 

A Clioice - 937 

From " Ode to the Viue " WoT 

Hood, Thomas. 

Sonnet on the Counting-house 507 

The Bridge of Sighs 508 

Tlie Song of the Shirt 509 

I remember 510 

Fair Ines 510 

Farewell, Life 511 

The Monkey-martyr : a Fable 511 

The Lee Shore 513 

To Charles Dickens, Esq 513 

Ruth 513 

A Parental Ode to My Son 513 

The Impudence of Steam 514 

The Death-bed 514 

Hooper, Lucy Hamilton. 

On an Old Portrait 876 

In Vain 876 

The King's Ride 877 



Hopkinson, Joseph. 
Hail, Columbia ! 



395 



Home, Richard Hengist. 

Morning 581 

Summer Noon 581 

Hosmer, William Henry Cuyler. 

Blaise's Visitants 731 

To a Long Silent Sister of Song 731 

Houghton, Lord (see Milnes). 

Howard, Henry (Earl of Surrey). 
How No Age is Content 6 



Howarth, Mrs. 
Thou Will Never Grow Old 547 



Howe, Julia Ward. 

Battle Hymn of the Republic 

Speak, for Thy Servant Hearcth 



758 

758 



Howells, William Dean. 

Thanksgiving 871 

Tlie Mysteries 871 



Ho Witt, Mary. 



New-yc 



594 



The Fairies of Caldon-Low .596 

The Spider and the Fly .597 

Cornliclds 59S 



Howitt, William. 
Hoarfrost; a Sonnet.. 
The Wind in a Frolic . 



483 
483 



Howland, Mrs. Robert S. 
Rcquiescam 549 



Hoyt, Ralph. 

Stanzas from " New ' 



PACE 

. 673 



Hume, Alexander (1560-1609). 
The Story of a Summer Day 



Hume, Alexander (1809-1851). 
My Wee, Wee Wife 



Hunt, Leigh. 
To T. L. H., Six Years Old, during Sickness. 

Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel 

An Italian Morning in May 

Thoughts on the Avon, Sept. 28, 1S17 

May and the Poets 

Deatli 

Jenny Kissed Me 



Hunter, Mrs. Anne. 
Indian Dcatb-song... 



Huntington, Frederic Dan. 
A Supplication 



Imlah, John. 

The Gathering 

From "There Lives a Young Lassie" , 



35 



658 



370 
371 
371 
371 
371 
372 
373 



225 



760 



5:26 
536 



Ingelow, Jean. 
The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire (1571). 

Inglis, Mrs. Margaret Maxwell. 
From "Liues on the Death of Hogg" 



840 



Jackson, Helen Fiske. 

The Way to Sing 

March 



334 



843 
843 



Thought 843 

October 844 

Jackson, Henry Rootes. 

My Father 776 

The Live-oak 776 

My Wife and Child 777 

James I. of England. 

Sonnet : To Prince Henry 38 

James I. of Scotland. 

1 he Captive King 5 



James. Paul Moon. 
The Beacon 



Jenks, Edward Augustus. 
Going and Coming 



355 



840 



Jerrold, Douglas. 
The Drum 584 



Johnson, Edward. 
The Water-drinker.. 



553 



iyDi:x or .nrnoj!^, iriiu coxTE2fTS. 



Johnson. Samuel. p*oe 

Charles XII. of Sivcdeii 178 

On the Death of Mr. Robert Lcvett 178 

Cardinal Wolsoy 179 

Nor Deem Keli^iou Vain 179 

On Claude Phillips, ail Itinerant Musician in Wales. 179 

Jones, Sir William. 

A Poi-sian !>on;; of llafiz 232 

Tetrastich (fioiii the Persian ) 2iJ3 

An Ode in Imitation of Alc;rus 2;i2 

Jonson, Ben. 

To the -Memory of Shakspcare 4o 

See the Cliariot at Umul 43 

The Song of Hesperus 44 

On a Portrait of Shalispcare 44 

An Ode : To Himself. 44 

Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke 4.5 

The Sweet Neglect 4.5 

Epitaph on Elizabeth, L. II 45 

Song to Celia 45 

Good Life, Long Life 45 

Joyce, Robert Dwyer. 

Fair fln-endnliiie and her Dove 883 

The Banks of Aiiner 883 

Olenara 88;J 

Judson, Mrs. Emily. 

Watching 747 

Eeats, John. 

Sonnet 18 

The Eve of St. Agnes 48() 

Ode 4i)0 

Beauty 491 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci 491 

Sonnet 492 

Sonnet to a Young Lndy 492 

Sonnet in a New Form 493 

On the Grassliopper and Cricket 493 

Kcats's Last Sonnet 493 

Fairy Song 493 

Fancy 493 

Ode to a Nightingale 4'.»4 

Ode to Autumn 495 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 495 

Keble. John. 

Morning 43ri 

Evening 437 

Address to Poets 4;!8 

A Thought 43S 

Kemble, Frances Anne. 

Lines Written in London CM 

Written after leaving West Point 094 

Ken. Thomas. 

I' rum the " Evening Ilymii " 120 

Kennedy, William. 

Line's on .MotlicrwcH 520 

A Thought 520 



Kenney, James. pace 

Why are You Wandcriug Hero? 359 

Love's Keinonstiauee 529 

Kenyon, John. 
Champagne Rose 3G(i 

Keppel, Lady Caroline. 
Koblu Adair 220 

Key, Francis Scott. 

The Star-spangled Banner 343 

The Worm's Ueath-soiig 343 

Kimball, Harriet McEwen. 

The Guest a57 

The Crickets 857 

Longing for Rain 8.58 

All's Well 858 



King, Henry. 
From the "Exequy on his Wife" 
Sic Vila 



Kingsley, Charles. 
The Three Fishers. 
The World's Age.. 
The Sands of Dee . 
A Farewell 



Kinlooh, Lord. 
The Star in the East . 



Kinney, Coates. 
From "The .Motlier of Glory". 
Rain on the Roof. 



Knowles, Herbert. 

Lines Written in a Churchyard. 



Knowles, James Sheridan. 
From the last Act of " Virginius ■' 

Tell among tlic Mountains 

The Actor's Craft 



Knox, Isabella (Craig\ 
The Brides of Quair 



Knox, William. 
Oh! why should the Spirit of -Mortal be Proud? 

Komer, Theodore (German). 
Battle Hymn and Farewell to Life 

Lacoste, Marie R. 
Somebody's Darling 

Laighton, Albert. 

Under the Leaves 

To My Soul 

The Dead 

Laing, Alexander. 
The Happy Mother 



.58 
59 



7C5 
705 
7C.5 
705 



570 



810 
811 



504 



4.56 
457 
457 



815 



410 



543 



915 



827 

827 
827 



383 



XX 



INDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH COXTEXTS. 



Lamb, Charles. tage 

Tlie Old Familiar Faces S37 

Lines Written in my own Album 327 

To James Sheridan Kiiowles 327 

Landon, Letitia Elizabeth (Mrs. Maclean). 

Success Alone Seen .577 

Death and the Youth 578 

Landor, Walter Savage. 

To tlie Sister of "Elia" (Charles Lamb) 329 

Julius Hare 329 

Rose Aylraer 329 

Death 339 



Langhorne, John. 
From "Owen of Carrou". 



218 



Lanier, Sidney. 

A Rose-moral 91C 

Evenini; Song 916 

The Harlequin of Dreams 917 

From the Flats 917 

Larcom, Liicy. 
Hannah Binding Shoes 814 



Lathrop, George Parsons. 



Musie of Growth 

Sonnet: Tlie Lover's Year.. 
The Sunshine of Thine Eyes. 

Lawrence, Jonathan, Jr. 
Look Aloft 



937 
937 
937 



626 



Leigh, Arrah. 
I Am the Lord ; I Change Not 547 

Leighton, Robert. 

Ye Three Voices ' 785 

Books 786 



Leland, Charles Godfrey. 
Mine Own 



796 



Le-wis, Matthew Gregory. 

Lines to a Friend 338 

Tlie Helmsman 328 

A Matrimonial Duet 328 

Leyden, John. 

Ode to an Indian Gold Coin 326 

Sonnet on the Sabbath Morning 326 



Lilly, John. 
Cupid and Campaspe . 



40 



Linton, William James. 

From "Definitions" 703 

Real and True 704 

Labor in Vain 704 

Poets 704 

A Prayer for Truth 704 



Lippincott, Mrs. Sarah Jane. 
The Poet of To-day 



PAGB 

. 7'JO 



Locker, Frederick. 

St. George's, Hanover Square 777 

The Unrealized Ideal 778 

Lockhart, John Gibson. 

Captain Paton's Lament 453 

Beyond 454 

Lamentation for Celin 455 

Logan, John. 

Ode to the Cuckoo 334 

The Braes of Yarrow 234 

Lombard, James K. 
"Not as Though I had Already Attained" 853 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. 

Killed at tne Ford 639 

The Launch 629 

The Arrow and the Song 630 

Revenge of Rain-in-the-Faec 630 

The Rainy Day 63L 

Rain in Summer 631 

Sonnet : The Poets 632 

Phantoms 633 

Sonnet : Nature 633 

Excelsior 633 

Hawthorne 633 

The Bells of Lynn, heard at Naliant 634 

Longfellow, Samuel. 

April 706 

November 760 



Lovelace, Richard. 

To Althca (from Prison ) 

To Lucasta (on Going to the Wars). 

Lover, Samuel. 

Rory O'Morc ; or, Good Omens 

The Angel's Whisper 



109 
109 



507 
507 



Lowell, James Russell. 

Auf Wiedersehen ! 763 

A Day in June 703 

To Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 703 

Longing 764 

" In Whom We Live and Move" 764 

She Came and Went 764 

Lowell, Robert Traill Spence. 
Love Disposed Of 741 

Ludlow, Fitz-Hugh. 
Too Late 



883 



Lunt, George. 

From " The Pilgrim Song" 631 

The Haymakers! 631 

The Comet 631 

Requiem 622 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH COXTEXTS. 



Lnnt, ■William Parsons. ''^'-^ 

The American Flag 013 

Luttrell, Henry. 
Tlic Noviinber Fo? of Londun 297 



Lydgate, John. 

Flum till' B:ill;ul of " Loiulon Lyckpciinv" 4 

Lyle. Thomas. 
Kelvin Grove 



419 



Lyte, Henry Francis. 

llviiin: "Abide With Me" 44.5 

From Lilies on " Evening;" 44.'> 

Lytle, William Haines. 

Antony to Cleopatra 814 

Lyttelton. George (Lorcl\ 

Tell Me, .My lUait 177 

Lytton, Lord (Edward Bulwer\ 

Caiadoc, the Bard to the Cymrians 000 

A Spendthrift 600 

The Guardian Ansjcl 606 

To tlie King ; 60(i 

Is it all Vanity ? 607 

Invocation to Love 607 

■ Epigrams from the German 607 



Lytton, Edward Robert (Lord>. 
l.eoline 



84.T 



Macaulay, Thomas Babington. 

From tlie Lay of " Hoiatius" 5.57 

Tlic Battle of Nascby .561 

The Armada .563 

The Battle of Ivrv 563 



McCarthy, Denis Florence. 
Summer Longings 



749 



Mace, Frances Laughton. 

Easter Morning 866 

Indian Sninnier 8ti6 

Only Wailing 867 

MoCord, Mrs. Louisa S. 

What Used to Be C75 

Thy Will Be Done 075 

Passages from "Cains Grarrhns" 676 

Dedication of " Cains Gracchus " 670 

Macdonald, George. 

Buby 797 

"Lord, I BclieTe; Help Thou Mine Unbelief".. 798 



McGee, Thomas D'Arcy. 

Catlml's Farewell to the Rye. 



805 



Mackay, Charles. 

The Watcher on the Tower Tii 

The (iood Time Comini; 735 

Nature and her Lover 7J6 



McKnight, George. p*oe 

"Though Naught They May to Others Be" 899 

Perpetual Youth 899 

Scorn 899 

Opportunity ,'S99 

Tiiumph : 899 

In Unison SKM) 

"The Glory of the Lord shall Endure Forever" 900 

The Test of Truth 900 

Euthanasia 900 

Consummation 900 

Clear Assurance 900 

Live While You Live 901 

>Icinento Mori 901 

(iilts 901 

Kinship 901 



Maclagan, Alexander. 
"Dinna Ye Hear ll ?'".. 



MoClellan, Isaac. 
The Notes of the Birds. 



C03 



693 



McMaster, Guy Humphrey. 

Carmen Bclliensnin 8.30 

Brant to the Iiuliuns 831 



Macneil, Hector. 
Mary of Caslle-Cary . 

Macnish, Robert. 

Mv Little Sister 



230 



573 



Macpherson. James. 

Ossian's Addiess to the Sun 222 

The Song of Colma 222 

Maginn, William. 
The Irishman ; 446 

Mahony, Francis (Father Prout). 
Poetical Epistle from Father Proul to Boz (Charles 

DieUens) 598 

The Bells of Sliandon 599 

Popular KeeoUections of Bonaparte (after B(5- 

rangcr) .599 

Mangan, James Clarence. 

The Mariner's Bride .589 

The Nameless One 590 

From " Soul and Country " 590 



Marlowe, Christopher. 

The Death of Fan*tns 

The Passionate Sheplierd to his Lovt 
Answer to the Same 



25 
26 

26 



Marston, John. 

The Scholar and his Spaniel 41 

To Detraction I Present ray Poesie 41 



Marston, Philip Bourke. 
From Far 



916 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Martin, Theodore. '"'""= 

Napoleon's Midnight Review (from tlie Gormnn 

of Baron Josepli Cliristian von Zedlitz) 7oO 

Sie Habcn Midi Gequalet (from Heine) 740 

Tlie Excellent Man (from Heine) 740 

Marvell, Andrew. 

Song of the Emigrants in Bermnda Ill 

Courage, my Soul ! 113 

A Drop of Dew 113 

Thoughts in a Garden 113 

Marzials, Theophile. 
Cai'pe Diem : Kondeiin 926 

Mason, Caroline Atherton. 

Not Yet 7SS 

Beauty for Ashes 788 

An October Wood Hymn 7SS 

Mason, William. 
Epitaph on Mrs. Mason, in the Catliedral of Bristol ltl3 

Massey, Gerald. 
Little Willie 8:26 

Massinger, Philip. 

Waiting for Death 48 

From "A New Way to Pay Old Debts" 48 

Mayne, John. 
Logan Braes 263 

Meek, Alexander Beaufort. 

Bahiklava 731 

Mellen, Grenville. 
The Bugle 535 

Meredith, George. 

Love within the Lover's Breast 826 

At the Gate 836 

Merivale, John Herman. 

" Evil, be Thou my Good" 343 

Reason and Understanding 344 

From tlie Greek Anthology 344 

Merrick, James. 
Tlic Chameleon 185 

Messinger. Robert Hinckley. 
A Winter Wish 693 

Mickle, William Julius. 
The Mariner's Wile 217 

Miller, Abraham Perry. 

A Summer Afternoon 885 

The Divine Refuge 885 

Turn to the Helper 885 

The Disappointed Lover 886 

Keep Faith in Love 886 



Miller, Elizabeth Henry. r^cE 

Now and Ever 941 

Miller, Joaquin. 

Longings for Home 914 

Palatine Hill 914 

Love Me, Love 914 

Miller, Robert. 
Where are They? 691 

Miller, Thomas. 
Evening Song ' 658 

Miller, William. 
Willie WinUie 693 

Milliken, Richard Alfred. 
The Groves of Blarney 272 

Milman, Henry Hart. 

The ApoUo-Belvidcro 417 

Stanzas on Sophia Lockhart 417 

The Love of God : Two Sonnets 418 

Milnes, Richard Monckton (Lord Houghton\ 

All Things Once are Things Forever 6.59 

The Worth of Hours 659 

Youth and Manhood 659 

I Wandered by the Brook-side 660 

• From "Tlie Long-ago " 660 

Milton, John. 

L' Allegro 90 

H Penseroso 91 

Lycidas 93 

The Messenger's Account of Samson 95 

Scene tVom " Comus " % 

Satan's Encounter with Death 96 

Adam and Eve's Morning Hymn 97 

One First Matter All 98 

What is Glory ? 98 

Epitaph on Shakspearc 99 

On his being arrived to the Age of Twcnty-tliree. 99 

To the Lord-general, Cromwell 99 

To Sir Henry Vane the Younger 99 

On his Blindness 99 

To Mr. Lawrence 100 

To Cyriac Skinner 100 

On the Religious Memory of Mrs, Catlierine Thom- 
son, my Christian Friend, Deceased Dec,. 16, 1646. 100 

Song : On May Morning 100 

From the Spirit's Epilogue in "Comus" 100 

Mitchell, Walter. 
Tacking Ship Off Shore 813 

Mitford, Mary Russell. 

Ricnzi's Address to the Romans 383 

Song 382 

Moir, David Macbeth. 
Langsync 500 



IXDEX OF AUTHOnS, WITH COXTENTS. 



Montgomery, James. f*oe 

Tlic Common Lot .'iorj 

Forever with tlie Lord :50:J 

Youth Renewed 304 

Lift up Thuie Eyes, Afflicted Soul 304 

Sonnet : The Crucifixion 304 

Humility 30o 



Moore. Clement C. 
A Vifit fioni St. Nicholas. 



351 



Moore, Thomas. 

Yet, yet furijive Jle, yc Sacred Few! 34.5 

The Meetins; of tlic Waters 345 

Believe Me, if all tliose Endearing Young Charms. 345 

The Turf shall be my Fragrant Shrine 34IJ 

Oh! Breathe not his Name 340 

The Harp that once through Tara's Halls 346 

Oft, in the Stilly Night 346 

Those Evening Bells 347 

Farewell !— but, wlienever you Welcome the Hour. 347 

Oh, could We do with this World of Ours 347 

Kcmember Thee 347 

Thou art, O God 348 

The Last Rose of Summer 348 

The Modern I'ufling System 348 

I saw from the Beach 349 

Love's Young Dream 34!) 

Oh, Thou who Dry'st the Mourner's Tear :M9 

Come, ye Disconsolate 34'J 

To Greece we give our Shining Blades 3.50 

More, Hannah. 

The Two \\eavers 229 

Kindness in Little Things 230 

More, Henry. 

The Preexistcncy of the Soul 105 

From "The Pliilosoi)her's Devotion" 100 

Morris, Le'wis. 

It Shall be Well SiS 

Dear Little Hand 8.54 

The Treasure of Hope 854 

Morris, William. 
March 862 

Motherwell, William. 

The Cavalier's Song 409 

Jcanle .Morrison .500 

Lines Given to a Friend 501 

Motley, John Lothrop. 
Lines Written at Syracuse ?23 

Moulton, Ellen Louise. 

Alone liy the Bay 8ft3 

In Time to Come 863 

Moultrie, John. 

"Forget Thee?" 515 

Here's to Tlicc, my Scottiah Lassie 515 



Mowatt-Ritchie, Mrs. Anna Cora. 
To a Beloved One 



FACE 

. 770 



Muhlenberg, William Augustus. 
" I Would Not Live Ahvay " 551 

Mulock, Dinah M. (see Craik\ 

Munby, Arthur. 

A utunin SS4 

Doris : A Pastoral 884 

Nairne, Carolina (BaronessK 

The Land o' the Leal 271 

Would you be Young again 'f 271 

Nash, Thomas. 

Spring 38 

The Coming of Winter 38 

. The Decay of Summer 39 



Neal, John. 
Goldau . . .. 



443 



Neele, Henry. 
Wheie is He V .533 

Newman, John Henry. 

Flowers without Fruit .571 

A Voice from Afar .5?2 

G uardian Angel .572 

Newton, Cradock. 
Wonderland 552 

Nicoll, Robert. 

People's Anthem 720 

Life in Death 720 



Niles, Nathaniel. 
The American Her 



223 



Noble, James Ashcroft. 
Love and Absence 



555 



Noel, Thomas. 
The Pauper's Drive .527 

Norris. John. 

The Aspiration 1'22 

Superstition 1'22 

Norton, Andrews. 

Scene after a Summer Shower ."581 

Trust and Submission 381 

Norton, Caroline. 

Bingen on the Rhine 640 

The Child of Earth 647 

To my Books 648 

Love Not 648 

The King of Denmark's Ride 648 

Noyes, Charles H. 

The Prodigal Son to the Earth 994 

My Soldier 9;J4 



INDi;X 01' AVTBORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



O'Brien, Fitz-James. 

Elislui Kent Kane . . . , 



PACE 

. 833 



O'Keefe, John. 
I am a Friar ol' Orders Gray 233 

O'Reilly, John Boyle. 

Western Australia 922 

Forever 922 

At Kest 932 



Osgood, Frances Sargent. 
"Bois Ton Sang, Beaiunauuii 

Little Tilings 

Laborarc est Orare 

An Atlantic Trip . 



707 

70S 

708 

708 

The Author's Last Verses 708 

Osgood, Kate Putnam. 
Driving Homo the Cows 905 



Otway, Thomas. 
From "Venice Preserved' 

Page, Emily R. 
The Old Canoe 



121 



Pailleron, Edouard (French^ 
A Keminisecnee (translated liy J. F. Clarke) 673 



Paine, Robert Treat, Jr. 
Ode: Adams and Liberty.. 



Palgrave, Francis Turner. 

Faith and Sight : In the Latter Days. 
To a Child 



Pardoe, Julia. 
The Beacon-light . 



318 



796 
707 



030 



Parker, Martyn. 
Ye Gentlemen ot England 1C4 



Parker, Theodore. 

Three Sonnets 

Ilynui 



689 
690 



Parnell, Thomas. 
The Hermit 132 



Parsons, Thomas William. 

Saint Peray 

lu St. James's Park 



7.59 

760 



Partridge, Samuel 'William. 
"Not to Myself Aloue" 674 



Patmore, Coventry. 

From "Faithful Forever' 
Tlie Toys 



Payne, John Howard. 
Home, Sweet Home ! . . . 



790 
790 



439 



Pajme, John. "ge 

Rondeau Redouble 918 

Villaneile : 918 

Peabody, Ephraim. 

To a Cliild '"•23 

From " The Bactwoodsman " 623 

Peabody, Everett. 
Song of the Cadets 522 



Peabody, O. W. B. 

Visions of Immortality .523 

To a Departed Friend 524 

The Disembodied Spirit 524 

Peabody, W. B. O. 

The Autumn Evening 522 

The Alarm 522 

Nature and Nature's God 523 

Hymn of Nature 525 

Peacock, Thomas Love. 

Oh! say not Woman's Heart is Bought .534 

Love and Age 534 

Penney, William (Lord Kinloch). 
The Star in the East .570 

Percival, James Gates. 

Elegiac: From "Classic Melodies" 481 

To Seneca Lake 483 

The Coral Grove 483 

Sonnet on Emilie Marshall 483 

May '. 483 

A Vision 483 



Percy, Thomas. 
The Friar of Orders Gray. 



202 



Perkins, James Handasyd. 

On Lake Michigan 

The Upright Soul 



688 
689 



Perry, Nora. 

In the Dark 920 

In June 920 

Riding Down 921 

Some Day of Days 931 

Pfeiflfer, Emily. 
Summer-time. : Villaneile 926 

Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart. 

Apple Blossoms 925 

On the Bridge of Sighs 9:» 

Philips, Ambrose. 

A Fragment of Sappho 126 

To Miss Georgiana Carteret 126 

Philips, John. 
From "The Splendid Shilling' 131 



IXDEX OF AVTHOns, WITH COXTEXTS. 



Phillips, Katherine. 'aoe 

To Mrs. M. A., at Parting 119 

On Controversies in Kcligiou 119 

Piatt, John James. 

The First Tryst 804 

Tlic Morning Street 804 

Piatt, Mrs. J. J. 
Tlie Gift of Empty Hands 80.5 

Pickering, Henry. 
Tlic lldiise in wliieli 1 was Boru 303 

Pierpont, John. 

The Pilgrim Fathers 379 

From "The Departed Child " 380 

What Blesses Now Must Ever Bless 3S0 

Pike, Albert. 
Bucna Vista C.57 

Pinkney, Edward Coate. 

.\ Health o?3 

Song: \Vc Break the Glass 573 

Pitt, William. 
The Sailor's Consolation 533 

Plimpton. Floras Beardsley. 

Tell lUr 833 

Poe, Edgar Allan. 

To Sarah Ilcleu Whitman GOl 

The Bells 0(J3 

The Raven 003 

To Franees Sargent Osgood 005 

PoUok, Robert. 

Invocation (from "The Course of Time") 510 

Pride the Cause of Sin (from "TheCoui'scofTime") 510 
True Happiness (from "The Course of Time").. 517 

Holy Love (from "The Conree of Time") 517 

A Moonlight Evening(froni "The Course of Time") 517 

Poole, Hester M. 

An Oetober Secne 043 

A Little While 943 

Pope, Alexander. 

Lines on Kohert Ilarley, Earl of Oxford 133 

Ode on Solitude 143 

From " The Essay on Critieisin " 143 

To Henry St. John (Lord Bolingbroke) 143 

From the "Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot" 144 

From " The Rape of the Lock " 145 

The Universal Prayer 140 

The Dying Christian to his Soul 140 

From " Eloisa to Abclard " 147 

Couelu^ion of the " Essay on Man" 147 

Of the Characters of Women 149 

Prologue to Mr. Addison's Tragedy of "Cato".. 1.50 

The Moon (translated from Homer) 1.50 

From " The Temple of Fame " 1.50 

Lines on Addison 151 

Conelusion of "The Dunciad" 151 



Powers, Horatio Nelson. moe 

From " Memorial Day " 810 

A Rose-bud SIC 

Praed, Winthrop Mackworth. 

My Little Cousins .574 

Where is Miss Myrtle ? 574 

Tell Him I Love Him Yet 575 

April-fools 575 

Goodnight 570 

Charade on Campbell 570 

I Remember, I Remember .577 

Prentice, George Denison. 

To an Absent Wife .578 

Lookout Mountaiu 579 

Preston. Harriet W. 
Thirteen (alter Theodore Aubancl) 919 

Preston, Margaret Junkin. 

Dedication 8:57 

The Tyranny of Mood 837 

Saint Cecilia 8:!7 

Pringle, Thomas. 

Afar in the Desert 407 

The Emigrant's Farewell 408 

Prior, Matthevr. 

A Simile 133 

To a Child of Quality Vii 

Procter, Adelaide Anne. 

Ministering Angels 805 

The Lost Chord 800 

Strive, Wait, and Pray 800 

Procter, Bryan Waller (Barry Cornwall). 

The Sea :j.S5 

The Return of the Admiral 385 

Sonnet to Adelaide 380 

A Petition to Time 380 

Softly Woo Away Her Bieath 380 

Life :i80 

Proctor, Edna Dean. 

From " The Return of the Dead " 838 

Take Heart 8:19 

Heaven, O Lord, I Cannot Lose 83".t 

Prout, Father (see Mahony, Francis). 

Quarles. Francis. 

The Vanity of the World ."7 

Delight in God Only .58 

Raleigh, Sir Walter. 

The Lie 14 

The Silent Lover 15 

My Pilgrimage 10 

Ramsay, Allan. 

The Clock and Dial 1.S9 

Farewell to Loehaber 139 



ISDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Randall, James Ryder. ''*'=': 

MaryUiud 802 

Read, Thomas Buchanan. 

Drifting 'i'80 

Sheridim's Ride 'SI 

The Closing Scene 78:3 



Reade, John Edmund. 
Tlie Colosseum 



610 



Realf, Richard. 

My Slain 859 

Symbolisms ^^tiO 

Robbins, Samuel Dowse. 

Eutliauasia ™~ 

Lead Me 'i'O'i' 



Rockwell, James Otis. 
Tile Lost at Sea 



Rodger, Alexander. 
Behave Youisel' Before Folli. 



63H 



36S 



Rogers, Samuel. 

Tlie Olil Ancestral Mansion 267 

Hopes for Italy 268 

Venice 268 

Roman Relics 268 

Roscoe, William. 
To My Books 344 

Roscoe, William Caldwell. 

Sonnet : To a Friend 787 



Roscommon, Earl of. 
Fuetie Inspiration 



120 



Rossetti, Christina Georgina. 

Consider 834 

Beauty is Vain 834 

Rossetti. Dante Gabriel. 

Lost Days : Sonnet 833 

From "The Portrait" 823 

Riickert, Friedrich (German). 
A Shelter (translated by Miss Clarke) 678 

Russell, Thomas. 

To Vaklnsa 366 

Sonnet 367 

Sands, Robert Comfort. 

From " Yanioydeu " 530 

1 he Dead of 1832 521 



Sargent, Epes. ""'"^ 

Linda's Sons 717 

Soul of My Soul : 717 

Sonnet: To David Friedrich Strauss 717 

Webster 717 

Sargent, Horace Binney. 
After " Taps " 778 



Sargent, John Osborne. 
Death of Henry Wohllcb (from the German of 
Von Auersperg) 703 



Savage, Minot Judson. 

Life from Death 

Life in Death 

Litiht on tlic Cloud 



900 
910 
910 



Saxe, John Godfrey. 

The Superfluous Man 735 

Justine, You Love Me Not ! 736 

Schiller, J. C. F. von (German). 

Fame 539 

Haste Not, Rest Not (translated by C. C. Cox).. 737 



Scott, John. 
Ode on Hearing the Drum. 



205 



Sargent, Epes. 
Evenini; in Gloucester Harbor. 

Sunrise at Sea 

A Life on the Ocean Wave — 



716 
716 
716 



Scott, Lady John. 

Lammermoor 740 

■ Ettrick 740 

Scott, Sir Walter. 

Lochinvar 398 

Scene from "Marmion" 298 

Allcn-a-Dale 399 

Helvellyn 300 

Jock of Hazeldean 300 

Coronach 301 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 301 

Border Ballad 301 

Rebecca's Hymn 301 

Song: The Heath this Niglit must be My Bed.. 303 
Nora's Vow 302 

Sears, Edmund Hamilton. 

Christmas Song 079 

The Angel's Song 680 

Sewall, Mrs. Harriet Winslow. 

Why Thus Longing ? 757 

Special Providences 758 

Seward, Anna. 
Sonnet : December Morning 528 



Shairp, John Campbell. 
Sonnet : Relief 



708 



Shakspeare, William. 

Silvia 28 

Sigh No More 28 

Ariel's Song 38 



IXDEX OF A unions, WITH coy TEXTS. 



Shakspeare, William. mob 

Mau's IiigratUiide 28 

Dira;e of Imoiren 29 

The Song of Winter 2!) 

Clolcn's Serenailu 29 

Sonnets: xviii., xxx., xxxiii., liv., Iv., Ix., xc, 

xcviii., ex., cxi., cxvi., cxlvi., cxivii 39, SO, 31 

Ulysses's Advice to Acliilles 31 

The Quality of Mercy 33 

Moonlight and Music 33 

England 33 

Song from " Twelfth Night " 33 

Henry IV. 's Soliloquy on Sleep 33 

Detached Passages from the Plays 33 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe. 

Lines on Horace Smith 3.53 

The Clond 431 

Stanzas, Written in Dejection, near Naples 433 

The Fugitives 423 

To a Skylark 423 

Ode to the West Wind 42.i 

I Arise from Dreams of Tliee 436 

Invocation 430 

Good-night 436 

One Word is Too Often Profaned 437 

A Lament 437 

On a Faded Violet 437 

Adonais ; An Elegy ou the Death of Jonn Keats. 427 

Invocation to Nature 433 

Sonnet 433 

Dedication to His Wife 434 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 435 

Lines to a Reviewer 436 

Shenstone, William. 

From "The School-mistress" 181 

Written at an Inn at Henley 182 

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley. 

Had 1 a Heart for Falsehood Framed 237 

Song, from "The Duenna*' 337 



Shirley, James. 
Death's C'oiKiuests. 



no 



Shurtleff, William S. 
The Way 5.56 

Sidney, Sir Philip. 

On Dying 16 

True Beauty Virtue Is 17 

Eternal Love 17 

On Obtaining a Prize at a Tournament 17 

Invocation to Sleep 17 

A Ditty 17 

Sigourney, Lydia Huntly. 

August 1 1 : The Blessed Uain 41H 

Indian Names 419 



Sillery, Charles Doyne. 
She Died in Beauty 



63U 



Simmons, Bartholomew. taob 

Song of a Returned Exile 698 



From ' 
From ' 



Stanzas ou Thomas Hood" 
The Mother of the Kings" 



699 
TOO 



Simms. William Gilmore. 

The First Day of Spring. C18 

Freedom of the Sabbath 618 

Solace of the Woods 618 



Simpson, Mrs. Jane Cross. 
Go when the Morning Shineth . 



700 



Smith, Alexander. 

A Day in Spring 835 

A Day in Summer 835 

Her Last Words 835 

Smith, Mrs. Charlotte (Turner). 

To Fortitude 235 

To a Young Man entering the World 235 

The Cricket '235 

Smith, Elizabeth Oakes. 

Sonnet: The Lnattained 619 

Sonnet : Poesy 619 

Sonnet: Faith 619 

Smith, Horace. 

Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibition. 3.53 

Moral Cosmetics 353 

Sonnet 3.54 

The First of March 354 

Hymn to the Flowers 3.54 

Smith, James. 

Epigram 339 

The Theatre 330 

To Miss Edgeworth 330 



Smith, Mrs. May Riley. 
If 



Smith. William. 
To .My Wile 



915 



555 



Smollett, Tobias George. 

The Tears of Scotland 191 

Ode to Leven-water 193 



Sotheby, William. 
Stalfa— Visited 1829. 



•349 



Southey, Caroline Bo-wles. 

Lines on Her Father 387 

The River SS"* 

To Little Mary SS-* 

"Sullieient unto the Day is the Evil thereof".. 389 

The Pauper's Deathbed 391 

To a Dying Infant 391 

Oh, Fear Not Thou to Die 393 

Sonnet: To the Mother of Luerctia and Margaret 
Davidson 013 



INDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Southey, Robert. tage 

Inscription for tiie Ap:\rtnR'nt. in Cliepstow Castle. 27.5 

Tlie Battle of Blenlieim 320 

Immortality of Love 320 

A Beautiful Day in Autumn 321 

The Holly-tree 321 

My Library .' 321 

Night in the Desert 323 

The Dead Friend 332 

Imitated from the Persian 333 

The Morning jMist 333 

Retleetions 323 

To Williiim Wordsworth 3.23 

Southwell, Robert. 

Love's Servile Lot 33 

Times Go By Turns 23 

Spencer, Hon. William Robert. 

To the Lady Anne Hamilton 39.5 

Beth Gelert ; or, The Grave of the Greyhound... 3U5 

Spenser, Edmund. 

From " The Eijithalamion " 10 

Una and the Lion 11 

Prince Arthur 13 

Tlie Miuistry of Angels 13 

From the " Hymn in Honor of Beauty " 13 

Easter Morning 13 

Miseries of a Court-life 13 



Spofford, Harriet Prescott. 
A Four-o'clock 



Stanley, Thomas. 
The Depositiou . . . 



Stockton, Mrs. Annis Boudinot. 
Ode to Washiugton 



Stoddard, Mrs. Lavinia. 
The Soul's Detlanec 



Stoddard, Mrs. R. H. 
On the Campagua 



863 



Sprague, Charles. 

The Winged Worshippers 415 

The Fourth of July 415 

From " The ShaUspeare Ode" 415 

I See Thee Still 41(3 



114 



Stedman, Kdmund Clarence. 

Provencal Lovers 854 

How Old Brown took Harper's Ferry 855 

Sterling, John. 

To a Child 619 

The Man Survives 620 

Prose and Song 620 



.549 



387 



Stoddard, Richard Henry. 

Songs Unsung : 803 

From the "Proem to Collected Poems" 803 

How are Songs Begot and Bred? 803 

The Country Life 804 



rAGR 
. 804 



Story, V/illiam Wetmore. 

Lines on John Lothrop Motley 723 

The Unexpressed 7.53 

Wetmore Cottage, Nahant 7.53 

Stowe, Harriet Beecher. 
The Other World 706 

Street, Alfred Billings. 

The Nook in the Forest 701 

A Forest Walk 701 

The Bluebird's Song 703 

Music 703 



Strode, William. 
Music 



61 



Suckling, Sir John. 
Why so Pale and Wan, Fond Lover? 103 

Swain, Charles. 

What it is to Love .585 

The Beautiful Day .585 

Swift, Jonathan. 

From " The Death of Dr. Swift " 1:24 

Stella's Birthday, 1730 135 

Swinburne, Algernon Charles. 

An Interlude 873 

Love and Death 87:^ 

A Match 873 

Sylvester, Joshua. 

Plurality of Woilds :« 

Love's Omnipresence 33 

Symonds, John Addington. 

In the Jlentone Graveyard 910 

Seven Sonnets on Death 9U 

The Will 912 

Beati Illi 912 

Talfourd, Thomas Noon. 

To the South American Patriots 470 

Love Immortal 470 

Verses on a Child 471 

An Act of Kindness 471 

Sonnet on Wordsworth 473 

Tannahill, Robert. 

The Flower o' Duniblane 324 

The Braes o' Balquhither 324 

Taylor, Bayard. 

Storm-song 807 

A Crimean Episode 807 

The Fight of Paso Del Mar 807 



Taylor, Jane. 
Teaching from the Stars. 



36.5 



iMirx or Airnons, jirrii coxtexts. 



Taylor, Jeremy. pace 

Tliy Kingdom Conic 105 

Taylor, Sir Henry. 

On Edwanl Einesl Villiers M'la 

AVIiiit .Makes a Ikin V 5I« 

Extinct I'loni "Philip Van Ailcveldu" Sliil 

Greatness and Success !Hi7 

Artevelde's Soliloquy ,5G7 

Aitcvelde and Eleuii 5tJ7 

Taylor, Thomas. 
Ode to the Rising Sun 2.")! 

Tennant, William. 
Description of .Magi;ic Luudcr 3G7 

Tennyson, Alfred. 

From tlie Lines on Bulwcr G0.5 

Edward Gray GSO 

Go Not, Happy Day 081 

Welcome to Alccandra GSl 

Ask Mc No More GSl 

To , after Reading a Life and Letters G82 

Garden Song G82 

Dc Profundis G8:j 

Bugle Song 083 

The Foolish Virgins 084 

Charge of the Light Brigade 084 

Turn, Fortune, Turn Thy Wheel 084 

Stanzas from " In Mcmoriani '" OS.") 

Tears, Idle Tears 088 

From " The Golden Year" 088 

Tennyson, Charles (see Turner). 

Tennyson, Frederick. 

The Blackhird 016 

Sonnet 017 

Thackeray, William Makepeace. 

Little Billec 006 

At the Church Gate O'.IG 

The Ballad of Bouillabaisse G'M 

The XIahoganytrce 0'J7 

Thaxter, Mrs. Celia. 

Song 803 

The Sand-piper 862 

Thom, William. 

The Mitherless Bairn 40!) 

Dreamings of the Bereaved 409 

Thompson, John Randolph. 
.^Ill^ic in Camp 789 

Thomson, James. 

Lines Written at the Age of Fourteen 10(i 

The Approach of Spring IWi 

Sunrise in Summer 107 

Hymn on the Seasons 167 

The Bard's Song 168 

Rule, BriUinnia '. 10!) 

Love of Nature ItJ!) 

Sweet Tyrant, Low .531 



Thoreau, Henry David. moe 

Smoke in Winter 745 

Upon the Beach 74.5 

Thornbury, Walter. 

How Sir Richard Died 824 

The Old Grenadier's Story 8'24 

Thorpe, Mrs. Rosa Hartwiok. 

Down tlie Track 9.S.5 

"Curfew Must Not Ring To-night" 93.5 

Thurlo-w, Edward Hovel (Lord). 

Sonnet to a Bird ,S.59 

Song to May 359 

Tickell, Thomas. 
On the Death of Addison 141 

Tighe, Mrs. Mary. 

On Receiving a Branch of Mczcrcon 317 

Written at Killarney 318 

Tilton, Theodore. 
Sir Marmadukc's Musings 804 

Timrod, Henry. 

Hark to the Shouting Wind 8'2S 

Ode 828 

A Common Thought 828 

From " A Southern Spring " 8'28 

Sonnets 829 

Timrod, William H. 
Lines to Harry 420 

Tobin, John. 
The Duke Aranza to Juliana 275 

Todhunter, John. 
The First Spring Day : Sonnet .5.50 

Toplady, Augustus Montague. 

Deathless Principle, Arise ! 2'24 

Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me 224 

Townshend, Chauncy Hare. 

".ludgc Not" .587 

" Wliat God hath Cleansed," etc 587 

"His Banner over Me was Love" 588 

'In My Father's House are many Mansions"... 588 

An Evening Thought 588 

On Poetry 588 

May .588 

Concluding Sonnet 588 

Trench, Richard Chenevix. 

Our Father's Home OJO 

Be Patient 040 

Sonnet : On Prayer GIO 

Spring 041 

Trowbridge, John Tow^nsend. 

Beyond 8*20 

The Vagabonds 8'20 



IXVICX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Trumbull, Jolin. fa^e 

From "M'Fiiig-;il" 237 

Tucker, St. George. 
Dnys of My Youth 338 

Tuokerman, Henry Theodore. 
Souuct : Freedom 715 

Tupper, Martin Farquliar. 
Carpe Diem 691 

Turner, Charles (Tennyson). 

Lines on "In Memoriani" C49 

Morning 049 

Tlie Lattice at Sunrise 049 

A Brillinnt Day 049 

Letty's Globe 050 

Tuttle, Mrs. Emma. 
The First Fledgling 893 

Tychborn, Chidiock. 
Lines by One in tlie Tower 84 

Uhland, Johann Litdwig (1787-1862). 
The Passage (tiaiislated by Mrs. Austin) 4.51 

Vandyne, Mary E. 
When I went Fishing with Dad 910 

Vaughan, Henry. 

The Retreat 107 

The Rainbow 107 

They Are x\ll Gone ! 107 

The Request lOS 

Like as a Nurse 108 

Vaux, Thomas (Lord). 
Of a Contented Mind 7 



Vere, Sir Aubrey de. 

Cranmer 393 

Sonnet : Time Misspent 393 

Three Sonnets on Columbus 393 

Dioeletian at Salona 394 

Glengarifl' 394 

Vere, Aubrey Thomas de. 

The True Blessedness 728 

Adolescentulre Amaverunt te Nimis 738 

Sonnet : How All Things Are Sweet 738 

Very, Jones. 

The Bud Will Soon Become a Flower 713 

Home and Heaven 713 

The Spirit-land 713 

Nature 713 

Our Soldiers' Graves 713 



Villiers, George (Duke of Buckingham). 
Epitaph (in General Fairfax 



563 



Vincent, Charles (French). 
Come, Sunshine, Come ! 543 



Wakefield, Nancy Priest. pace 

Over the River SUl 

From "Heaven" 861 



Walker, William Sidney. 

The Voice of Otlicr Years 

To a Girl in Her Thirteeutli Year. 



469 
4C9 



Wallace, Horace Binney. 
Ode on the Rhine's Returning into Germany from 
France 740 

Waller, Edmund. 

Tlie Message of the Rose 88 

On a Girdle 88 

Waller, John Francis. 
Kitty Neil 674 

Ware, Henry. 

A Tliaulcsgiving Song 459 

Resurrection of Christ 4.59 

Warton, Thomas. 

To Mr. Gray 304 

To the River Lodou 204 

Wasson, David Atwood. 

Ministering Angels to tlie Imprisoned Soul 780 

All's Well 787 

Wastell, Simon. 
From " Man's Mortality " 81 

Watts, Alaric Alexander. 

A Remonstrance 518 

Forever Thine 519 

Watts, Isaac, D.D. 

True Riches 130 

Earth and Heaven 130 

From All That Dwell 131 

Joy to the Worid 131 

Webster, Mrs. Augusta. 

To Bloom is then to Wane 913 

The Gift 913 

Webster, John. 

A Di ige 34 

From " The Dneliess of Mali! " 34 



Weeks, Robert Kelly. 

Winter Sunrise 

Ad Finem 



898 
898 



Welby, Amelia B. 

Twilight at Sea : A Fragment 779 

The Golden Ringlet 779 

Wentz, George. 

" Sweet Si>irit, Hear My Prayer" 903 

No Death 903 



IXVICX OF AUTHORS, WITH COXTENrS. 



Wesley, Charles. 

Tbe \Vrc8tler 

Come, Let Us Anew. 
Tlic Only Light 



PME 

. 175 
. 176 
. 177 



Wesley, John. 
Commit Tliou .-Ml Tliy (iricfs (from the Gcrmnii 
of P:iul Gclllillclt) 

Westwood, Thomas. 

The Pit Lamb 

Little Bell 



17:3 



White, Henry Kirke. 

Time 

Concliiiliiis Stanzas of "The Chiistiad' 
To nn Early Primrose 



377 
377 
377 



White, Joseph Blanco. 

Night and Death : Sonnet 

Sonnet, on Hearing Myself for the First Time 
called an Old Man, Mi. 50 

Whitman, Sarah Helen. 

Lines on Eduar A. Poc 

The Last Flowers 

Sonnets to Edsrar A. Poc 



335 
325 



583 

583 



Whitman, Walt. 
From "The Mystic Trumpeter". 
Passages from "Leaves of Grass" 

Whitney, Adeline D. T. 
Behind the Mask 



756 



795 



Whittier, John Greenleaf. 

Maud .Mnller 634 

Barbara Frietchic 6:50 

Mr. Whittier to His Friends 037 

My Two Sisters 637 

The Poet's Portrait of Himself 03.8 

The Eternal Goodness OJiS 

Whytehead, Thomas. 
The Second Day of Cieation 701 

Wilcoi, Carlos. 

A Late Spriiis in New England 401 

A Vision of Heaven 401 

September 463 

Wilde. Lady. 
The Voice of tlic Poor »12 

Wilde, Richard Henry. 

Sonnet : To the Mocking-bird 413 

St;inzas 413 



Willard, Mrs. Emma C. 
Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep. 



384 



Williams, Helen Maria. 

Sonnet to Hope 263 

Trust iu Providence 263 



Williams, Isaac. pace 

The Departed Good : Sonnet ."Hit 

Williams, Richard Dalton. 

From the "Lament for Clarence Mangan" 707 

Willis, Nathaniel Parker. 

Saturday Afternoon 034 

Thirtylive 035 

The Spring is Here 625 

Acrostic Sonnet on Emilie Mai-shall 635 

To a City Pigeon 625 

Willson, Forceythe. 

From Lines to His Wife 874 

Tlic Old Sergeant 874 

Wilson, John (Christopher North). 

From "Address to a Wild-deer" .374 

Hymn 374 

The Evening Cloud 375 

The Shipwreck 375 

Wilson, William. 
Sabbath Morning in the Woods 570 

Winchelsea, Countess of. 
From " A Wishcd-for Retreat " 140 

Winter, William. 

Tlic Ballad of Constance 80!) 

Orgia 869 

The Golden Silence 870 

Wither, George. 

Companionship of the Muse .50 

The Heavenly Father and His Erring Child 51 

Vanished Blessings 51 

I Will Sing as I Shall Please 51 

Shall I, Wasting in Despair 53 

Lines on William Browne 53 

Wolcot, John. 

On Dr. Johnson 221 

Epigram on Sleep 321 

The Pilgrims and the Pease 331 

Wolfe, Charles. 

The Burial of Sir John Moore 413 

If I Had Thought 414 

Go, Forget -Me 414 

Woodworth, Samuel. 

The Old Oaken Bucket 377 

Woolson, Abba Goold. 
Carpe Diem S88 

Wordsworth, William. 

To Daffodils 383 

To the Cuckoo 283 

Ode to Duty 383 

She was a Phantom of Delight 383 

Character of the Happy Warrior 3!M 



INDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH CONTENTS. 



Wordsworth, William. page 

The Fountain 3&5 

From Lines composed near Tiiitern Abbey 385 

Liiodamia 387 

Ode on Immortality 3S9 

Extem))ore Efl'nsion upon tlic Death of James Hogs' 291 

The Sonnet's Scanty Plot 291 

Scorn Not the Sonnet 293 

Evening 293 

To Sleep 393 

The World is Too Much with Us 293 

The Favored Sliip 293 

Tlie Mind that Builds for Aye : 393 

Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1803 293 

To Toussaint L'Ouverture 393 

Pliiloetctes 393 

Tliy Art be Nature 393 

London, 1803 ' 393 

We Must be Free, or Die 393 

October, 1803 394 

On Personal Tallc (in Four Sonnets) 394 

Lines on Hartley Coleridge 49B 



Wotton, Sir Henry. 
On Ilis Jlistress, the Queen of Boh 
Tlie Happy Lile 



39 
39 



Wyatt, Sir Thomas. 
Pleasure Mixed with Pain . 

Of Dissembling Words 

Free at Last 



PAGB 
. 6 

. 6 
. 6 



Youl, Edward. 
A Soring Song 



Young, Andrew. 
The Happy Land . 



550 



658 



Young, Edward. 

Invocation to the Autlior of Ligljt 135 

Tlie Departed Live 130 

Homer, Milton, Pope 130 

Welcome to Deatli 137 

I Trust in Thee 137 

Humanity of Angels 137 

No Atom Lost 137 

Immortality Deciphers Man 137 

Existence of God 138 

Zedlitz, Joseph Christian von (German^ 
Napoleon's Midniglit Review (translated by Tlieo- 
dore Martin 739 



.^.^^^s^***. 





"fBRITISH^AMERICAN Poetk 



^coffrcn (Jlljauccr. 



Chaucer, the father of English poetry, was born about 
the year i:j"28, probably in London, and educated at Cam- 
bridge. On arrivini; at man's estate, he joined tlie army 
with wliich Edward III. w.as tryins; to subjugate France. 
Taken prisoner at Poitiers, Chaucer, on being released, 
returned to Eni^land, «nd married a sister of the lady 
who became the wife of the Duke of Lancaster, better 
known as John of Gaunt. 

King Edrtard regarded Chaucer with favor, and in 13?3 
sent him on a mission to Italy, where he made the ae- 
quaint:incc of Petrarch, then living at Padua. lie was 
employed in other public services, sat in Parliament, 
shared in the downfall of John of Gaunt, fled to Hol- 
land, returned home in 14S!), abandoned public life, and 
devoted himself to poetical composition. At the age of 
sixty-four he began the "Canterbury Talcs," a picture 
of English life in the fourteenth century. He afterward 
wrote "The Romaunt of the Rose," "Troilus and Cres- 
seidc," "The Legende of Good Women," "Chaucer's 
Dream," "The Flower and the Leaf," "The House of 
Fame" (richly paraphrased by Pope), etc. 

The accentuation in Chaucer's verse, by a license since 
abandoned, is dill'erent in many instances from that of 
common speech. For example, in 

"Full well she sange ihc service divine," 



saiige is two syllables, while service furnishes an ex- 
ample of a transposed accent. This poetical license of 
transposing an accent is not uncommon in the later 
poets. 

Chaucer appears to have been of a joyous and happy 
temperament, generous and alTcctionate. He had that 
intense relish for the beauties of Nature so characteris- 
tic of the genuine poet. His works abound with enthu- 
siastic descriptions of spring, the morning hour, the 
early verdure of groves, green solitudes, birds and flow- 
ei"s. Nature, courts, camps, characters, passions, mo- 
tives, are the topics with which he deals. He was op- 
posed to the priests, whose hypocrisy he unmnskcd. A 
vigorous temperament, a penetrating, observing intel- 
lect, and a strong, comprehensive good -sense, arc the 
instruments with which he fashions his poetical mate- 
rials. Spenser refers to him as 

"That renowned Poet, 
Dan Chancer, well of En^Mish undcfiied, 
Ou Fame's eternal beadroll worthy to be fyled." 

In the following extracts the orthography is partially 
modernized. Where the change wonid impair either the 
measure or the spirit of the passage, the origiual spelling 
I is retained. 



AN EARTHLY PARADISE. 
Fkom "Thr Fi.owrn and tub Leaf." 



When that Pliipbns his cliair of gold so high 
Ha<i vvliirUMl up the st.nrry sky aloft, 
.\nil in the Itiill was entered certainly ; 
When sliowcrs sweet of rain descended soft. 
Causing tlio ground, feole' times and oft. 
Up for to give many a wholesome air ; 
And every plaiu6 was y-clothdd fair 



With ne\\6 green, and makcth HmnI16 flowers 
To springen hero and there in field and mead : 
So very good aiid wholesome bo the showers 
That it rcncwotU that was old and dead 
In winter time ; and out of every seed 
Springcth the herW, so that every wight 
Of this season wexeth glad and light ; 



Many ; German, viel. 
1 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISB AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Aud I, so glad(16 of the season sweet, 
Was happ(5d thus : Upon a certain night 
As I lay in my bed, sleep full unmeet 
Was nnto me ; but why that I ue might 
Rest I ne wist, for there n' 'as' earthly wight. 
As I suppose, had more of herte's case 
Tliaii I, for I u' 'ad' sickness nor disease. 

Wherefore I marvel greatly of myself 
That I so long withouten sleoi)(5 lay. 
And up I rose three hours after twelf. 
About the springing of the day." 
And on I put my gear and mine array, 
Aud to a pleasant grov^ I 'gau pass, 
Long ere the sunn6 bright uprisen was, 

III which were oakfe great, straight as a line. 
Under the which the grass so fresh of hue 
Was newly sprong ; and an eight foot or nine 
Every tree well fro his fellow grew 
With branches broad laden with leaves new, 
Tliat sprongeu out agen the sonni?-slieeu. 
Some very red, and some a glad light green, 

Wliich, as mcfhought, was riglit a i)leasant sight; 

And eke the bird^s song^ for to hear 

AVonld have rejoiced any earthly wight, 

And I, that couth* not yet in no manere 

Hear(?. the nightingale of all the year, 

Full busily hearkened with heart and eai', 

If I her voice perceive could any where. 

Aud at the List a path of little brede^ 

I found, that greatly had not nsiJd be ; 

For it f(U'growcn° was with grass and weed, 

Tliat well uuneth' a wightd might it sec. 

Thought I, "This path somewhither goeth, pardc !" 

And so I followdd, till it me brought 

To right a pleasant lierbor' well y-wrought. 

That was y-bencli<^d ; and witli turfes new 
Freshly y-tnrved, whereof the greeu6 grass 
So small, so thick, so short, so fresh of hue, 
That most like unto green wool wot I it was. 
The hedge also that yede there in compass," 
Aud clos(^d in alio the green herbere, 
With sycamore was set aud eglatere.'" 



' Was not. 2 Hat! not. 

3 Line of imperfect measure in the copies. Some editors in- 
eert the epilliet filadmmf. 
* Had not been able. ^ Breailtli. 

" Overgrown. ' Scarcely', 

s Arbor. ^ That went round about. 

'" Eglantine, or (according to Warton) sweetbrier. 



TO HIS EMPTY PURSE. 

To you, my purse, aud to none other wight 

Complaiue I, for ye be my lady dcre ; 

I am sorry now that ye bo light, 

For certes ye now make me heavy cheer ; 

lie were as lefc laid upon a hero 

For which unto your mercie thus I erie, 

Be heavy agaiiie, or els mote I die. 

Now vouchsafe this or it be night. 

That I of you the blissful sowne ni.ay here. 

Or see your color like tho snnn<5 bright. 

That of yelowness had never pere. 

Ye be ray life, ye be my hertz's stere, 

Queeue of comfort aud of good companio. 

Be heavy agaiue, or els mote I die. 

Now purse that art to me my liv(5's light 
And saviour, as downe in this world here. 
Out of this town6 helpe me by your might, 
Sith that you woU not be my treasure. 
For I am shave as nero as any frere, 
But I pray unto your curtcsie, 
Be heavy agaiue, or els mote I die. 



THE PARSON. 

A good man there was of religiouu. 

That was a pooriS Parson of a town : 

But rich he was of holy thought aud work, 

He was also a learned man, a clerk. 

That Christes gospel true'ly would preach; 

His parisheus devoutly would he teach. 

Benign he was aud wonder diligent, 

Aud in adversity full patient; 

And such he was y-proved' ofte sitli^s,' 

Full loth were him to cursen for Ids tithi?s ;° 

But rather would he given, out of doubt. 

Unto his poord pari.shens about, 

Of his oftViug aud eke of his substance ; 

He couth in little thing have suffisauce. 

Wide wiis his parish, and houses far asunder; 

But ho ne lefte not, for rain ne thunder. 

In sickness nor in mischief to visite 

The furthest in his parish, nuich aud lite,' 



' r is the old English prefix of the past participle; Saxon aud 
German qe. 

- Oftenlimes. 

a The e or / of the plural in old poetry is always sounded wheu 
the verse requires It. 

* Great and small. 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER.— GOWHR.— BARBOUR.— LTDOATi:. 



Upon liis feet, and iu his hand » staff. 
This noblo eusamplo to his sheep ho gaf,' 
That fust he wr«iif;ht and aftorwaril lie taught. 
Out of the gospel he the wonlos caught, 
And this lignie ho adiltd I'ke theivto,— 
That, if gold rnste, what should iron do J 
For, if a priest bo foul on whom wo trust, 
No wonder is a lowed" niaii to rust. 

He was ,1 shepherd, and no nuTocnary ; 

And, though ho holy were and virtuous. 

Ho Wiis to sinful man not dispitous,' 

Ne of his spccclio dangerous ue digue,* 

Hut iu his tenehing discreet and bouigu. 

To drawen folk to heaven by fairness 

By good eusamplo, tliis was his business. 

But, it were any person obstinate. 

What so ho were, of high or low estate. 

Him would lio snibben' sharply for the noniSs." 

A better priest I trow there nowhere none is. 

He waited afler no pomp ne reveicnce. 

No maUed hiui a spiced' eouscionce ; 

But CUristos lore and his ajiosllos twelve 

Ue taught, but lirst he followd it hiuisolve. 



GOOD COIXSEL OF CHAUCER. 

In one of the Cottouinn MSS. (araonij those dcBtroyeil by Arc) 
this poem wiis dc^cribvd 119 mnde by Chnucer " upt)n his death- 
bed, iu his great angnisli." The versions differ consider-ibly. 

Fly fro the press ami dwell with soothfastness ;' 
SuBite unto thy good though it be small: 

For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleiiess,* 
Press hath envy, and weal is blent'" over-all. 
Savour no more than thee behov(5" shall. 

Rede" well thyself that other folk canst rede; 

And Truth thee shall deliver, it is no drcde." 

I'aim'^ thco not each crooked to redress 
In trust of her that turncth as a ball ; 

(Jreat rest Btand<;ih in little busyness. 
Bewaro al.so to spurn against an awl; 
."^Irive not as dolli a crock6'* with a wall; 

I)iem<^" thyself that deemest others' deed; 

And Truth thee shall deliver, it is no dredo. 



1 <;,ivo. ' Xmy, nnlenmed. 

' Without pity. * Dutniliceriii^ uur disduinrul. 

* Check, reprove, «nw6. • l'\ir the nonce. 

' Dis);uiHed. ns food by epicep, * Trnth. 

• Instability. «• Blind. 

11 Thau Bh.all be for thy good. " Cnuuscl. 

"Doubt. '• Piece ofchino. '•Judge. 



That thco is sent, receive iu bnxomness ;' 
The wrastliug of this world asketh a fall. 

Hero is no home, hpre is but wilderness. 

Forth, pilgrim ! Forth, beast, out of thy stall ! 
Look up on high, and thank(i God of all. 

WaivC'- thy lusts, and let thy ghost thee lead ; 

And Truth thee shall deliver, it is no drede. 



l!>ou)cv. — Cixvbouv.— £i)i)gatc. 

Contemporary with C'bauccr, but several years liis 
junior, was John Goiver (133.5-1408), a wealthy "es- 
quire" of Kent. Tlie grave and sententious turn of his 
poetry won for him from Cliaueer and others the appella- 
tion of the " Moral Gower," w hich has become almost a 
syuonyme for duliicss. He gives little evidence of the 
genuine afHatus. , 

The Scottish poet, John Barbour, born about the year 
1316, grew up iu the midst of exciting political events. 
He was archdeacon of Aberdeen, and iu 1375, when Kob- 
crt HI. had been king five years, he was occupied in writ- 
ing a metrical history, called "The Bruce," of Robert I. 
It is iu the octosyllabic rhymed couplet of the old ro- 
mances, and is ranked as authentic history. 

The most notable of Chaucer's younger contempora- 
ries was John Lydgate (1373-1400). He was named from 
his birth in Suffolk, at the village of Lydgate, and became 
a Benedictine monk. His "Ballad of London Lyckpen- 
ny," relating the ill success of a poor countryman in the 
London Courts of Law, is a remarkable specimen of hu- 
morous verse. Both (iray and Coleridge seem to have 
been impressed by the merits of Lydgate. 



MEDEA GATHERING HERBS. 

GowKr» 

Thus it fell upon a nigbt, 

When there was naught but starrie light, 

She was vanished right iis she list, 

That no wight but herself wist. 

And that was at uudnight tide. 

Tlie world was still oti every side. 

AVilh open hand and foot all bare; 

Her hair too spread, she 'gau to fare; 

I'pon her cloth<5s girt sho was. 

And spechi-lcss, upon the grass. 

She glodo forth, as an adder doth. 



FREEDOM. 

RAniioL'it. 
Ah, Freedom is a noble thing ! 
Freedom makes man to have liking;' 



' Cheerful uoss. 



5 Cast away. 



• Eiijoymcnl. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BHiriSH AND AMERICAN POETBY. 



Freedom all solace to man gives ; 
He lives at ease that freely lives! 
A noble heart may have naue ease, 
Ne cUis uocht' that may him please, 
Gif Ireetlom faileth ; lor free liking 
Is yearu<Sd^ o'er all other thiug ; 
Nor he that aye has livdcl free 
May nocht know well the property,^ 
The anger, ne the -n-retched doom 
That is couplit to fonl thirklom. 
But, gif he had assayed it. 
Then all perquere' he should it wit, 
And should think freedom mair to prize 
Than all the gold in the warld that is. 



FROM THE BALLAD OF '-LONDON LYCK- 
PENNY." 



To Loudon onee my steps I bent. 

Where truth in nowise should be faint; 

To Westmiuster-ward I forthwith went, 
To a Man of Law to make comj)laint, 
I said, " For Mary's love, that holy saint, 
Pity the poor that would pi-oceed !" 
But for lack of Mouey I could not speed. 

And as I thrust the press among. 

By froward chance my hood was gone, 

Yet for all that I stayed not long 
Till to the King's Bench I was come. 
Before the Judge I kneeled auou, 
And prayed him for God's sake take heed. 
But for lack of Money I might not speed. 

Beneath them sat Clerks a great rout, 
Which fast did write by one assent; 

There stood np one and cried about 
"Richard, Robert, and John of Kent!" 
I wist not well what this man meant, 
He cried so thickly there indeed. 
But he that lacked Money might not speed. 

Unto the Common Pleas I yodo° tho. 
Where sat one with a silken hood ;' 

I did hira reverence, for I onght to do so. 
And told my case as well as I could. 
How my goods were defrauded me by falsehood. 



1 Nor nnything else. 
» The kiiitl of existence. 
'' Weut. 



2 Desired. 

■> Perfecllj-. 

^ Badge of a sergcaut-!U-law. 



I got not a mum of his mouth for my meed. 
And for lack of Mouey I might not speed. 

Unto the Rolls I gat me from thence. 
Before the clerkes of the Chancerie, 

Where many 1 found earning of pence, 
But none at all once regarded me. 
I gave them my plaint upon my knee ; 
Tbey liked it well when they had it read, 
But lacking Mouey I could not be sped. 

In Westminster Hall I found out one 

Wliich went in a long gown of ray;' 
I crouched and kneeled before him ; anon, 

For Mary's love, for help I him pray. 

" I wot not what thou meau'st," gan he say ; 

To get me thence he did me bede ; 

For lack of Mouey I could not speed. 

Witbiu this Hall, neither rich nor yet poor 

Would do for me aught although I should die : 

Which seeing, I got me out of the door 
Where Flemings began on me for to cry, 
''Master, what will you copen" or buy? 
Fine felt hats, or spectacles to read? 
Lay down your silver, and here you may speed." 

Then I conveyed me into Kent; 

For of the law would I meddle no more, 

Because no man to me took intent, 
I dight me to do as I did before. 
Now Jesus, that in Bethlehem was bore. 
Save London, and send true lawyers their meed I 
For whoso wants Mouey with them shall not 
speed. 

Sanies 3. of GiotltauD. 

This Scottish prince (1394-1437) was intercepted at 
sea, and made prisoner Ijy Henry IV. in 1405. During 
his captivity lie produced one of the most graceful poems 
that exist in old English. The "King's Quliair" (that is, 
quire, or little book) has for its main incident the discov- 
ery of a lady walking in the prison garden, to whom he 
becomes attached. This beauty is supposed to have been 
Lady Jane Beaufort, who became his wife, .and eventually 
Qncen of Scotland, and mother of the royal lino of the 
subsequent Stuarts. King James returned to Scotland 
after the death of Henry V., was crowned at Scone in 
1424, and was for twelve years a wise ruler, endeavoring 
to establish law and order among turbulent nobles, and 
to assure tho rights and liberties of his people; but his 
firm upholding of justice led to his assassination at Perth 
in 1437. 



A rayed or striped cloth. 



(Dutch " koopeu "), buy. 



liOBEKT BliNRYSOX. 



TlIK CAPTIVE KING. 

Wlicreas ia ward fiill oft I would bewail 
My deadly life, full of pain aud peuauce, 

Saying right thus, '• What have I guilt' to fail 
My freedou) in this world, and my iilcasauco ? 
Sin every wight ha8 thereof suffisanco 

That I behold, and I a creiituro 

Put from all this, bard is mine aventure! 

"Tlio bird, the beast, the fish eko in the sea, 
They live in freedom, every in his kind, 

Aud I a man, and lacketh liberty ; 

What shall I eayn, what reason may I lind. 
That Fortune should do so?'' Thus in my mind 

My folk' I would argue, but all for nought ; 

Was none that might that on my pain(5s rougbtl' 



Robert fjcnrnson. 



Hcnryson (circa 1425-1507) was tlie oldest of an im- 
portant group of Seottish poets, wlio, at the close of the 
urieenth and beginning of the sixteenth centuries, "were 
tilling the North country with music." Admitted in 
14U2 to the newly-founded University of Glasgow, be be- 
came notary public and school-master at Dunfermline. 
In his lifetime the art of printing first came into use in 
Enirland. He was a writer of ballads; and his "Robin 
aud Mawkiu" is one of the best early specimens of pas- 
toral verse. He also wrote a metrical version of .lilsop's 
Fables. 



A VISION OF .E.SOP. 

In mids of June, that jolly sweet seasoun, 

When that fair IMuebus with his beanu^s briclit 

Had dryit up the dew frao dale and down, 
And all the land made with his gleamfo licht, 
In ane morning, betwixt mid-day and nicht, 

I rase, and put all sloth and sleep a.side. 

And to a wood I went alone, but guiile.' 

Sweet was the smell of flowers white and red. 
The noise of bird(5s richt delicious ; 

The boughds bloomt^d broad above my head. 
The ground growand with ger.sses gr.acious: 
Of all pleasanco that place wers plenteous. 

With sweet odors and bird('s harmony. 

The morning mild, my mirth was mair forlhy.' 



' Donopnllty. J My attendants, 

> That in, " No one took pily on my suffcriuKi'," liour/hl, 
past teupe of rue, to care for, 
* Wilbout a gnlde. » Tbercfore, 



Mo to conserve then fr.io the sunnds heat. 
Under the shadow of auo hawthorn green 

I leauit down amang the flowers sweet ; 

Syno cled my head aud clos6d baith my een. 
On sleep I fall auiang these bongh<;s been ; 

And, iu my dream, metlioclit como through tlio 
sliaw 

The fairest man that ever befuro I saw. 

His gown was of ane claith as white as milk, 
His chimeris' was of ehambeloto purple-brown ; 

His hood of scarlet bordered weel with silk, 
Uuhecki^d-wi.se,'' untill his girdle doun ; 
His bonnet round and of the auld fassoun ; 

His beard w.as white, his een was great and grey. 

With locker' hair, whilk over his shoulders lay. 

Ane roll of paper in his hand he bare, 
Ane swanes pen stickand under his car, 

Ane ink-horn, with aue pretty gilt pennair,' 
Ane bag of silk, all at his belt did bear; 
Thus was he goodly graithit'' in his gear. 

Of stature large, aud with a fearl'ull face. 

Even where I lay he como ano sturdy pace ; 

And said, " God speed, my son ;" and I was faiu 
Of that couth word, and of his company. 

With reverence I saluted him again, 

" Welcome, father ;"' and he sat down me by. 
'• Displease you nocht, my good nuiister, though I 

Demand your birth, your faculty, and name, 

Why ye como here, or where ye dwell at hanio V 

"My SOD," said he, "I am of gentle blood. 
My native laTid is Rome withouten nay; 

And in that town first to the schools I gaed. 
In civil law studied full many a day, 
Aud now my wonning' is iu heaven for aye. 

JEsop I heclit ;' my writing and my w.ark 

Is couth* and kcnd' to mony a cunning clerk." 

"O niaister yEsop, poet laureate! 

God wot ye are full dear welcome to me ; 

Are ye nocht he that all those Fables wrato 
Which, in effect, suppose they feiguM be, 
Are full of ])rudence and morality f ' 

" Fair son," said he, " I am the saniin man," 

God wot gif" that my heart was merry than. 



■ Short lij;ht gowu, 

' Curlhi*^. 

^ Arrayed, 

' Am called. 

• KnowD (other form of same verb). 



' Unfastcned-wiec. 

* Pen-liolder. 

* Dwelling. 

* Known. 

"> God knows if. 



CYCLOPJiDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Sir <Ll)omas lUnatt. 

Among the principal successors of Hcnryson were Wil- 
liam Dunbar {circa 1400-1520), Jolin Skeltou (1460 ?-iry2il), 
Gavin Douslas (1475-1533), Sir David Lyndsay (1490- 
1557), and Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1543), who translated 
many of the Sonnets of Petrarch. He became M.A. of 
Cambridge at seventeen ; was made a gentleman of King 
Henry VIII.'s bedchamber; was knighted in 1537; and 
went as ambassador to the Emperor Charles V. in Spain. 
In the winter of 1540-'41 he was in the Tower, charged 
with treasonable correspondence with Cardinal Pole. 
Acquitted in 1541, he was again befriended by the king; 
but in the autumn of 1543 he died of a fever, caught in 
riding fast tlirough bad weather to meet an ambassador 
from Charles V. 



TLEASURE MIXED WITH PAIN. 
Venomous thorns that are so sharp and keen 

Bear flowers, we see, full fresh and fair of line. 
Poison is also put in medicine, 

And uuto man his health doth oft renew. 
The tire that all thi?igs eke cousnmeth clean 

May hurt and heal ; then if that this he true, 
I trust sometime my harm may be my health, 
Siuce every woe is joined with some wcaltli. 



OF DISSEMBLING WORDS. 

Throughout the world, if it were sought, 
Fair words enough a man shall find : 

They be good cheap ; they cost right nought ; 
Their substance is but only wind. 

But well to say, and so to mean. 

That sweet accord is seldom seen. 



FREE AT LAST. 

Tangled I was in Lovds snare, 
Oppressed with pain, torment with care, 
Of grief right sure, of joy full bare, 

Clean in despair by cruelty: 
But ha! ha! ha! full well is me. 

For I am now at liberty. 

The woful days so full of pain. 
The weary night all spent in vain, 
The labor lost for so small gain, 

To write them all it will not be : 
But ha ! ha ! ha ! full well is me, 

For I am now at liberty. 
# * * *p * 

With fcign<5d words which were but wind, 
To long delays I was assigned ; 



Her wily looks my wits did blind ; 

Thus as she would I did agree : 
But ha! ha! ha! full well is me, 

For I am now at liberty. 

Was never bird taugled in lime 
That brake away in better time 
Than I, that rotten boughs did climb, 

And had no hurt, but scap<5d free : 
Now ha! ha! ha! full well is me, 

For I am now at libertv. 



tjcnvn f)oiiiavLi, (Jriivl of Sun-tj). 

The son of the Duke of Norfolk, the victor of Flodden 
in 1513, Henry Howard {circa 1517-1.546), was from his 
youth associated with the Court of Henry VIII. in the 
capacity of companion to the Duke of Richmond, a nat- 
ural son of that prince. He was subsequently employed 
in high military commands. But tlie whole family of 
Howard fell under Henry's hatred, after the c.veeution of 
Queen Catharine, Surrey's sister. He and his father were 
thrown into the Tower, and condemned on frivolous ac- 
cusations. He was executed in 1546, the warrant for his 
death being one of the latest signed by Henry VIII., 
then upon his death-bed. Surrey was the first translator 
in blank verse of the .lEneid of Virgil ; he likewise intro- 
duced the Petrarchan sonnet into English literature. 



HOW NO AGE IS CONTENT. 

Laid in my quiet bed, 

In study as I were, 
I saw within my troubled head 

A lieap of thoughts appear ; 
And every thought did show 

So lively in mine eyes, 
That now I sighed, and then I smiled, 

As cause of thought did rise. 

I saw the little boy, 

III thought how oft that he 
Did wish of God to 'scape the rod, 

A tall young man to be: 
The young man eke, that feels 

His bones with paius opprest. 
How he would be a rich old man. 

To live and lie at rest. 

The rich old man that sees 

His end draw on so sore. 
How he would be a boy again, 

To live so much the more ; 



THOMAS, LOUD VAVX.—ANNE ASKEW. 



Whereat full oft I smiled, 
To sec how all tlioso three, 

I'rom lioy to man, rniiii man to boy, 
Would iliop and chaugo degree. 

And musing thus, I think 
The case is very stranjjc. 

That nniu from weal to live in woe 
Doth ever seek to change. 



Whereat I sighed and said : 

"Farewell, my wonted joy; 
Truss up thy park, and tnulgo from me 

To every little boy; 
And tell tliera thus from me, 

Tlieir time most happy is, 
If, to their time, they reason had 

To know the tnitli of this." 



iiljoinas, i!ori) Uaur. 

Thomas, Lord Vaux (circa 1510-15.57) of Ilarrowden, 
in Norlliamplonshirc, w.is Captain of the Isle of Jersey 
under Henry VIII. Tlje following lines were tirst print- 
ed in "The Pnradise of Dainty Deviecs," 157G. In neat- 
ness and literary fkill tliey arc far above most of the 
contemporary productions. 



OF A CONTENTED MIND. 

When all is doue and said, 

III thu end thus shall yon lind, 
He most of all doth bathe in bliss, 

That hath a quiet mind; 
And, clear from worldly cares. 

To deem can bo content 
The sweetest time in all his life, 

In thinking to bo spent. 

The body subject is 

To liekh) Fortune's power. 
And to .1 million of mishaps 

Is ea.sual every hour: 
And Death in time doth change 

It to a clod of clay : 
When as the mind, which is divine, 

Kuus never to decay. 

Companion none is like 
Unto the mind aloue ; 



For many have been harmed by speech, 
Through thinking, few or none. 

Fear oftentimes reslraincth words. 
But makes not thought to cease ; 

And he speaks best that hath the skill 
When for to hold his peace. 

Our wealtli leaves ns at deatli; 

Our kinsmen at the grave; 
But virtues of tho mind unto 

TIio heavens with us wo have. 
Wlu^refore, for virtue's sake, 

I can be well content, 
Tho sweetest time of all my life 

To deem in tliinkiug spent. 



:^nnc vlskciu. 

If her poetry be not of the first order, Anne Askew 
(burned at the slake, 1540) deserves to be enrolled among 
the poets forsliowing that she could practise, in a heroic 
deatli, wliat she had preached in verse. She was cruelly 
tortured by tlic minions of Ilcnry VIII. for denying the 
real presence in the eucharist. Prevailed on by Bonner's 
menaces to make a seeming recantation, she qualitied it 
with some reserves, wliicli did not satisfy tliat zealous 
prelate. She was tlirown into Newgate, and tliere wrote 
her iiocm of " The Fight of Faith." Slic was condemned 
to be burned alive; but being so dislocated by the rack 
that she could not stand, she was carried to tlie stake in 
a chair, and tliere burned. Pardon had been olTercd her 
if she would recant ; tliis she refused, and submitted to 
ber fate willi tlic utmost intiepidity. 



FIJOM "THE FIGHT OF FAITH.' 

Like as the armdd knight. 

Appointed to the field. 
With this world will I light, 

And faith shall be my shield. 

Faith is that weapon strong, 
Which will not fail at need; 

Sly foes therefore among 
Therewith will 1 proceed. 

Thou sayst, Lord, whoso knock. 
To them wilt thou attend. 

Undo, therefore, the lock, 
And thy strong power send. 

More encmicR now I have 
Than hairs upon my bead; 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AKD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Let them not me deprave, 
But fight thou iu my stead. 

Not oft I use to ■n'tite 

Iu prose, uor yet iu rhyme ; 

Yet ^viU I show oue sight. 
That I saw iu my time : 

I saw a royal throue. 

Where Justice should Lave sit ; 
But in her stead was oue 

Of moody, cruel wit. 

Ahsorpt was rightwisuess. 
As by the raging flood ; 

Satan, iu iiis excess. 

Sucked up the guiltless blood. 

Tlieu thought I, — Jesus, Lord, 
When thou shalt judge us all. 

Hard is it to record 

Ou these men what will fall ! 

Yet, Lord, I thee desire. 
For that they do to me. 

Let them not taste the hire 
Of their iniquity. 



Sir (firtoarir JDjjcr. 

Born in the reign of Henry VIII. (circa 1.540-1607), Dyer 
lived till some years after King .James's aeeession to the 
English tlnone. He was a friend of Sir Philip Sidney, 
who, in his verses, celebrates their intimacy. Dyer was 
educated at Oxford, and was employed iu several foreigu 
embassies by Elizabeth. He studied chemistry, and was 
thought to be a Rosicrueian. Puttcnham, in his "Art 
of English Poesie" (1589), commends "Master Edward 
Dyer for elegy most sweet, solenm, and of high conceit." 
The popular poem, "My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is," 
with additions, is credited in some collections to William 
Byrd (1543-103.3), an eminent composer of sacred music, 
and who published iu 1.58S a volume of "Psalms, Son- 
nets," etc. Both Byrd and Joshua Sylvester seem to 
have hdd claim to the best parts of Dyer's poem. A col- 
lection of Dyer's writings was printed as late as 1872. 



MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. 

My mind to me a kingdom is ! 

Such present joys therein I find, 
Tliat it excels all other bliss 

That earth affords or grows by kind : 



Though much I want which most would have, 
Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 

No princely pomp, no wealthy store. 

No force to win the victory, 
No wily wit to salve a sore. 

No shape to feed a loving eye ; 
To none of these I yield as thrall : 
For why, my miud doth serve for all. 

I see how plenty surfeits oft. 

And hasty climbers soon do fall ; 
I see that those which are aloft. 

Mishap doth threaten most of all ; 
These get with toil, they keep with fear : 
Such cares my miud could never bear. 

Content I live, this is my stay ; 

I seek no more than may suffice; 
I press to bear no haughty sway ; 

Look, what I lack my mind supplies : 
Lo, thus I triumph like a king. 
Content with that my mind doth bring. 

Some have too mueli, yet still do crave : 

I little have, and seek no more. 
They are but poor, though much they have, 

And I am rich with little store : 
They pool', I rich ; they beg, I give ; 
They lack, I leave ; they pine, I live. 

I laugh not at another's loss; 

I grudge not at another's gain; 
No worldly waves my mind can toss; 

My state at one doth still remain: 
I fear no foe, I fawn no friend ; 
I loathe not life, nor dread my end. 

Some weigh their plca.sure by their lust. 
Their wisdom by their rage of will ; 

Their treasure is their only trust, 
A cloaked craft' their store of skill : 

But all the pleasure that I find 

Is to maintain a quiet mind. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease ; 

My conscience clear my chief defense ; 
I neither seek by bribes to please. 

Nor by deceit to breed ollcn.se: 
Thns do I live, thus will I die; 
Would all did so, as well as I ! 

' A hidden craftiness. 



"> GEORGE GASCOIGNE.—EDMUXD SPENSER. 



(!?corgc (Dascoignc. 



Qttscoiene {nrea ITvio-lS""), bosidcs being notable as 
one of the oarliust Eiiglisli ilnimatists, was one of tlie 
earliest writers of English blank verse. Ho was a native 
of Essex, became a lawyer, was (lisinlicritccl by his father, 
took foreign military service in llollanil under the Prince 
of Orange, and displayed great bravery in action. His 
best known work is " The Steel Glass,"' a satire in rather 
fonnal blank verse. 



TIIK LULLAIiY. 
Sing Inllaliio.s, as vvomon ilo, 

With which they charm their babes to rest; 
Anil lullaby can I sing too, 

As womanly as can tho best. 
With Inllaby they still tho child, 
And, if I bo not nmcli beguiled, 
Full many sranton babes have I 
Which must bo stilled with lull.iby. 

First Inllaby my youthful years. 

It is now time to go to bed; 
For crookM ago and boary Iiairs 

Have wore tho haven within mine head. 
With Inllaby, then. Youth, bo still. 
With lullaby coutent thy will ; 
Siuco conrago quails and comes behind, 
Go sleep, and so beguile thy mind. 

Next lullaby my gazing Eyes, 

AVliich wonted were to glance apace ; 

For every glass may now suffice 
To show tho furrows in my face. 

Willi Iiill.iby, then, wink awhili>; 

With lullaby your looks beguile ; 

Lot no fair face or beauty bright 

Eutice you eft' with vain delight. 

And lullaliy my wanton Will, 

Let Kcason's rulo now rein thy thought, 
Siuco all too late I find by skill 

How dear I have thy fancies bought. 
With hillaby now take thine case, 
With lullaby thy doubt appease; 
For, trust in this, if thou bo still. 
My body shall obey thy will. 

Thus lullaby, my Youth, mine Eyes, 
My Will, my ware and all that was; 

I can no more delays devise. 

But welcome pain, let pleasure pass. 



AVilh lullaby now take your leave, 
Willi lullaby your dreams deceive: 
And when you rise with waking eye, 
Kemember then this lullaby. 



Oimmii SpciiGci". 



.\g.iin. 



The circumstances which prevent our reading Chaucer 
witli that liicility which is indispensable to pleasure, 
arise from the time in which he lived. But a poet of 
far greater genius, not more than ten years older than 
Shakspeare, and who lived when English literature had 
passed into its modern form, deliberately cho.«c, by adopt- 
ing Chaucer's obsolete language, to place similar obsta- 
cles in the way of studying his works. 

Edmund Spenser {.circa 155IJ-159U), tlic son of a gen- 
tleman of good family, but of small estate, was a native 
of London. Educated at Cambridge, he began, almost 
from tho moment of his leaving tht university, to pub- 
lish poems. His first book, " The Shepherd's Calendar," 
helped to popularize pastoral poetry in England. His 
sonnets are still among the best in the langu.agc. The 
patronage of Sidney and the friendship of the Earl of 
Leicester obtained for him the appointment of Secretary 
to Grey, Lord-lieutenant of Ireland. Thus he was fated 
to spend many years of his life in Ireland, in various of- 
ficial posts, among a race of people with whom he had 
but few interests in common. Not the romantie beau- 
ty of Kilcolnian Castle, in County Cork, with its throe 
thousand surrounding acres of forfeited lands of the 
Earls of Desmond, granted to him by Queen Elizabeth, 
could compensate tlie poet for the loss of more familiar 
if less lovely English scenes ; and a prevailing melan- 
choly and discontent may be observed in most of his 
allusions to his own life-story. 

In 1.590 Sir Walter Kaloigh persuaded him to accom- 
pany him to England, and presented him to Queen Eliz- 
abeth, who accepted the dedication of that marvellously 
beautiful poem, "The Faery Qucene," of which the first 
three books were just finished. During a second visit 
to London, in 159."), the fourth, fifth, and sixth books 
were published, together with a reissue of the preceding 
books. Of the remaining si.x books needed to complete 
the work, only one canto and a fragment of another 
canto exist. 

Spenser had long been on ill terms with his Irish 
neighbors. In those days Ireland was not a residence 
propitious for a literary student in quest of tranquillity. 
In 1.59S insurrections broke out, and as Spenser was 
Sheriff of the County of Cork for that year, he was ren- 
dered by his office a conspicuous mark for the cninity 
of the insurgents. Tlicy attacked and burned Kilcol- 
man, and his infant child perished in the flames. These 
were evils too terrible to be borne by one of Spenser's 
sensitive temperament. He returned to England, and 
at the beginning of the next year died of a broken heart, 
and in extreme indigence. 

Of Spenser, as a poet, Campbell says : " We shall no% 
where find more airy and expansive images of visionary 
things, a sweeter tone of sentiment, or a finer Hush in 



10 



CYCLOPMDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



the colors of language, than in this Rnbens of English 
poetry. Though his story grows desultory, the sweet- 
ness aud grace of his inanuer still abide by him. He 
is like a speaker whose tones continue to be pleasing 
though he speak too long." 



FROM "THE EPITHALAMION." 

This pure and ntible spousal Iribnte, the most remarkable iu 
the l;iu^u;iy:e, was written by Spouser to welcome his own bride 
to his Irish home. It places him among the first of lyric i)oets. 



Wake now, my Love, awake ; for it is time ! 
The rosy nioru long since left Titlion's bed, 
All ready to Iter silver coacli to climb. 
And Phoebus 'gins to show his glorious head. 
Hark how the cheerful birds do chant their lays, 

Aud carol of Love's praise ! 
The merry lark her matins sings aloft, 
The thrush replies, the mavis descant plays, 
The ousel shrills, the ruddock' warbles soft; 
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent. 

To this day's merriment. 
Ah! my dear Love, why do yo sleep thus long, 
When meeter were that ye should now awake, 
T' await the coming of your joyous make, 
Aud hearken to the birds' love-learu^d song 

The dewy leaves among ? 
For they of joy and pleasance to you sing. 
That all tho woods them answer, aud their echo 
ring. 

My Love is now awake out of her dreams, 
And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmed were 
With darksome cloud, now shew their goodly 

beams, 
More bright than Hesjierus his head dotli rear. 
Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight, 

Helii quickly her to diglit : 
But first come ye fair Hours," which were begot, 
111 Jove's sweet iiaradise, of day and night; 
Which do the seasons of the year allot, 
And all that ever in this world is fair 

Do make and still repair. 
And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian queen, ^ 
The which do still adorn her beauty's pride, 
Help to adorn my bcautifullest bride; 
And as ye her array, still throw between 

Some graces to be seen : 

» Kedbreast. First English " rudduc," from "rnde,"rcd. 

s Goddesses of the chans;ing seasons of the year or day. In 
Greek mythology they were three — Eunoraia, Good Order; 
bike, Natural Justice; and Eirenc, Peace. 

3 The Graces— Aglaiii, Radiant Beauty ; Euphrosyue, Cheer- 
ful Sense; Thalia, Abounding Joy. 



Aud as ye use to Venus, to her sing, 

The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo 



Now is my Love all ready forth to come. 
Let all the virgins therefore well await ; 
Aud ye fresh boys that tend upon her groom. 
Prepare yourselves, for he is coming strait. 
Set all your things in seemly good array, 

Fit for so joyful day : 
The joyfnl'st day that ever sun did see ! 
Fair Sun, shew forth thy favorable raj', 
Aud let thy lifcfiil htat not fervent be. 
For fear of burning her sunshiny face. 

Her beauty to disgrace. 
O fairest Phiebus, father of tho Muse, 
If ever I did honor thee aright. 
Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight, 
Do not thy servant's simple boon refuse. 
But let this day, let this one day be mine. 

Let all the rest be thiue ! 
Then I thy sovereign jiraises loud will sing, 
That all the woods shtiU answer, and their echo 
ring. 

Hark! How the min.strels 'gin to shrill aloud 
Their merry iniisio that resounds from far. 
The pipe, the tabor, aud the trembling croud. 
That Avell agree withouteii breach or jar. 
But most of :ill the dam.sels do delight 

When they their timbrels smite, 
Aud thereunto do dance aud carol sweet. 
That all the senses they do ravish quite; 
The whiles the boys run np and down the street, 
Crying aloud with strong confused noise, 

As if it were one voice : 
"Hymen, lo Hymen, Hymen," they do shout. 
That even to the heavens their shouting shrill 
Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill; 
To which the jieople standing all about, 
As in approvance do thereto applaud, 

And loud advance her laud. 
And evermore they " Hymen, Hymen " sing. 
That all tho woods them answer, and their echo 
ring. 

Lo! where she conies along with portly' pace. 
Like Phoebe,' from her chamber of the east, 
Arising forth to run her mighty race, 
Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. 



' Of good carriage. 

2 A name of Diana, sister of Phoebus ; the Moon, sister of the 
Sun. The word means " the pure shining oue." 



ED.VrXD SPEXSER. 



11 



So WfU it licr beseems, tliat yo woiiUl ween 

SuDie an<;el slio ba<l been ; 
Her loiiK loose yellow locks like golden wire, 
SpriiiUled with pearl, and pearling Uowers atween, 
Do like a golden mantle her attire, 
And being erowned with a garland green, 

Seem like some uiaidcu qneeii. 
Her modest eyes abixshcd to behold 
So many gazers iis on licr do stare. 
Upon tlie lowly gronnd aflixcd are: 
Ne dare lift np her eonntenanco too bold, 
But lilnsh to liear her jiraises snng so loud. 

So far from being prond. 
Natbless do yo still loud her praises sing. 
That all tlio woods may answer, and your echo ring. 

Tell me, yo mereliants' daughters, did yo see 
So fair a creature in your town before? 
So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, 
Adorned -with beauty's grace and virtue's store? 

But^f yo saw that which no eyes can see, 
Tlio inward beauty of her lively spright. 
Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree. 
Much more then would yo ■womler at that sight. 
And stand astonished, like to those which red' 

Medusa's mazeful head. 
There dwells sweet Love and constant Chastity, 
I'nspotted Faith, and comely Womanhood, 
Regard of Honor, and mild Modesty ; 
There Virtue reigns as queen in royal throne, 

And giveth laws alone, 
The which the base atTectious do obey, 
And yield their services nnto her will; 
Ne thought of things uncomely ever may 
Thereto approach to tempt her mind to ill. 
Had ye once seen these her celestial treasures, 

And nurevealed pleasures. 
Then wonhl ye wonder, and her praises sing. 
That all the woods should answer, aiul your echo 
ring. 

Open the temple-gates unto my Love, 
Open them wide, that she may enter in. 
And all the posts adorn .as doth behove. 
And all the pillars deck with garlanils trim. 
For to receive this saint with honor due. 

That Cometh in to you. 
With trembling steps and huiuble reverence 
She Cometh in, bef<ue th' Almighty's view: 
Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience, 

' Suw. 



AVheuso ye como into those holy places. 

Til liuinble your proud faces. 
Bring her np to th' high altar, that she may 
Tlio sacred ceremonies there partake. 
The which do endless matrimony ujaUe: 
And let the roaring organs loudly play 
The praises of the Lord in lively notes; 

The whiles, with hollow throats. 
The clioristers the joyous anthem sing. 
That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring. 

Belndd, whiles she before the altar stands. 
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks 
Aiul blesses her with his two h.ippy hands, 
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks, 
And the pure snow with goodly vermeil stain, 

Like crimson dyed in grain : 
That even the angels, which continually 
About the sacred altar do remain, 
Forget their service and about her fly, 
Oft p(!eping in her face, that seems more fair 

Tlio more they on it stare ! 
But her Siul eyes, still fastened on the ground, 
Are goveru(5d with goodly modesty 
That suffers not one look to glance awry, 
Which may let in a little thought un.sound. 
Why blush ye. Love, to give to me your liaiul. 

The pledge of all our band ? 
Sing, ye sweet angels, AUeluya sing. 
That all the woods may answer, and your echo 
ring. 



UNA iVSD THE LION. 
FnoM THE " Faery Queese," Dook I., Canto III. 

One day, nigli weary of the irksome way. 

From her unhasty liea.st she did alight ; 

And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay 

In secret shadow, far from all men's sight ; 

From her fair head her (illet she undight, 

And laid her stole aside : her angel's face, 

A.s the great eye of Heaven, shin(!d bright. 

And ni.ado a sunshine in the shady place; 

Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace : 

It fortundd, out of the thickest wood 

A ramping lion rushdd suddenly. 

Hunting full greedy after salvage blood: 

Soon as the royal virgin he did spy. 

With gaping mouth at her ran greedily. 

To have at once devoured her tender corse:' 

> Corse 19 orien applied to the livlog body. 



12 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



But to the prey when as he drew more nigh, 

His hloody raige assuaged with remorse, 

Aud, with the sight amazed, forgat his furious force. 

Instead thereof lie kissed her weary feet, 
And licked her lily hands with fawning tongue ; 
As lie her wrongdd inuocence did weet.' 
Oh, how can beauty master the most strong, 
And simple truth subdue avenging wrong ! 
Whose yielded pride and proud submission. 
Still dreading death, when she had nunked long. 
Her heart 'gan melt in great compassion ; 
And drizzling tears did shed for x^nro aft'ectiou. 

"The lion, lord of every beast in field," 

Quoth she, " his princely iniissance doth abate. 

And mighty jiroud to humble weak docs yield, 

Forgetful of the hungry rage, which hito 

Him pricked, in pity of my sad estate: — 

But he, my lion, and my noble lord," 

How does he iiud in cruel heart to hate 

Her, that him loved, and ever most adored 

As the god of my life? why hath he me abborred?" 

Redounding tears did choke th' end of her plaint. 
Which softly echoed from the neighbor wood; 
And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint. 
The kingly beast upon her gazing stood ; 
With pity calmed, down fell his angry mood. 
At last, in close heart shutting np her pain, 
Arose the virgin born of heavenly brood, 
And to her snowy palfrey got again, 
To seek her strayed champion if she might attain. 

The lion would not leave her desolate, 
But with her went along, as a strong guard 
Of her chaste person, and a faithful mate 
Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard : 
Still, when she slept, he keiit both w.atch and ward ; 
And, when she waked, he waited diligent. 
With humble service to her will prepared : 
From her fair eyes he took commaud6ineut, 
And ever by her looks conceiviSd her intent. 



PRINCE ARTHUR. 

Book I., Canto Wl. 

At last she ehanc<5d by good hap to meet 
A goodly knight, fair marching by the way, 

1 Perceive. 

3 The Red Cross Knight (Holiness) had been seduced from 
her side by the witch Duessa (Piilsehoort). 



Together with his squire, urraydd meet: 
His glittering armor shin^d far away. 
Like glancing light of Phoebus brightest ray; 
From top to toe no place appeared bare. 
That deadly dint of steel endanger may : 
Athwart his breast a bauhlrick brave he ware. 
That shined, like twinkling stars, with stones most 
precious rare. 

And, in the midst thereof, one precious stone 
Of wondrous worth, and eke of wondrous mights, 
Shaped like a lady's head, exceeding shone, 
Like Hesperus amongst the lesser lights. 
And strove for to amaze the weaker sights : 
Thereby his mortal blade full comely hung 
In ivory sheath, y-earved with curious slights,' 
Whoso hilts were burnished gold; and handle strong 
Of mother-pearl, and buckled with a golden tongue. 

His haughty helmet, horrid all with gold. 
Both glorious brightness and great terror bred : 
For all the crest a dragon did enfold 
AVith greedy paws, and over all did spread 
His golden wings ; his dreadful hideous head, 
Close couohi^d on the beaver,'' seemed to throw 
From ilaming mouth bright sparkles tiery red, 
That sudden horror to faint hearts did show ; 
And scaly tail was stretched adown his back full 
low. 

Upon the top of all his lofty crest, 

A bunch of hairs discolored diversely, 

With sprinkled pearl and gold full richly dressed, 

Did shake, and seemed to dance for jollity ; 

Like to an almond-tree y-mountcd high 

On top of green Seliuis' all alone. 

With blossoms brave bedeckcSd daintily; 

Whose tender locks do tremble every one 

At every little breath that under heaven is blown. 

His warlike shield all closely covered was, 
Ne might of mortal eye be ever seen ; 
Not made of steel, nor of enduring brass 
(Such earthly metals soon consumdd been). 
But all of diamond perfect, pure, and clean 
It framed was, one massy dntirc mould, 
Hewn out of adamant rock with engines keen, 
That point of spear it never plercen could, 
Ne dint of direful sword divide the substance 
would. 



* Devices. 

^ Tlie part of a helmet that covers the face. 

5 Seliuis, in Sicily. 



EDMUND SPEySES. 



13 



The Baiue to wight ho never wont disclose, 
Hut when aa monsters huge he would dismay, 
Or daunt unequal armies of his foes, 
Or when tlio Hying heavens he would aftjay : 
For so oxeeeiling shono his glistering ray, 
That Plm-lius' golden face he di<l attaint,' 
As when a cloud his beams doth overlay; 
And silver Cynthia wexdd pale and faint. 
As when her faco is stained with magic arts con- 
straint. 

Xo magic arts hereof had any might, 
Nor bloody words of bold enchanter's call ; 
But all that was not such as seemed in sight 
Before that shield did fade, and sudden fall ; 
And, when him list the rascal routs" appal. 
Men into stones therewith ho could trausniew,' 
And stones to dust, and dust to naught at all ; 
And, when him list the prouder looks subdue. 
He would them, gazing, blind, or turn to other hue. 



THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS. 

Book II., Canto VIII. 

And is there care in heaven f And is there lovo 
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base. 
That may compassion of their evils move ? 
There is : — else ntnch more wretched were the case 
Of men than beasts. But oh ! th' exceeding grace 
0( highest God, that loves his creatures so, 
.\nd all his works with mercy doth embrace, 
That bless('d angels he sends to and fro. 
To serve to wicked man, to servo his wicked foe ! 

How oft do they their silver bowers leave 
To come to succor us that succor want ! 
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave 
The Hitting skies, like Hying i)ursuivant, 
.\gainst foul liends to aid us militant! 
They for us fight, they watch and duly ward, 
.\iu1 their bright squadrons round about us jilant : 
.\nd all for love and nothing for reward : 
Oh, why should heavenly God to men have such 
regard f 



FROM THE "HYMN IN HpNOR OF BEAUTY." 

Thereof it comes that these fair souls whieh have 
The most resemblance of that heavenly light, 
Frame to themselves most beautiful and bravo 



' Obscure. 



' The rabble. 



> Trnnemnlc. 



Their fleshly bower, most fit for their delight, 
Aud tho gross matter by a soverain might 
Temper so trim, that it may well be seen 
A palace fit for such a virgin queen. 

So every spirit, as it is most pure, 

Aud hath in it the more of heavenly light, 

So it the fairer body doth procure 

To habit in, and it more fairly digbt 

With cheerful grace and amiable sight ; 

For of the soul the body form doth take ; 

For soul is form, and doth the body make. 



EASTER MORNING. 

ilost glorious Lord of life, that on this day 

Didst make thy triumph over death aud sin, 

And, having harrowed hell, didst bring away 

Captivity thence captive, us to w in ; 

Tliis joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin. 

And grant that we, for whom thou diddest die. 

Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin. 

May live forever in felicity : 

And that thy love we weighing worthily 

May likewise love Thee for the same again : 

And for thy sake, th.it all like dear didst buy, 

With love may one another entertain. 

So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought ; 

Love ia the lesson which the Lord ns taught. 



MISERIES OF A COURT-LIFE. 

These lines, from "Mother Ilnbbard's Tnlc," tbougli not 
printed till l.'SSl, seem to have reference to that part of .Spen- 
ser's life when he was a saitor for court favor, lie here clropii 
his nntiqne phraseology, and gives cxpres^^iou to earnest per- 
sonal feeling lu the plain English of his day. 

So pitiful a tiling is Suitor's state! 
Most miserable man, whom wicked Fate 
Hath brought to Court, to sue for " had I wist,"' 
That few have found, and many one hath missed! 
Full little knowest thou, that hast not tried. 
What hell it is in sueing long to bide ; 
To lose good days that might be better spent ; 
To wijsto long nights in pensive discontent; 
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow ; 
To feed on hope ; to piuo with fear and sorrow ; 
To have thy I'rince's grace, yet want her Peers'; 
To have thy askiug, yet wait many years ; 

' Interpreted to mean "pntronagc," from tho cnetomnry ex- 
pression of patrons to their suitors, ** Uad I wiMt, I might have 
done so and so." 



14 



CYCLOrjiDIA OF BMITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares; 
To eat thy heart through comfortless desjiairs ; 
To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to rini, 
To speud, to give, to want, to he undone. 
Unhappy Aviglit, horn to disastrous end, 
That doth his life in so long tendance spend ! 
AVhoever leaves sweet home, where mean estate 
In safe assurance, without strife or hate. 
Finds all things needful for contentment meek, 
And will to Court for sliadows vain to seek, 
Or hope to gain, liiniself will a daw try:' 
That curse God send unto mine enemy! 



Sir lUaltci- Ualciglj. 

Raluigli (born 1552, beheaded ICIS) was nearly of like 
age witli Spenser. Tliore are forty short poems on mis- 
cellaneous subjects attributed, with tolerable certainty, 
to Raleigh. " The Nympli's Reply," sometimes placed 
among these, will be found in this volume uudcr Mar- 
lowe. So small a quantity of verse cannot be regarded 
as adequately representing Raleigh's genius and power 
in literature. His life was one of tlic busiest and fullest 
of results on record. From liis youtli he was a sailor, 
a warrior, and a courtier; but he was also a student. 
Aubrey relates tliat "he studied most in his sea-voyages, 
when lie carried always a trunk of books along with him, 
and had nothing to divert him." From the same source 
we learn that the companions of his youth "were bois- 
terous blades, but generally those that bad wit." The 
fomous Mermaid Club, frequented by Shakspeare, Ben 
Jonson, and the other wits of the day, was founded by 
Raleigh ; who, through his whole life, had a strong sym- 
pathy with literature and learning, llis verses are vig- 
orous and original, "full of splendid courage and a proud 
impetuosity." It is, however, in his prose writings that 
we must look for the best evidence of his genius. 

Urged by the King of Spain to punish Raleigh for his 
attack ou the town of St. Thomas, James I. basely re- 
solved to carry into execution a sentence sixteen years 
old, which had been followed by an imprisonment of 
thirteen years, and then a release. So Raleigh was 
brought up before the Court of King's Bench to receive 
sentence, and was beheaded the next morning. The 
night before, the br.ave poet, looking at his candle as it 
was expiring iu the socket, wrote this couplet : 

"Cowards fear to die; but conr.ige stout, 
leather than live in snufl", will be put out." 

The remarkable poem of "The Lie" is traced iu man- 
uscript to 1593. It exists in a MS. colloctiou of poems 
In the British Museum of the date 1596. It appeared in 
print with alterations, in "Davison's Poetical Rhapsody," 
second edition, 1608. J. Payne Collier (18G7) claims it 
for Raleigh, resting his authority ou a manuscript copy 

' Will prove a jackdaw, a fool. 



"of the time," headed "Sir Walter Wrawly, his Lie." 
In this copy the first line is, 

"Ileuce, soule, the bodie's guest." 

The poem has been assigned to Richard Barnfield ; also, 
by several recent authorities, to Joshua Sylvester, in the 
folio edition of whose works there is an altered and in- 
ferior version, justly styled by Sir Egerton Brydges " a 
parody," and published under the title of "The Soul's 
Errand." It consists of twenty stanzas, all of four lines 
each, excepting the first stanza, which has six. "The 
Lie" consists of but Vdrtven stanzas, of si.x lines each. 
On Raleigh's side there is good evidence besides the in- 
ternal proof, which is very strong. Two answers to the 
poem, written in his lifetime, ascribe it to him; as do 
two manuscript copies of the period of Elizabeth. When 
and by whom it was first taken from Raleigh and given 
to Sylvester, with an altered title, is still a matter of 
doubt ; and why Sylvester should have incorporated into 
his poem of "The Soul's Errand," six stanzas belonging 
to " The Lie," can be explained only by the laxity of the 
times in regard to literary propei'ty. The versions of 
this poem difi'or considerably. The title of "The Soul's 
Errand" is usually given to it. 



THE LIE. 

Go, soul, the hody's guest, 
Uiiou a thankless arrant :' 

Fear not to touch the best ; 

Tlio truth shall he thy warrant : 

Go, since I needs must die. 

And give the world the lie. 

Say to the court, it glows 

And shines like rotten wood ; 

Say to the cliurch, it shows 

What's good, and doth no good: 

If church and court reply, 

Then give them both the lie. 

Tell potentates, they live 
Acting by others' action; 

Not loved unless they give, 
Not strong, but by a faction : 

If jiotentates reply, 

Give iiotentates the lie. 

Tell men of high condition. 
That rule affairs of state, 

Their purpose is ambition. 
Their practice only hate: 

And if they once reply. 

Then give them all the lie. 

' Eirand. 



.s7/i" WALTiiit nM.Eiau. 



15 



Tell them that brave it most, 
They heg for more by siiciKliii^, 

Who, iu tlioir greatest cost, 

Seek nothing but coininemliiig : 

And it' tlioy make reply, 

Tlicii give tliem all the lie. 

Tell ze.il it laeks devotion ; 

Tell love it is but Inst ; 
Tell time it is but motion; 

Tell flesh it is but dust : 
And wish them not reply, 
Kor thou must give the lie. 

Tell age it daily •nMsteth ; 

Tell honor how it alters ; 
Tell beauty how she blasteth ; 

Tell favor how it falters: 
And as thej' shall reply, 
Give every one the lie. 

Tell wit how much it wrangles 
In tiekle points of niccness; 

Tell wisdom she entangles 
Herself in over-wiseness : 

And when they do reply, 

Straight give them both the lie. 

Tell physic of her boldness; 

Tell skill it is pretension; 
Tell charity of coldness ; 

Tell law it is contention : 
Ami as they do reply, 
So give them still the lie. 

Tell fortune of lur lilindness; 

Tell nature of decay ; 
Tell friendship of unkindness; 

Tell .justice of delay : 
And if thi'y will reply. 
Then give them all the lie. 

Tell arts they liave no soundncs-s, 

lint v.ary by esteeming; 
Till sehoids they want profoundness, 

And stand too much on seeming : 
If arts ami schools reply, 
Give arts and schools the lie. 

Trll r.iilh ifs lied the city ; 

Tell how the country erreth ; 
Tell, manhood shakes off pity ; 

Tell, virtue least preferreth; 



And if they do reply, 
Spare not to give the lie. 

So when tlion hast, as I 

Coniniamled thee, done blabbing,- 
Altliongh to give the lie 

Deserves no less than stabbing;— 
Yet stab at thee who will. 
No stab the soul can kill. 



THE SILEXT LOVER. 

Passions are likened best to floods and streams: 
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb; 

So, when aft'ections yield discourse, it seems 
The bottom is but shallow whence they conic. 

They that are rich iu words, iu words discover 

That they arc poor in that which makes a lover. 

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart. 

The merit of true passiiui. 
With thinking that ho feels no smart 

That sues for no compassion ; 

Since if my plaints servo not to approve 

The conquest of thy beauty, 
It comes not from defect of love. 

But from excess of duty. 

For knowing that I sue to servo 

A saint of such perfection. 
As .all desire, but none deserve, 

A place in her afieetion, 

I rather choose to want relief 

Than venture the revealing; 
Where glory rccomnu'uds the grief, 

Despair distrusts the healing. 

Thus those desires that aim too high 

Eor any mortal lover, 
When reason cannot make them die, 

Discretion doth them cover. 

Yet, when discretion doth bereave 
The plaints that they sluuild niter, 

Then thy discretion may perceive 
That silence is a suitor. 

Silence in love bewrays more woo 
Than words, though ne'er bo witty : 



16 



CYCLOPJiDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



A Tjeggai' tbat is lUuub, you know, 
May challenge double pity. 

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, 
My true, though secret, passion : 

He smarteth most that hides his smart, 
And sues ibr no compassion. 



MY PILGRIMAGE. 

Snpposed to have been written by Raleigb in 1603, iu the in- 
tei'val between his condeium\tii)U and his temporary respite. 
It manifests great mental excitement; and alternates in rising 
to sublimity and sinking to bathos. There are several difl'er- 
ent versions of this extraordinary prodnctiou. 

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet. 

My stafl' of faith to walk upon ; 
My scrip of joj', innuortal diet; 

My bottle of salvation ; 
My gown of glory, hope's true gauge, 
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage! 
Blood must bo my body's balmer, 

No other balm will there be given ; 
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, 

Travelleth towards the land of Heaven ; 
Over the silver mountains 
Where spring the nectar fountains : 
There will I kiss 
The bowl of bliss. 
And drink mine everlasting fill 
Upon every milkeu hill. 
My soul will bo a-dry before ; 
But after, it will thirst no more. 
Then by that happy, blissful day, 

More peaceful pilgrims I shall see. 
That have cast ofi" their rags of clay, 

And -walk apparelled fresh like me. 
I'll take them tirst 
To quench their thirst. 
And taste of nectar's Buckets 
At those clear wells 
Where sweetness dwells 
Drawn up by saints iu crystal buckets. 
And when our bottles and all wo 
Are filled with immortality, 
Tlien the blessdd paths we'll travel. 
Strewed with rubies thick as gravel ; 
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors. 
High walls of coral, and jiearly doors. 
From theuce to Heaven's bribeless' hall. 
Whore no corrupted voices brawl ; 

1 Alluding to the common custom of bribery. Raleigh had 
himself given and taken bribes. 



No conscience molten into gold, 

No. forged accuser,' bought or sold. 

No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey, — • 

For there Christ is the King's Attoruey ;" 

Who jdeads for all without degrees, 

And he hath angels,^ but no fees ; 

And when the grand twelve million jury . 

Of our sins, with direful fury, 

'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, 

Christ ijleads his death, aud then we live. 

Be thou my spe.aker, taintless pleader, 

Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder ! 

Thott giv'st salvation even for alms, — 

Not with a brib(5d lawyer's jialms. 

And this is mine eternal plea 

To Him that nitide heaven, earth, and sea: 

That siuce my flesh must die so soon, 

And want a head to dine next noon,' 

Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread. 

Set on ray soul au everlasting head ! 

Then am I, like a palmer, fit 

To tread those blest paths which before I writ: 

Of death and judgment, heaven and hell. 

Who oft doth thiuk, must needs die well. 



Sir |3l]Uip Sibncn. 



Sidney (15.54-1.586) was bom at Pcnshurst, In Kent. 
He takes his rank in English literary history rather as a 
prose writer than as a inoct. The high repute in which 
his verses were held auiong his contemporaries was due 
chiefly to what was esteemed their sclwUirly style ; but 
in these days we should call it artificial. Some of his 
sonnets, however, are graceful in expression and noble 
iu thought. "The best of them," says Charles Lamb, 
" are among the very best of their sort. The verse runs 
off swiftly and gallantly, and might have been tuned to 
the trumpet." In 1586 Sidney took a command in the 
War in the Netherlands. His death occurred in the au- 
tumn of the same year, from wounds received at the as- 
sault of Zutpheu. He was then only thirty-two years 
of aL'e. 



ON DYING. 

Since Nature's works be good, and death doth serve 
As Nature's work, why should we fear to die ? 
Since fear is vain but when it may preserve. 
Why should we fear that which wo cannot fly ? 
Fear is more jiain than is the pain it fears, 
Disarming human minds of native might ; 

> Like Lord Cobham, at his trial in re Arabella Stuart. 

2 Unlike Coke, the King's attorney in Raleigh's trial. 

3 Anrfel — a play upon the word, alluding to the coin called au 
"angel." 

* Alluding to his impendiug execution. 



SIR PHILIP SIDSEY.—FVLKE GREVILLE, LOUD P>I100KE. 



17 



Wliile each conceit an ugly figure bears, 
Which wci-o not evil, well vicweil in reason's light. 
Our only eyes, which tliuinied with passion be. 
And scarce discern the dawn of coming day — 
Let them ho cleared, aiul now begin to see 
Our life is but a step in dusty w ay : 
Then let ns hold the bliss of iieacefiil mind ; 
Since this we feel, great loss we cannot liud. 



TRUE IJEAUTY VIRTUE IS. 

It is most true that eyes are formed to servo 
The inward light, and that the heavenly part 
Ought to be King, from whose rules who do 

swerve, 
Rebels to nature, strive for their own smart. 
It is most true, what we call Cupid's dart 
An image is, which for ourselves wo carve, 
And, fools, adore in temple of our heart. 
Till that good god make church and churchmen 

starve. 
True, that True Beauty Virtue is indeed. 
Whereof this IJeantj' can be but a shade 
W'hich elements with mortal mixture breed. 
True, that on earth we are but pilgrims made. 
And should in soul up to our country move: 
True; and yet true — that I must .Stella love. 



ETERXAL LOVE. 

Leave me, O Love which readiest but to dust. 
And thou, my Mind, aspire to higher things; 
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust: 
Wliatever fades but fading jdeasare brings. 
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might 
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be; 
Whicli breaks the elonils, and opens forth the light 
That doth both shine ami give us sight to see! 
Oh, take fast hold; let that light bo thy guide 
lu this small course which birth draws out to death ; 
And think how evil beconieth him to slide, 
Wlio seekrtli heaven and conies of heavenly breath. 
Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see: 
Eternal Love, maintain thy Life in me! 



OX OliTAIXIXG A PRIZE AT A TOURXAMEXT. 

Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance 
Guided so well that I obtained the prize. 
Both by the jndgment of tho English eyes 



And of sonio sent from the sweet enemy — France; — 
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance; 
Townsfolk my strength ; a daintier judge applies 
His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise ; 
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; 
Others, beeansc of both sides I do take 
Xly blood from them who did excel in this; 
Think Nature mo a man of arms did make. 
How far they shot awry! Tho true cause is, 
Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face 
Shot forth the beams that made so fair my race. 



INVOC.VTIOX TO SLEEP. 

Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, 
The baiting-place of wit, tho balm of woe, 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release. 
The inditferent judge between the high and low ! 
With shield of proof shield me from out the jirease' 
Of those iicrco darts Despair at me doth throw: 
Oh, make in me those civil wars to cease; 
I will good tribute p:iy if thou do so. 
Take thou of nie smooth jiillows, sweetest bed ; 
A chamber, deaf to noise and blind to light ; 
A rosy garland, and a weary head. 
And if these things, as being thine by right. 
Move not thine heavy grace, thou shalt in mo 
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's imago see. 



A DITTY. 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 
By just exchange one to the other given: 
I hold his dear, and mine ho cannot miss; 
There never was a better bargain driven : 
Jly trne-Iovo hath my heart, and I have his. 

His heart in mo keeps liini and me in one, 
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides; 
Ho loves my heart, for once it was his own, 
I cherish his becanso in mo it bides: 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 



i^ulkc (f^rcnillc, Covb DrooK'c. 

Grevillc (I.">.>4-I02>i) was born at -Mcaster, hi Warwick- 
slilrc. He was the schoolmate and iiitinmte friend of 
Sir Plillip Sidney, and a court favorite during the rclgn.'! 
of Elizabeth, James, and Charles I. At the age of seven- 

• Press, crowd. 



18 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BBITI8H AND AMERICAN I'OETBT. 



ty-four he was assassinated by a crazy servant. Soutliey 
calls Greville "the most difficult" of EnsHsh poets, and 
says: " No other writer of tliis or any other country ap- 
pears to have reflected more deeply on momentous sub- 
jects." Charles Lamb s;iys of his verse; "Whether we 
look into his plays, or his most passionate lovc-poems, 
we shall And all frozen and made rigid with intellect." 
His eulogy on Pliilip Sidney is a noble tribute, full of 
condensed thought. 



REALITY OF A TRUE RELIGION. 

From the "Treatise of Religion." 

For snre in all kinds of liypocrisy 

No bodies yet are found of constant being; 

No uniform, uo stable mystery, 

No inward nature, but au outward seeming; 

No solid trutli, no virtue, boline.s.s, 

But types of these, wbieU time makes more or 
less. 

And from these springs strange inundations flow. 
To drown the sea-marlcs of luunanity. 
With mas.sacres, conspiracy, trea.son, woe. 
By sects and schisms profaning Deity : 

Besides, witli furies, fiends, earth, air, and bell, 
They fit, and teach confusion to rebel. 

But, as there lives a true God iu the heaven. 
So is there true religion here ou earth: 
By nature? No, by grace; not got, but given; 
Inspired, not taught; from God a second birth; 
God dwelletb near about us, even within, 
Working the goodness, censuring the sin. 

Such as Avo are to him, to us is lie; 

Without God there Tvas no man ever good ; 

Divine the author and the matter be. 

Where goodness must bo wrought in flesh and 
blood : 
Religion stands not in corrupted things, 
Bnt virtues that descend have heavenly wings. 



FROM "LINES ON THE DE.^.TH OF FHILIP 
SIDNEY." 

Silence augmentetb grief, writing increa.scth rage. 
Stalled are my thoughts, which loved and lost the 

wonder of fnir age, 
Y'et quickened now with fire, though dead with 

frost ere now. 
Enraged I write I know not what: dead, quick, I 

know not how. 



Hard-hearted minds relent, and Rigor's tears abound, 
And Envy strangely rues bis end iu whom no fault 

she found ; 
Knowledge bis light hath lost. Valor hatli slain 

her knight, — 
Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the world's 

delight. 

He was — wo worlh that word! — to each well-think- 
ing mind 
A spotless frieud, a matchless man, whose virtue 

ever shined. 
Declaring iu his thoughts, his life, and that ho w rit. 
Highest conceits, longest forcsiglits, and deepest 

works of wit. 
# # « # # jf 

Farewell to yon, my liopes, my wonted waking 

dreams ! 
Farewell, sometimes enjoydd joy, eclipsed are thy 

beams ! 
Farewell, self- pleasing thoughts which quietness 

brings forth ! 
And farewell, friendship's sacred league, uniting 

minds of worth ! 

And farewell, merry heart, the gift of guiltless 
minds. 

And all sports which for life's restore variety as- 
signs ; 

Let all that sweet is, void! In me no mirlh may 
dwell !— 

Philip, the cause of all this woe, my life's content, 
farewell ! 



(P'covcic tfljapinau. 



Cliapman (1.5.57-1634) wrote translations, plays, and 
poems. His translation 'of Homer, in fourteen-syllable 
rhymed measure, is a remarkable production. From 
Lord Houghton's edition of the Poetical Works of John 
Keats, we learn that the fine folio edition of Chapman's 
translation of Homer had been lent to Mr. Charles Cow- 
den Cl.arke, and he and Keats sat up till daylight over 
their new acquisition ; Keats shouting with delight as 
some passage of especial energy struck his imagination. 
At ten o'clock the next morning, Mr. Clarke found this 
sonnet by Keats on his breakfast-table. 

"Much have I tr.ivelled in tlie realms of sold. 
And many goodly stales and kiiigaiims seen ; 
Ttound m.iny western islands li.ive I been 
Which bards in feally to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide e.'ipan.se had I been told, 
That decp-browed Homer rnled as his demesne : 
Yet did I never breithe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman specie ont loud and hold: 



GEORGE CnAl'MAS.—IiOBEIiT GREEXE— SAMUEL DANIEL. 



19 



Then felt I like some watcher of llie ekies 
Wlieu a uew planet swims into his keu . 
Or like stont Cortez when with eagle e;*03 
Uc plnred at the Pacific— aud all his men 
Looked at each other with a wild snrmise— 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien." 

Ill liis youth Cliapman had for contoinporarics and 
fellow-workers Spenser, Sidney, ShaUspearc, Daniel, and 
Marlowe. Uc regarded jMcsy as a "divine discipline," 
rather than as a pastime, and in his most elevated mood 
he appears diitnilied, self-reliant, reflective, and, above 
all, couspieuously honest. 



OF SUDDEN DEATH. 

What action wonklst thou wish to have in hand 

If sudden death should coiuo for his command ? 

I vvohUI be doing good to most good men 

That most did need, or to their children, 

And ill advice (to make them their true heirs) 

I would be giving np my soul to theirs. 

To wliich efl'ect if Death should find me given, 

I would, with both my hands hehl up to heaveu, 

Make these my last words to my Deity : 

"Those faculties Thou ha.st bestowed on mo 

To understand Thy government and will, 

I have, in all fit actions, ottered still 

To Tliy divine acceptance ; and, as far 

As I liad iiitlnciice from Thy bounty's star, 

I have made good Thy form infused iu me; 

The anticipations given mo naturally 

I have, with all uiy study, art, and prayer, 

Fitted to every object and affair 

My life presented and my knowledge taught. 

My poor sail, as it hath been ever fraught 

With Thy free gondiies.s, hath been ballast too 

With all my gratitude. What is to do, 

Supply it, sacred Saviour ; Thy high grace 

In my poor gifts, receive again, and place 

Where it shall please Thee ; Thy gifts never die, 

Hilt, having brought one to felicity. 

Descend again, and help another np." 



THE HIGHEST STANDARD. 

Thoti must not undervalue what thou hast. 

In wi-ighing it with that wliich ninic is graced. 

The worth that wcigheth inward should not long 

For outward prices. This should make thee strong 

In thy close vahio : nanght so good can bo 

As that which lasts good betwixt God and theo. 

Remember thine own verse: Should hravru tiirii lull 

lor (hidi icill dotn; I would do ever ncll. 



GIVE ME A SriKIT. 

Give me a Sjiirit that (Ui life's rough sea 
Loves to have his sails filled with a lusty wind. 
Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack, 
And his rapt ship run on her side so low 
That she drinks water, and her keel ploughs air: 
There is no danger to a man that knows 
What life and death is; there's not any law- 
Exceeds his knowledge, neither is it needful 
That he should stoop to auy other law : 
He goes before them, and commands them all. 
Thai to himself is a law rational. 



Hobcrt ([?vccnc. 

If only for one stanza that he wrote, Robert Greene 
(l.")ti()-1.5',»2), playwright and poet, deserves a mention, 
lie was horn in Norfolk, got a degree at Cambridge in 
1.5T.S, travelled in Italy and Spain, and wasted his patri- 
mony in dissipation. Returning home, he betook him- 
self to literature as a means of livelihood. He died iu 
great poverty and fricndlessness. From his last book, 
" The Groat' s-worth of Wit bought with a Million of Re- 
pentance," wc quote the following: 



A UKATlI-liKl) LAMENT. 

Deceiving world, that with alluring toys 
Hast made my life the subject of thy scorn. 
And scorncst now to lend thy fading joys. 
To out-length my lile, whom friends have left for- 
lorn ; — 
How well are they that die ere they be born. 
And never see thy slights, which few men shun. 
Till unawares they helpless arc undone! 

f» * » «» # « 

Oh that a year wcro granted me to live. 
And for that year my former wits restored ! 
What rules of life, what counsel I would give, 
How should my sin with sorrow bo deplored! 
But I must die of every man abhorred : 
Time loosely spent will not again be won; ' 
My time is loosely spent, and I undone. 



Siiiuucl 



Diuii 



The son of a music-master, Samuel Daniel (LWa-lfilO) 
was born near Taunton, in Somersetshire. Educated 
under the patronage of a sister of Sir Philip Sidney, he 
studied at Magdalene College, Oxford, but took no de- 
gree. Ills largest work is "The History of the Civil 
Wars ;" he wrott; also a number of Epistles, Sonnets, and 



20 



crCLUPJiDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAX POETRY. 



Masques; and in prose a "Defence of Rhyme" (ICOl) 
and a "History of England" (1013). Tlie modern cliar- 
aeter of liis Englisli, as well as of his thinlving, has been 
often noted by erities. "For his diction alone," says 
Soutliey, "ho would deserve to he studied, even tliongh 
liis works did not abound in passages of singular beau- 
ty." He justly felicitated himself in his later days that 
he had never written unclean verses; that never had his 

" Harmless pen at all 
Distained with any loose immodesty. 
Nor never noted to lie touched wiili gall, 
To n^'gravate the worst man's infamy; 
But still have done the fairest offices 
To Virtue and the time." 

Daniel became "poet-laureate voluntary" at the death 
of Spenser, but was soon superseded by Ben Jonson as 
poet -laureate by appointment. There seems to have 
been ill-feeling between the two; for Jonson says of 
him : " He was a good, honest man, had no children, and 
was no poet." The slur is undeserved. Some years be- 
fore his death Daniel retired to a farm, where he ended 
his days. His "Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland '' 
is a noble specimen of meditative verse. It was much 
admired by Wordsworth, whose indebtedness to it, in 
tone at least, may be traced in his "Character of the 
Happy Warrior." 



EPISTLE TO THE COUXTESS OF CUMBEE- 
L.\ND. 

He that of siicli a lieiglit bath Imilt his niiml. 
And reareil the (hvelling of his thoughts so strong, 
As neither hope nor i'ear can shake the frame 
Of his resolvtfti powers; nor ;ill the wind 
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong 
Ilis settled peace, or to disturb the same: 
What a fair scat hath he, from whence he may 
The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey! 

And with how free an eye doth he look down 
I'pon these lower regions of tnvnu)il ! 
Where all the storms of passion mainly heat 
On flesh and blood; where honor, power, renown, 
Are only gay afflictions, golden toil ; 
■\Vhere greatness stands upon as feeble feet. 
As frailty doth; and only great doth seem 
To little minds, who do it so esteem. 

He looks upon the mightiest monarch's wars 

lint only as on stately nddiories ; 

Where evermore the fortune that prevails 

Jliist be the right; the ill-succeeding nuirs 

The fairest and the best faced enterpri.se. 

Great pirate Pompcy lesser pirates quails: 

Justice, ho sees (as if seduced), still 

Conspires with jinwer. whose cause must not he ill. 



Ho sees the face of right t' appear as manifold 
As are the passions of niu'crtain man ; 
Who puts it in all colors, all attires. 
To servo his ends, and nnike his cour.ses hold. 
He sees, that let deceit work what it can. 
Plot and contrive base ways to higli desires, 
That the all-gniding Providence doth yet 
All disappoint, :ind mocks the smoke of wit. 

Nor is he moved with all the thnmler-cracks 
Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow 
Of Power that proudly sits on others' crimes, — 
Charged with more crying sins than those he 

checks. 
The storms of sad confusion, that may grow 
Up in the present for the coming times, 
Appall him not that hath no side at ;ill, 
But of himself, and knows tlie worst can fall. 

Although his heart (so near allied to earth) 
Cannot but pity the perplexed state 
Of troublous and distressed mortality, 
Tliat thus make way unto the tigly birth 
Of their own sorrows, and do still beget 
Affliction upon in\becility, — 
Yet, seeing thus the comso of things must run, 
He looks tliercon not strange, hut as forc-diuu'. 

And whilst distraught ambition compasses. 
And is encompassed; whilst as craft deceives, 
And is deceived; whilst man doth ransack man, 
And builds on blood, and rises by distress; 
And the inheritance of desolation leaves 
To great-expecting hopes, — he looks thereon 
As from the sh(n-e of peace, with nnwct eye. 
Ami bears no venture in impiety. 

Thus, madam, fares that ni.an tliat linth prepared 

A rest for his desires; ami .sees all things 

Bem'ath him ; and hath learned this book of man. 

Full of the notes of frailty ; and compared 

The best of glory with hi'r snlferings; 

By whom, I see, you labor all you eau 

To plant your heart, and set your thoughts as 

near 
His glorious mansion as your powers can bear. 

Which, madam, aro so .soundly fashioned 

By that clear judgment that hath carrieil yon 

Beyond the feeble limits of your kind, 

As they can stand against the strongest head 

Passion can make ; intired to any hue 

The world can east ; that cannot east that mind 



^■iAMiLL D.IMJ:/.. 



21 



Out of her form of goodness, that doth seo 
Both what the best and worst of earth can be. 

■VVliieh makes, tliat uliatsoever here befalls, 
Yon in the region of vonr.self remain ; 
(Where no vain breath of th' impndent molests) 
That lieth secured within the brazen walls 
Of a clear conscience, that (withont all stain) 
Uisos ill jieace, ill iniiocency rests; 
Whilst all what Malire fnnn without jiroenrcs; 
Shows her own ngly heart, bnt hurts not yours. 

And whereas none rejoice more in revenge 
Thau women use to do, yet you well know 
That wrcnig is better checked I>y being eoiitpnincd 
Thau being pursned; leaving to IIIiii to avenge 
To whom it appertains: Wlierein you show 
How worthily yonr clearness hath condemned 
Uasc malediction, living in the dark. 
That at the rays of goodness still doth bark: — 

Knowing the heart of man is set to bo 
Tlio centre of this world, abcmt the wliiili 
These revolutions of disturbances 
Still roll: where all th' asp(5cts of misery 
Predominate: whose strong eftects are such 
As he must bear, being powerless to redress: 
And that unless above himself be can 
Erect himsell'. how ])oor a thing is man. 

And how tnrmoiled they are that level lie 
With earth, and cannot lift themselves from thence; 
Tlnit never are at peace with their desires. 
Hut work beyond tlu-ir years ; and even deny 
Dotage her rest, and hardly will dis]>enso 
With death ; that when ability expires. 
Desire lives still: so nineh delight they have 
To carry toil and travail to the grave ! 

Whose ends you see, and what can be the best 
They reach unto, when they have cast the sum 
And reckonings of their glory. .\nd yon know 
This lloating life bath but this port of rest: 
A heart prepared that fears no ill to come. 
And that man's greatness rests but in his show, 
Tlie best of all whose days cousnmdd aro 
Kiiher in war or peace — conceiving war. 

This concord, madam, of a well-tiined mind 
Hath been ho set by that all-wnrkhig hand 
Of Heaven, that though the world hath dcmo his 

worst 
To put it out by discords moat nnkiml, — 



Yet doth it still in perfect union stand 
With God and man : nor ever will be forced 
I'rom that most sweet accord; but still agree 
Equal in fortune's iiKMinality. 

And this note, inailam, of yrmr worthiness 
Ucmains recorded in so many hearts. 
As time nor malice cannot wrong your right 
III tir inheritanco of fame you must possess: 
\'on that havi! bnilt you by yonr great deserts 
(Out of small means) .a far more exquisite 
And glorious dwelling for your honored name, 
Than all the gold that leaden niliids can frame. 



FAIR IS MY LOVE. 

Fair is my love, .and cruel as she's fair; 

Her brow shades frown, altho' her eyes aro siiiiiiy; 

Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair; 

And her disdains aro gall, her favors honey. 

A moilest maid, decked with a blnsh of honor. 

Whoso feet do tread green paths of youth and 

love ; 
The wonder of all eyes that look upon her: 
Sacred on earth, designed a saint above ; 
Chastity and I5e;iiify, which are de:idly foes, 
Live reconciled friends within her brow; 
And ha<l she Pity to conjoin with those, 
Then who had heard the plaints I utter now ? 
For had she not been lair, and thus unkind. 
My muse h:ul slept, ami none had known my mind. 



KARl.Y LOVE., 

Ah, I remember well (and how can I 
But evermore remember well ?) when lirst 
Our llaiiie began, when scarce wo knew what was 
The ilanie we felt ; when as wo sat and sighed, 
.\iid looked upon each other, and conceived 
Xot what we ailed, yet something wo did ail, 
.\nd yet were well, and yet we were not well, 
.\nd what was our di.sease we could not tell. 
Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look ; and 

thus, 
In that first g.trden of our siniplene.ss. 
Wo spent our chililhood. Hut when years began 
To reap the fruit of knowledge — -ah, how then 
W'oiild she with sterner looks, with graver brow, 
Check my presumption and my forwardness I 
Yet still would give nio tlowers, still would show 
What she would have me, yet not have me know. 



22 



CTCLOPJSDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEIUCAX rOETET. 



Uitljarii vllison. 



Little is known of Alison. He publislied in 1590 "A 
Pliiiiie Confutation of .1 Treatise of Brownism, entitled 
'A Deseription of tlie Visible Church;' " and, in 1600, 
"An Hourc's Recreation in Miisicke, apt for Instruments 
and Voyces;" from which the following little poems are 
taken. 



HOPE. 

From "An Hodke's Recreation in Mcsicke." 

In hope. .1 king doth go to war, 
In liope a lover lives fiiU long ; 

In liope a luercbant sails fall far, 
In hope jii.st men do sutler vi long ; 

In liopo the ploughman sows his seed : 

Thus hope helps thousands at their need. 

Then faint not, heart, among the rest ; 

Whatever chance, hoijo thou the best. 



CHEEEY-EIPE. 

There is a garden in her face, 

Where roses and white lilies blow ; 

A heavenly paradise is that place, 
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow ; 

There cherries grow that none may buy 

Till cherry-ripe them.selves do cry. 

Those cherries faii'ly do enclose 

Of orient pearl a double row. 
Which, when her lovely laughter .shows. 

They look like rose-buds tilled with snow- 
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy 
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Her eyes like angels watch them still, 
Her brows like bended bows do stand, 

Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 
All that approach with eye or hand 

These sacred cherries to come nigh. 

Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 



Hobcvt SoutljiucU. 



The reign of Elizabeth includes, among other signs of 
the times, the lianging of a poet of rare purity and spir- 
ituality for his devotion to the Eoman Catholic religion. 
Robert Southwell (l.WO-l.'iai) was born near Norwich, 
England. lie was educated at Paris for two years before 
he went to Runie, and was received, at the age of seven- 



teen, into the order of Jesuits. From Rome he was sent 
as a missionary to England, and was attached to the 
household of Anne, Countess of Arundel, who perished 
in tlie Tower. Southwell sliared the fate of all priests 
who could be found and seized at tliat time in England. 
In 1592 he w-as sent to prison, and during three years 
was subjected to the tortures of the rack no less than 
ten times. At length, in 1.595, the Court of King's Bench 
coudenmed him as being a Catholic priest ; he was drawn 
to Tyburn on a hurdle, was hanged, and had his heart 
burnt in sight of the people. A good man and a noble, 
of gentle disposition and blameless life, his fate reflects 
deepest infamy on his brutal and heartless persecutors. 
Southwell exhibits a literary culture far above that of 
some poets of larger fame, and, as he was only thirty- 
five at the time of his execution, lie probably had not 
reached the maturity of his powers. 



LOVE'S SERVILE LOT. 

Love mistress is of many minds, 
But few know whom they .serve ; 

They reckon least how little hope 
Their service doth deserve. 

The will .she roblieth from the wit, 
The sense from reason's lore ; 

She is delightful iu the rind, 
Corrnpted iu the core. 

She shrondeth vice in virtue's veil. 

Pretending good in ill ; 
She oftVreth joy, but bringeth grief, 

A kiss, — where she doth kill. 

Her watery eyes have burning force, 
Her Hoods and Haines con.spire ; 

Tears kindle sparks, E^)bs fuel are. 
And sighs but fau the tire. 

A honey shower rains from her lips, 
Sweet lights shine iu her face ; 

She hath the blu.sh of virgin mind, 
The mind of viper's race. 

She makes thee seek, yet fear to find ; 

To find, but naught enjoy; 
In many frowns, some pas.sing smiles 

She yields to more annoy. 

She Ictteth fall some luring baits, 

F(n- fools to gather up ; 
Now sweet, now sour, for every taste 

She tempereth her cup. 



UUBEllT SOUTUWELL.— JOSHUA SYLIKHTEU.—MIVUAKL UliAYTUS. 



23 



With soothing words, iiithrallAl souls 
SUo chains iu sorvilo bands ! 

Hit i\\f in silonon hath a speech 
AVliich eye best understands. 

Her little sweet lialli many sours, 
Short hap, immortal harms ; 

Her loving looks are murdering darts, 
Iler songs bewitching charms. 

Like winter rose, and summer ice, 
Her joys aro still untimely ; 

Before her Loi)e, behind remoi-se. 
Fair (irst, iu lino unseemly. 

Plough not the seas, sow not the sands, 

Leave otf your idle pain ; 
Seek other mistress for your minds — - 

Love's service is in vain. 



TIMES GO BY TURNS. 

The lopp<?d tree in time may grow again. 

Most naked jdants renew botli fruit and flower; 

The sorest wight nniy lind release of pain, 

The driest soil suck in some nn)ist'ning shower; 

Times go by turns and chances change by course. 

From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. 

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, 
Slie draws her favors to the lowest ebb; 

Her time hath eiiual times to come and go, 

Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web ; 

No joy 80 great but runneth to an end, 

Nor hap so hard but may in lime amend. 

Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring, 
No endless night yet not eternal day ; 

The saddest birds a season tind to sing. 

The roughest storm a calm may socni aUay ; 

Thus with succeeding turns Go<l temjierelli all, 

That man may hope to rise yet fear to fall. 

A chance jn.iy win that by mi.sehance was lost; 

The well that holds no great, takes little fish ; 
In some things all, in all things none are cr(is.sed. 

Few all they need, but none have all they 
wish ; 
rnmeddled' joys here to no man befall. 
Who least hath gome, who most have never all. 

' Cnniixed Jny». 



ilosl)ua Siilncctfr. 



Sylvester (I.'ilfci-IGIS) was a hiburioiis but unequal 
writer. He stylus himself a merchant adventurer. Lit- 
tle is known of liis life. His works consist priucipally 
of tninslations. In regard to "The Soul's Errand," a 
poem resembling one by Uuleigli, but sometimes credited 
to Sylvester, see the nieniuir of l{alci>cli iu this volume. 



ri.lKALITV (IK WORLDS. 

I not believe tliat the great Architect 

With all these tires tlie heavenly arches decked 

Oidy for show, and with these glistering shields 

To amaze poor shepherds watching in the fields; 

1 not believe that the least flower which pranks 

Our garden borders or our common banks. 

And the least stone that in her warming lap 

Our mother Earth doth covetously wrap 

Hath .some peculiar virtue of its own. 

And that the glorious stars of heaven have none. 



LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE. 

Were I as ba.se as is the lowly plain. 
And you, my Love, as high as heaven above. 
Yet should the thoughts of mc, your humble swain. 
Ascend to heaven in honor of my Love. 
Were I as high as heaven above the plain. 
And yon, my Love, as humble and as low 
As are tlie deepest bottoms of the main, 
Whercsoe'er you were, w4th you my love should go. 
Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies. 
My love should shine on yon like to the snii. 
Anil look upon you with ten thousand eyes 
Till heaven waxed blind, and till the world were 

dime. 
Whercsoc'er I am, below, or else above you, 
Whcresoe'er yon arc, my heart shall truly love you. 



fllicliacl Dranton. 

Drayton {circa 1.503- lG:il) was of humble parentage, 
and from his earliest years showed a taste for poetry-. 
He is one of the most voluminous of the rliyming tril)e. 
Pope somewhere speaks of "a very mediocre poet, one 
Drayton." The slight is undeserved. Drayton's works 
extend to above one hundred thousand verses. The 
work on which his f:imc rested in his own day is the 
"Polyolliion," a niinnte cliorograpliical description of 
Englnud and Wales. Most of his principal pieces were 
published before he was thirty ycui-s of age. Ilis spirit- 



24 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEEICAX POETRY. 



ed "Ballad of Agincourt " lias been the model for ninny 
similai' productions; and there is much iilayful grace in 
the fairy fancies of " Nymphidia." May not Drake have 
taken a hint from it in liis " Culjirit Fay?" 



A PARTING. 

Since tliere's no liclp, come let lis kiss, and part : 

Nay, I have done ; yon get no more of me ; 

And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, 

That thus so clearly I myself can free. 

Shake bands forever, cancel all our vows, 

And, wlieu we meet at any time again. 

Be it not seen in either of our lirows 

That we one jot of former love retain. 

Now, at the last gasp of Love's latest lireatli, 

When, Lis i^ulse failing, Passion speechless lies ; 

When Faitli is kneeling by his bed of death. 

And Innocence is closing up his eyes, — 

Now, if tlion wouldst, when all have given him 

over, 
From death to life thou mightst him yet recover. 



THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT. 

Fair stood the wind for France 
When we our sails advance, 
Nor now to prove onr chance 

Longer will tarry; 
Bnt, putting to the main. 
At Kanse, the month of Seine, 
With all his m.artial train. 

Landed King Harry; 

And, taking many a fort 
Furnished in warlike sort, 
Marehi'd towards Aginconrt 

In happy hour ; 
Skirmishing day by day 
With those that stopped his way. 
Where the French Gener,al lay 

Willi all his power. 

Which, in his height of pride 
King Henry to deride. 
His ransom to provide 

To the King sending; 
Which he neglects the while 
As from a nation vile, 
Yet, with an angry smile, 

Their fall portending. 



And, turning to his men. 
Quoth our brave Henry then : 
Though they to one be ten, 

Be not amazed ; 
Yet have we well begnu ; 
Battles so bravely won 
Have ever to the sun 

By fame been raisdd. 

And for myself, quoth he. 
This my fnll rest shall be ; 
England ne'er monrn for me. 

Nor more esteem me : 
Victor I will remain. 
Or on this earth lie slain : 
Never .shall she snstain 

Loss to redeem me. 

Poitiers and Cressy tell, 

When most their pride did swell. 

Under our swords they fell : 

No less our skill is 
Than when our Grandsiro great, 
Claiming the regal seat, 
By many a warlike feat 

Lojiped the French lilies. 

The Dnke of York so dread 
The eager vaward led ; 
With the main Henry sped 

Amongst his henchmen; 
Excester had the rear, 
A braver man not there : 
O Lori1, how hot they were 

On the false Frenchmen I 

They now to fight are gone : 

Armor on armor shone ; 

Drum now to drnm did groan ; 

To hear was wonder ; 
That with tho cries they make 
The very earth did shake ; 
Trnmiiet to triimj)et spake, 

Tlinnder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingham ! 
Which did the signal aim 

To our hid forces ; 
When, from a meadow by, 
Like a storm, suddenly. 
The English archery 

Strnck the French horses 



MICUAEL DliAyXOX.— CIiniSTorUKU M.tJUO IVL. 



25 



With Spanish yew so stroug, 
Arrows a cloth-yard hHi-^, 
That like to sorprnts stuii}^, 

ricrciiig the woathrr: 
None from his fellow starts, 
Unt, playing manly parts, 
Anil like true English hearts. 

Stuck close together. 

When down their hows they threw, 
And forth their hilbows drew, 
And on the Freuch tlicy f)ew, 

Not one was tardy: 
Anns were from slioiilder sent, 
Scal|>s to the teeth were rent, 
Down the Fieneh peasants went: 

Our men were hardy. 

This while (uir nohle King, 
His broadsword lirandisliing, 
Down the French host did ding 

As to o'erwhelm it ; 
And many a deep wonud rent 
His arms ■with hlood besprent, 
And many a ernel dent 

I!rnis(^d his helmet. 

Glo'.stcr, that dnkc so good, 
Next of tho royal blood, 
l"or faniDOs England .stood 

With his brave lirother 
Clarence, in steel so brij;ht. 
Though bnt a maiden knight. 
Yet, in that fnrions fight. 

Scarce snch another ! 

Warwick in blood diil wade; 
Oxfiird, the foe invade. 
And crnel slanghter n)ade 

Still, as they ran np: 
Snffolk his axe did ply; 
Iteanmont and Willonghby 
Hare them right dongbtily, 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

I'pon St. Crispin's day 
Fon;;ht was this noble fray, 
Which fame did not delay 

To England to carry : — 
Oh, when shall Englishmen 
With Kiich acts fill a pen, 
Or England breed ag.ain 

Snch a King Harrv f 



(Cljristopljcv iUiulouH-. 

Marlowe (l.")()4-ir)l);!) ranks among the most eminent 
of tlic Elizaliethan dnuniitisls. He was the son of a 
shoemaker in Canterbury. After graduating at Cam- 
bridge, he became a writer for the stage and an actor. 
In 1.587, he was known as the author of "Tamburlaine 
the Great." Otlier plavs followed; and for a tnne Mar- 
lowe and Sliakspearo were competitors. This splendid 
rivalry, and all it might have led to, was, however, cut 
short in 1.503, when Marlowe, still not lliiity years of 
age, received a stab in a brawl in some inn at Di-ptford, 
and died from its efl'ects. The pastoral song, to which a 
reply, supposed to be by Raleigh, was written, is among 
the few specimens we have of Marlowe's non-dramatic 
verse. In some versions of it the following stanza (com- 
ing next before the last) is contained; but it is believed 
to have been inserted by Izaak Walton, and presents a 
very unshcphcrd-like image : 

"Thy silver dishes for thy meat. 
As i>reeious as the gods do eat, 
Shall, on an ivory tnhle, he 
Prejjared each day for thee nud mc." 



THE DE.\TH OF FAUSTUS. 

Bad Jiigcl. Now, Fanstus, let thine eyes with hor- 
ror staro 
Into that vast perpetual torture-bouse: 

Those that are fed with sops of flaming lire, 
Wero gluttons, and loved only delicate.s, 
And laughed to see the poor starve at their gates. 
Hut yet all these are nothing; thou shall see 
Ten thousand tortures that more horrid be. 

Faiml. Oh, I have seen enough to torture nie. 

B. Ang. Nay, thou must feel them, taste the 
smart of all ; 
Ho that loves pleasure must for pleasure fall. 
And so I leave thee, Faust us. « • « [i,'j-i7. 

The clock strikes clceoi. 

Fanst. O Faustiis!— 
Now hast thou but one bare Iiour to live. 

Stand still, ye ever-moving spheres of heaven. 
That time may cease, and midnight m^ver come. 
Fair Nature's eye, vise, rise again, and make 
Perpetual day ; or let this hour bo but 
A year, a nn>ntli, a week, a natural day, 
That Faustua may repent and savir his soul. 

The stars move still, — time runs — tho clock will 
strike. 



26 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BIUTISHI AXD AMEIilCAN POETUY. 



Ob, I'll leap lip to lieaveu! — Who pulls mo down? 

Yet will I call on Him ! — Oh spare me, Liieifer ! — 

Where is it now ? — 'Tis gone : 

And see a threatening arm — an angry brow! 

Monutains and hills, come, come, and fall on me. 

And hide mo from the heavy wrath of heaven! 

No 1 — Then -nill 1 headlong run into the earth : 

Gape, earth! — Oh no; it will not harbor me. 

Ye stars that reigned at my nativity, 

Whose iutiueuce hath allotted death and hell, 

Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist, 

Into the entrails of yon laboring cloud ; 

That, wheu you vomit forth into the air, 

My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths. 

But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven. 

The watch strikes. 

Oh! half the hour is past: 'twill all bo past anon. 

Oh! if my soul must suffer for my sin, 

Impose some end to my incessant pain : 

Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, 

A hundred thousand, and at last be saved: 

No end is limited to damndd souls. 

Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul ? 

Or, why is this immortal that thou hast ? 

Oh! Pythagoras, — Metempsychosis I — were that 

true, 
This soul should fly from me, and I be changed 
Into some brutish beast. 
All beasts are happy, for when they die, 
Their souls are soon dissolved in element ! 

# ^ jf * # * 

Now, Faustus, curse thyself — cnrse Lucifer, 
TUat hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven. 

The clock strikes twelve. 
It strikes — it strikes! now body turn to air. 

Oh, soul, be thanged into small water-drops, 
And fall into the ocean — ne'er be found. 



THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. 

Come live with me, and be ray love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove, 
That valleys, groves, and hills and fields. 
Woods, or steepy mountains yields :' 

1 To avoid the bad English, the couplet is altered as follows, 
iu some versions : 

'* That hill and valley, grove aud field, 
Aud all the craggy mountains yield." 



And we will sit upon the rocks, 
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

And I will make thee beds of roses, 
And a thousand fragrant posies, 
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle. 
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle ; 

A gown made of the tinest wool, 
Which from our pretty lambs wc pull ; 
I'^air-lined slippers for the cold. 
With buckles of the purest gold ; 

A belt of straw and ivy-buds, 
With coral clasps aud amber studs : 
And if these pleasures may thee move. 
Come live with me aud bo my love. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight each May-morning. 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Come live with me aud be my love. 



ANSWER TO THE SAME.' 

If all the world aud Love were young. 
And truth iu every shepherd's tongue, 
These pretty pleasures might me move 
To live with theo anil bo thy love. 

Time drives the flocks from field to fold, 
Wheu rivers rage, aud rocks grow cold ; 
Then Philomel becometh dumb. 
The rest complain of cares to come. 

The flowers do fade, aud wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yields; 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten; 
In folly ripe, iu I'casou rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds. 
Thy coral clasps aud amber studs, 



' Archbishop Trench is of opinion that the evidence which 
ascribes this to Ealeigh is insufficient. 



EDWARD FAinFAX.— niUJ.lM SIIAKSPEARE. 



27 



All tlu'so ill 1110 no iiieiiiis can move, 
To conic to thru ami bo tliy love. 

ISiit, could yonlli last, ami love still breed, 
Had joys no date, nor age no need; 
Tlieii tlieso delights iiiy iiiiml might move, 
To live with thee, and bo thy love. 



(Pi) ID art) Jaivfar. 

The flret edition of Fairfiix's celebrated translation of 
Tasso's "Jerusalem Delivered" is dated 1600; the sec- 
ond. 1024. Drydcii ranked Fairfax with Spenser as a mas- 
ter of Enitlisli ; and Waller derived Ironi liini, according 
to his own confession, tlie harmony of his niimbers. Tlie 
date of Fairfax's birtli is nnlinown, hut was probably 
about 1.5(j4. lie was the natural son of Sir Tliomas Fair- 
fax, and had a long and happy life amidst rural scenes, 
lie was living in 10:!1. The dale of liis death is not 
known. He wrote a work on " Demonology," which 
was not printed until 18.51). 



KIN.VLDO AT MOl'NT OLIVET. 

It was tho time when 'gainst tlie breaking day 
l.'ebellloiis night yet strove, and slill repined; 
I'or in the east appeared the niorning gray, 
And yet some lamps in Jove's high iialacc sliiiied, 
When to Jlonnt Olivet he took hi.s way, 
And saw, as round about bis eyes he twined, 
Xiglil's shadows hence, from thence the inoruiug's 

shine. 
This Itriglil, that dark ; that earthly, this divine. 

Tlins to himself lie thought : How many bright 
And 'sideiident lamps shine in heaven's temple 

high ! • 
Day hath his golden sun, her moon tho night, 
Her lixed and wandering stars the azure sky: 
So framed all by their C'reatfu's might. 
That still they live and shine, and ne'er will die, 
Till ill a moment, with tho last day's brand, 
They burn, and with them burn sea, air, and laud. 

Thus as lie innsi^d, to the top he went. 
And there kneeled down with reverence and fear; 
His eyes upon heaven's eastern face he bent; 
His thoughts above all heavens nplifleil were: — 
"The sins and errors which I now repent. 
Of my unbridled youth, O Father dear, 
Keimnibi'r not, but let thy mercy fall. 
And pnrgo my faults and my offences all." 



Thus luaydd he: with purple wings np-flew, 
In golden weed, tho nioniiiig's histy queen, 
Begilding with tho radiant beams she threw 
His helm, the harness, and tho niouiitaiu green: 
Upon his breast and forehead gently blew 
Tho air, that balm and nardus breathed unseen ; 
And o'er his head, let down from clearest skies, 
A cloud of jinre and precious dew there tlies. 



lUilliam SliiaK'spcavc. 

Tlie Baptismal Henislcr of Slratford-onAvon contains 
the following entry: "April 'M, l.")04. Guliclimis, tilius 
Johannes Sliakespcaie." The house in wiiich the poet 
was born stands, in a restored condition, in Henley 
Street; and the conjectured room of his biith is scrib- 
bled over — walls, ceiling, windows— with thousands of 
names. His father, a wool-comber, though not opulent, 
seems to have been in good circumstaiiecs, to have had 
property in land and houses, and to have held the high- 
est olhcial dignities of the town. But jirobably a short 
course in the Stratford grammar-school was all the reg- 
ular education Sliakspcarc ever received. He married, 
at the age of eigliteeu, Anne Hathaway, seven or eight 
ycai-s older than himself. Two or three years afterward 
he removed to London, where he rapidly acipiircd a 
large property in more than one theatre. AVe do not 
know the order in which his plays were produced, but 
lie soon vindicated the immense superiority of his gen- 
ius by universal popularity. He was the companion of 
the nobles and the wits of the time, and a favorite of 
Queen Elizabeth herself, at whose recpicst some of his 
pieces were written. The wealth which he realized en- 
abled him, comparatively early in life, to retire from his 
professional career. There had been born to him a son 
and two daughters. He had purchased an estate in the 
vicinity of his native town, but he enjoyed it only four 
years. He died of fever in IGIG, aged lifly-lwo. 

The works of Shakspeare consist of thirty -seven plays, 
tragedies, comedies, and histories; the poems, "Venus 
and Adonis," and " Taniiiiu and Lucrece," with a collec- 
tion of sonnets, or, rather, fourteen -lined poems, of ex- 
quisite beauty and variety, each consisting of three qua- 
trains of alternate rhyme and a closing couplet. His 
want of care in preserving and authenticating the pro- 
ductions of his genius before his death has been sup- 
posed to indicate either his indiffercuce to fame or the 
absence of a knowledge of the magnitude of what he had 
achieved; and yet there are expressions in his sonnets 
that seem to imply a sense of his intcllc<'tual superiority. 
Tlie sulijcct of his di-ainatie and poetical character is so 
vast that it would be idle hero to attempt its analysis. 

His Sonnets represent him in the full maturity of man- 
hood, and at the height of his fame. They were probably 
written between the years Vt'X> and 10(13, when lie was 
living at Stratford in dignified retirement. Of these 
sonnets Trench says: "They are so heavily laden with 
meaniii!:, so doublcsliottcd (If one may so speak) with 
thought, so penetrated and pervaded with a repressed 



28 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BIIITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



passion, tlmt, packed as all this is into navrowest limits, it 
sometimes imparts no little obscurity to them ; and tliey 
often lefiuirc to be beard or read, not ouce, but many 
times— ill fact, to bo studied— before they reveal to us all 
the treasures of tliouu'lit and feeling which tliey coutaiu." 

These remarkable and mysterious sonnets are one 
hundred and lifty-four in number, and, with the exeep- 
tiou of twenty-eight, are addressed to some male person, 
to whom the poet refers in a style of affection, love, and 
idolatry almost unnatural; remarkable, even in the reign 
of Eli/.alietb, for morbid extravagance and enthusiasm. 
The sonnets were first printed in 1009, by Thomas Thorpe, 
a publisher of the day, who prefixed to the volume the 
following enigmatical dedication : " To tlie only begetter 
of tlicse ensuing sonnets, Mr. W. H., all happiness and 
that eternity promised by our ever-living poet, wisheth 
the well-wishing adventurer in setting forth, T. T." The 
" W. H." alluded to by Thorpe has been conjectured to 
be William Herbert, afterward Earl of Pembroke, who, as 
appears from the folio of 1633, was one of Sliakspearc's 
patrons. This conjecture has received the assent of Mr. 
Hallam and others. Many theories, none satisfactory, 
liave been broached to account for these exceptioual 
productions. 

It has been truly remarked by an anonymous writer 
that no man of whom we have any knowledge in litera- 
ture ever had, like Shakspeare, " the faculty of pouring 
out on all occasions such a flood of the ricliest and deep- 
est language ; no man ever said such splendid extem- 
pore things on all subjects universally. That excessive 
fluency which astonished Ben Jonson when he listened 
to Shakspeare in person astonishes the world yet. He 
was the greatest master of expression that literature has 
known. Indeed, by liis powers of expression he has beg- 
gared and forestalled posterity. Such lightness and ease 
in the manner, and such prodigious wealth and depth in 
the matter, are combined in no other writer." 



SILVIA. 

From " The Two Gentlemen of Verona.'* 

Who is Silvia 1 What is she, 

Tliat all our swains commend her? 

Holy, fair, and wise is she, 

The licavena such grace did lend her, 

That she might admired be. 

Is she kind as she is fair, 

For beauty lives with kindness? 

Love doth to her eyes repair, 
To hel]) liiui of his blindness; 

And, being helped, inhabits there. 

Then to Silvia let us sing, 

Tliat Silvia is excelling ; 
She excels each mortal thing, 

Upon the dull earth dwelling: 
To her let us garlands bring. 



SIGH NO MORE. 

From "Mlxh .\do ,\BorT Nothing." 

Sigh r.o more, ladies, sigh no more, 

Men were deceivers ever ; 
One foot in sea, and one on &hore, 
To one thing constant never : 
Then sigh not .so, 
But let them go. 
And be you blithe and bonny; 
Converting all your sounds of woe 
Into hey nonny, iionny. 

Sing uo more ditties, sing no mo, 

Of dumps so dull and heavy; 
The fraud of men was ever .so, 
Since summer first was leavy : 
Then sigh not so. 
But let them go. 
And be you blithe and bonny; 
Converting all your sounds of woe 
Into hey uouuy, nonny. 



ARIEL'S SONG. 

Frost "The Tesh'est." 

Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; 

In a cowslip's bell I lie ; 

There I couch when owls do cry ; 

On the bat's back I do fly 

After summer merrily : 

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now. 

Under the blossom that hangs on the bougb. 



PLAN'S INGRATITUDE. 

From "As You Like It." 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 

Thou art not .so unkind 
As man's ingratitude ; 

Thy tooth is not so keen. 

Because thou art not .seen. 
Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh-ho ! sing, heigh-ho ! unto tll(^ green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : 

Then heigh-ho ! the holly ! 

This life is most jolly. 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
Thou dost not bite so nigh 
As benefits foi-got : 



tllLLIAM SUAKSPEAllE. 



29 



Tlioii-jli tliou the waters wavi), 

Tliy sting is not so sharp 
As friend remembered not. 
IIeij{h-ho! sinu. hei;xh-h()! unto the greeu holly: 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere foll.v ! 

Tlwn. heigh-ho! tlie holly! 

This life is most jolly. 



DIRGE OF IMOGEN'. 

FnoM "Cyhbelise." 

Fear no more the heat o' the snn, 
Xor the fnrious winter's rages; 

Thou thy worldly task liast done, 
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages: 

Golden lads and girls all must. 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 

Fear no nmn' the frown o' the great, 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; 

Care no more to clothe and eat; 
To thee the reed is as the oak: 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 

All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning-flash. 
Nor the all-dreaded tlmnder-stonc ; 

Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
Thou hast liiiished joy and moan : 

All lovers young, all lovers must 

Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

No exerciser harm thee! 
Nor no witchcraft charm tlice! 
Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 
Nothing ill come near thee ! 

Quiet consummation have; 

And renowiiM be thv grave! 



THE SONG OF WINTER. 
From "Love's Labob Lost." 

When icicles hang by the wall. 

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail. 
And Tom bears logs into the hall. 

And nulk comes frozen home in pail, 
When blood is nipped, and ways \n\ foul. 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

To-who, 
To-whit, to-who, a nieiTy note. 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 



When all around the wind doth blow, 

And coughing drowns the parsou's saw, 
And birds sit brooding in the snow, 

-Vnd Marian's nose looks red and raw ; 
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl. 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 

To-who, 
To-whit, to-who, a merry note. 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 



CLOTEN'S SERENADE. 

FltOM "Cymbeline." 

Hark! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings. 

And I'hiebns 'gins arise. 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On ehaliced tlowers that lies ; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With everything that pretty bin, 

Jly lady sweet, arise ; 
Arise, arise ! 



SONNETS. 

.win. 

."^liall I compare thee to a summer's day ? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate : 
Rough winds do shak(^ the darling buds of May, 
And summer's lease hath all too short a date. 
Sonutime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 
And often is his gold complexion dimmed ; 
And every fair from fair sometimes declines, 
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimnied: 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade. 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; 
Nor shall Death brag thou wand'ri'st in his shade. 
When in eternal lines to time thou growest. 
So long as men can breathe, or eyes cau see, 
.So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 

XXX. 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
I summon up rcmend>ranco of things past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 
And with old woes new wail my dear time's 

waste : 
Then can I drown an eye unn.sed to flow. 
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night. 
And weep afresh love's long-since cancelled woe, 
And nioan tli' expense of many a vanished sight. 



30 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Then cau I grieve at grievances foregone 
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
Tbe sad accouut of fore-l)emoau(5d iiioau, 
Wliich I new pay as if not paiij before : 
But if the while I think ou thee, dear friend, 
AH losses are restored, and sorrows end. 



Fnll many a glorions morning have I seen 

Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, 

Kissing with golden face the meadows green. 

Gilding palo streams with heavenly alchemy,' — 

Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 

With ugly rack on his celestial face. 

And from the forlorn world his visage hide. 

Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace. 

Even so my sun one early morn did shine. 

With all-triumphant splendor ou my brow; 

Rut, out, alack! he was but one hour mine; 

The region cloud hath masked him from me now. 

Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; 

Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun 

staiueth. 

i.iv. 

Oh, how much nuiro doth beauty beauteous seem. 
By that sweet ornament which truth dotlj. give! 
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
For that sweet odor which doth iu it live. 
The canker-blooms' have full as deep a die, 
As the perfnmdd tiucture of the roses; 
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly. 
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses; 
But, for their virtue only is their sliow. 
They live nnwooed and nnrespeeted fade; 
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ; 
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors nuide ; 
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youtli, 
When tliat shall fade, my verse distils your truth. 



Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 
Of princes, shall outlive tliis powerful rhyme; 
But yon shall shine more bright in these contents 
Thau nnwejit stone, besmeared with slutti.sh time. 
When wasteful war shall statues overturn, 
And broils rout out the work of masonry, 
Nor Mars's swmd nor war's quick fire shall burn 
The living record of your nuunory. 
'Gainst death and all oljlivious enmity 
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find 
room, 

' Ciiuker-blooms are from the canker-roses. 



E\'eu in the eyes of all posterity. 
That wear this world out to the ending doom. 
So, till the judgment that yourself arise. 
You live iu this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. 



Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore. 

So do our minutes hasten to their end ; 

Each changing place with that which goes before. 

In sequent toil all forwards do contend. 

Nativity once iu the main of light. 

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned, 

Ciookf'd eclipses 'gainst his glory fight. 

And time that gave doth now his gift confound. 

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, 

And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, 

Feeds ou the rarities of nature's truth, 

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. 

And yet, to times iu hope, my ver.so shall stand, 

Praisiug thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 



Tlicu hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now: 

Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross, 

Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, 

And do not drop iu for au after-loss. 

Ah! do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow, 

Come iu the rearward of a couquered woe ; 

Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, 

To linger out a purposed overthrow. 

If thou wilt leave me, do uot leave me last. 

When other petty griefs have done their spite; 

But in the onset come: so shall I taste 

At first the very worst of fortune's might ; 

And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, 

Compared with loss of thee, will uot seem so. 

XCVIII. 
From you have I been absent in the spring. 
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, 
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, 
•That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him: 
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell 
Of different flowers iu odor and iu hue. 
Could make me any summer's story tell. 
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they 

grew : 
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white. 
Nor praise the deep vermilion iu the rose; 
They were but sweet, but figures of delight, 
Drawn after you ; you pattern of all those. 
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away, 
As with your shadow I with these did play: 



WILLIAM SIIAKSl'EAIiE. 



31 



Al:is! 'tis true I have gone licri' niiil there, 

And m:ulo myself a motley to ihc view; 

(ioreil my own thoughts, sohl eheap what is most dear, 

Made old olVeiices of atl'ectioiis new: 

Most true it is that I have looked on truth 

Askance aud strangely ; hut, by all above. 

These blenehos gave my heart another youth. 

And worse essays proved thee my best of love. 

Now all is done, save what shall have no end : 

Mine appetite I nevermore will grind 

On newer proof, to try an older friend, 

A god in love, to whom I am icmlliicd. 

Then give me weleimie, ui'xt my Inaveu the best. 

Even to thy pure and most, most loving breast. 



I >h, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, 
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds. 
That did not better for my life provide, 
Tlian public means, which public manners breeds. 
Thence conies it that my uanu' receives a brand, 
Aiul almost thence my nature is subdued 
To what it works in, like the dyer's baud. 
I'ily me, then, and wish I were renewed. 
Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink 
I'olions of eyscU 'gainst uiy strong infection :' 
No bilteruess that I will bitter think, 
Nor double penance, to correct correction. 
I'ity me, then, dear friend ; and I assure ye. 
Even that your pity is enough to cure me. 



Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

.\dmit impedinu iits : love is not love, 

Which alters when it alteration finds. 

Or bends with the remover to remove. 

Oh no! it is an ever-lix(^d mark, 

Tiiat looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 

It is the star to every wandering bark. 

Whoso worth's unknown, altho' his height be taken. 

Love's not Time's fool, lliongh rosy lips and cheeks 

Within his bending sickle's compa.ss come; 

I.i>ve alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 

lint bears it out even to the edge of doom. 

If this be error, aiul upon me proved, 

1 never writ, nor no man ever loved. 



I EiiHtll is nil old word for vliieg.ir. Tlicrc Fccms to 1)0 litllc 
tliiiibt thnt in this niiil tlie piecediiig eonuct Sliakspcare ex- 
presses some of his own limicst ftcllugs respcctiug hinifielf iiiid 
Ills occnpalUiii iit plnjcr, in which he mnet have cuconulcicd 
mucb that was humlliallng, ifuot demoralizing. 



Poor soul, llic centre of my sinful earth. 
Fooled by lliose rebel powers that thee array. 
Why dost thou [liue within and sutler dearth, 
raiuting thy outwaid walls so costly gay? 
Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? 
Shall woruis, inheritors of this excess. 
Eat np thy charge? Is this thy body's end? 
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss. 
And let that pine to aggravate thy store, 
liiiy terms divine in selling Ikmus of dro.ss ; 
Within lie fed, — without be rich no more. 
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men; 
And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then. 



The expense of spirit in .a waste of shame 

Is lust in action; and till action, lust 

Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, 

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust ; 

Enjoyed no sooner than despised straight ; 

Past reason hunted; and no sooner had, 

Past reason hated ; as a swallowed bait, 

On purpose laid to make the taker mad : 

Mad in luirsuif, and in possession so; 

Had, having, and in ciiiest to have, extreme ; 

A bliss in proof — and jiroved. a very woe ; 

Before, a joy proposed ; behind, a dream : 

All this the world well knows ; yet none knows well 

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. 



ULYSSES'S ADVICE TO ACHILLES. 

I'ROM "TilolLCa AM) CltES-SlDA." 

Time hath, my lonl. a walli't at bis back, 

When'in he ]ints alms for oblivion, 

A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: 

Those .scraps are good deeds past ; which are devoured 

As fast as they are made, forgot as soou 

As done : Pcrseveraucc, dear my lord. 

Keeps honor bright : To have done is to hang 

Quite out of fa.shion, like a rusty mail, 

In monumental mockery. Take the in.stant way; 

For honor travels in a strait so narrow. 

Where one but goes abreast: keep, then, the path ; 

For emulation hath a thousand sons. 

That one by one pursue: If you give way. 

Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, 

Like to an entered tide, they all rush by, 

Aud leave you hindmost ; — 



32 



CrCLOrjEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEHICAX rOETRY. 



Or, like a gallant horse falleu iu first rank, 
Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, 
O'errun and trampled on : Then what they do in 

jiresent, 
Though less than yours in past, ninst o'ertop yours: 
For time is like a I'ashioiiablo liost, 
Tliat slightly shakes his parting guest bj' tlie hand. 
And Tvitli his arms outstretelied, as lie would lly. 
Grasps in the comer: Welcome ever smiles, 
And Farewell goes ont sighing. 01), lot not virtue 

seek 
Remuneraliou for the tliiug it was; 
For beauty, wit, 

High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service. 
Love, friendship, charity, are snbjects all 
To envious and calumuiatiug time. 
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin, — 
That all, with one consent, jiraise new-born g;i\vds. 
Though they are made and moulded of things past ; 
And give to dust that is a little gilt 
More land than gilt o'erdusted. 
The present eye praises the present object; 
Then nmrvel not, thou great and complete man. 
That all the Greeks begin to worsliip Ajax ; 
Since things in motion sooner catch the eye 
Than what not stirs. 



THE QUALITY OF MEFtCY. 
From '■ The Mekciiant of Venice." 

The quality of mercy is not strained ; 
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath : it is twice blessed ; 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: 
'Tis mightiest in the miglitiest; it becomes 
The thron(5d monarch better than his crown ; 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
Tlie attribute to awe and majesty. 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; 
But merej' is above this sceptred sway. 
It is enthrondd in tlie hearts of kings. 
It is an attribute to God himself; 
And earthly power dotli then show likest God's 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider thi.s, — 
That iu the course of justice, nouo of ns 
Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy. 
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much 
To mitigate the ju.stiee of thy plea. 
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the meichant 
tlicre. 



MOONLIGHT AND MUSIC. 

From *' The JIerchant of Venice." 

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
Here will we sit, aud let the sounds of music 
Creep iu our ears ; soft stillness, and the night 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
Sit, Jessica : look, how the floor of he.aveu 
Is thick iulaid with patens of bright gold. 
Tliere's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st 
But iu his motion like an angel sings. 
Still quiring to the young-eyed ehcrubims: 
Such harmony is iu immortal souls; 
But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. — 
Come, ho, and wake Di:ni:i with a hymn ; 
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress's ear, 
Aud draw her home with music. — 

"I am never merry when I hear sweet music." 
The reason is, your spirits are attentive: 
For do but note a wild and wanton herd, 
Or race of youthful aud niihandled colts. 
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud, 
Which is the hot condition of their blood; 
If they but hear, perchance, a trumpet sound. 
Or any air of music touch their ears. 
Yon shall perceive them make a mutual stand, 
Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze. 
By the sweet power of music : therefore, the poet 
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and 

Hoods ; 
Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage. 
But music for the time dotli change his nature; 
The man that hath not music in himself. 
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds. 
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; 
The motions of his spirit are dull as night, 
And his affections dark as Erebus: 
Let no such man be tru.sted. 



ENGLAND. 
From " Kicuabd II." 
Tills royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, 
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, 
This other Eden, demi-paradise ; 
This fortress, built by nature for herself. 
Against infection, and the hand of war; 
This happy breed of men, this little world, 
This precious stone set iu the silver sea. 
Which serves it iu the ofilice of a wall, 
Or as a moat defensive to a house, 
Against the envy of less happier lands ; 



WILLIAM SIIAKSPEARE. 



33 



This blossM plot, this cnrtli, this realm, this Eug- 

laiKl. 
This dear, ilear lauil, 
Dear for her n-putatiou through the world. 



SOXG FROM "TWELITH NIGHT." 

O mistrt'ss iiiiiK'.' wluro are you roaming f 
O! stay and hear; your true love's coming, 

That can sing both high and low: 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting; 
Journeys end iu lovers' meeting, 

Every wise mau's son doth know. 

What is love? 'tis not hereafter: 
Present mirth hath present laughter; 

■What's to eonio is still unsure : 
In delay there lies no idcuty; 
Then eonio kiss me, sweet and twenty, 

Youth's a stull" will uot endure. 



And, in the calmest and most stillest night. 
With all appliances and menus to boot, 
Douy it to a king? — Then, happy low, lie down! 
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 



HEXKY IV.'S SOLILOQUY ON SLEEP. 

How many lliousauds of my poorest subjects 
Arc at this hour asleep! — O sleep! O gentle sleep! 
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, 
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, 
And steep my senses in forgctfulness f 
Why rather, sleep, liest thou iu smoky cribs, 
Upon uni':isy pallets stretching thee. 
And hnslu-il with buzzing night-llies to thy slum- 
ber. 
Thau in the perfumed chambers of the great. 
Under the canopies of costly state. 
And hille<l with sound of sweetest melody? 
Oh, thou iImU god! why liest thou with the vilo 
In loathsome bed.s, and leav'st the kingly couch 
A wateh-easc, or a common 'laruni bell f 
Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast, 
Seal up the ship-bny's eyes, and rock his brains, 
In cradle of the rudo imperious surge. 
And iu the visitation of the winds, 
Who take the ruflian billows by the top, 
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them 
With deaf'ning clamors in the slippery clouds. 
That with the hurly death itself awakes? 
Can'st thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose 
To the «et sea-boy iu an hour so rude, 

' Tlic ninrm of dnnger was cnmmaiilcntcd by tlio wntchmnn 
111 frnrrifoii towns by a bell. " lie hnd n c.ise or box to shelter 
liliii from the wcniher." 

3 



DETACHED PASSAGES FROM THE PLAYS. 

How far thai little eniidlc throws his beams! 
So shines a good deed in a naughty world. 

Love all, trust a few. 
Do wrong to none : bo able for thine enemy 
Rather iu power than u.se; and keep thy friend 
Under thy own life's key: be checked for silence, 
But never taxed for speech. 

The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself. 
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve; 
And, like this insubstantial jiageant faded. 
Leave not a rack behind. A\'e are such stuff 
As dreams are luado on, and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep. 

O world, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast 

sworn, 
Whose double bosoms seem to wear one heart. 
Whoso hours, whose bed, whoso meal, and exercise. 
Are still together; who twin, as 'twere, in love 
Uiisep:irable, shall within this hour. 
On a di.s.sensi()n of a doit, break out 
To bitterest enmity : so, fellest foes, 
Whose passions and whose plots have broke their 

sleep, 
To take the one the other, by some chance. 
Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear 

friends. 
And interjoin tlieir issues. 

So it falls out, 
That what wi! have wo prize not to the worth. 
Whiles wo enjoy it; but being lacked and lost, 
Why then we rack the value; then we find 
The virtue that possession would not show us 
Whiles it was ours. 

Cowards die many times before their deaths ; 
The valiant never tasto of death but once. 
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard. 
It seems to mo most strange that men should fear; 
Seeing that death, a necessary end. 
Will come when it will come. 



34 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISH AND AMERICAN I'OETRT. 



Our iudiscretion sometimes serves us well, 
Wlieu our deep plots do pall ; auil that should 

teach us, 
There's a diviuity that shapes our ends, 
Rough-hexY them how \ve will. 

There is some soul of goodness in things evil, 
Would men observiugly distil it out. 
For our bad neighbor makes us early stirrers, . 
Which is both healthful, and good husbandry : 
Besides, they are our ontward consciences. 
And preachers to us all; admonishing. 
That we should dress us fairly for our end. 
Thus may we gather honey from the weed, 
And make a moral of the devil himself. 

O momentary grace of mortal men, 
W^hich we more bunt for tlian the grace of God! 
Who builds his hope in air of your good looks. 
Lives like a drunken sailor ou a mast; 
Ready with every nod to tumble down 
Into the fatal bowels of the deep. 

Who shall go about 
To cozen fortune, and be honorable 
Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume 
To wear an undeserved dignity. 
Oh that estates, degrees, and offices. 
Were not derived corruptly ! and that clear honor 
Were purchased by the merit of the wearer! 
How many then should cover that staud bare ; 
How many be commanded, that command ; 
How mnch low peasantry would then be gleaned 
From the true seed of honor; and how uuich honor 
Picked from the chaff and ruiu of the times 
To be new varnished! 



iJolju lUcbstcr. 



Webster {circa 1570-1640) and Thomas De];ker were 
partners in writing plays. Webster also wrote for the 
stage indejiendently, and ranlcs among the chief of tlie 
minor Elizabethan tragic dramatists. Charles Lamb said 
of the following dirge from "The White Devil," tli.it he 
knew nothing like it, except the ditty that reminds Fer- 
dinand of his drowned father, in "The Tempest." "As 
that is of the water watery, so this is of the earth earthy." 



And with leaves aud flowers do cover 

The friendless bodies of uuburied meu. 

Call unto his funeral dole 

The ant, the field-mouse, aud the mole. 

To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, 

And, when gay tombs are robbed, sustain no harm; 

But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to uien, 

For with his nails he'll dig them up again. 



A DIRGE. 

Call for the robiu-redbreast and the wren, 
Since o'er shady groves they hover. 



FROM "THE DUCHESS OF MALFI." 

This traj^edy turns on the mortal offence which the dnchess 
gives to her two pi'oud hrothers by indulging in a genei'oud 
tliongh infatuated passion for Antonio, her steward, 

Cariola. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers! Alas! 
What will yon do with my lady? Call for help. 

Z>Hc7i('.5s. To whom ? to oiu- next neighbors? They 
are mad folks. 
Farewell, Cariola. 

I pray thee look thou giv'st my little boy 
Some sirup for his cold ; and let the girl 
Say her jirayers ere she sleep. — Xow what you 

please. 
Wliat death? 

Bosola. Strangling. Here are your executioners. 

Duck. I forgive them. 
The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs, 
Would do as much as they do. 

Ilos. Doth not death fright yon ? 

Diivh. Who would be afraid on't. 
Knowing to meet such excellent company 
In the other world. 

Bos. Yet, raethiuks. 
The manner of yonr death should nuich afflict you: 
This cord should terrify yon. 

iMich. Not a whit. 
What would it jdeasure me to Iiave my throat cut 
With diamonds ? or to be smothered 
With cassia ? or to be shot to death with pearls ? 
I know death hath ten thousand several doors 
For meu to take their exits : aud 'tis found 
They go on such strange geometrical hinges, 
You may open them both ways: any way — for 

heaven sake — 
So I were out of yonr whispering. Tell my brothers 
Tliat I perceis'e death — now I'm well awake — 
Best gift is they can give or I can take. 
I would fain put ofi" my last woman's fault ; 
I'd not be tedious to you. 

Pull, and pull strongly, for your able streugth 
Must pull down heaven upon uie. 
Yet stay: heaven gates are uot so highly arched 
As princes' palaces ; they that enter there 



SIR ROBERT ATTOy.— ALEXANDER HUME. 



Jliist go upon tbeir kuees. Come, violent deatb, 
Servo for mamlragora to make me Klecp. 
Go, tell my brothers : when I am laid out, 
TUey tlien may feed in quiet. 

I'Tlicy sliaiiglc her, kncdiiiri. 



5ii- Uobcvt riijloii. 

A Scottish courtier and poet, Aytoii (1570-lft5S) en- 
joyed, like Dnimmond, tlie advantages of foreign travel, 
and of acquaintance with English poets. He was born 
in Fifeshire. Ben Jonson seemed jiroud of his friend- 
ship, for he told Drumniond that Sir Robert loved him 
(Jonson) dearly. Aa edition of Ayton's poems was pub- 
lished as late as 1871. 



OX WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. 

I loved thee once, I'll love no more ; 

Thine bo the grief, a.s is tho blame ; 
Thou art not what thou wast before : 
What reason I should bo the same ? 
Ho that can love unloved ag.-iin 
Hath bettor store of love than brain : 
God send me love my debts to pay, 
While unthrifts fool their love away. 

Nothing conld have my love o'erthrowii, 

If thou hadst Ktill continued mine; 
Yea, if thou hadst rcnmincd thy own, 
I might, perchance, have yet been tbinc. 
But thou thy freedom did recall, 
That if thou might elsewhere intbrall; 
And thou how could I but disdain 
A captive's captive to remain f 

When new desires had conquered thee. 
And changed tho object of fh}' will. 
It had been lethargy iu me. 

Not constancy, to love thee still. 
Yen, it bad been a sin to go 
And prostitute affection so; 
Since wo are taught no prayers to say 
To such as must to others pray. 

Yet do thou glory in thy choice. 

Thy choice of bis good fortune boast ; 
I'll neither grievo nor yet rejoice 
To see him gain what I have lost ; 
The lieight of my disdain shall bo 
To laugh at him, to blush for thee ; 
To love thco still, but go no more 
A-bcggiug to a beggar's door. 



vllcVailLlfl" t)UllU'. 



Hume (circa 1.500-1009) was a minister of the Scotch 
Kirk in the latter half of the seventeenth century. He 
published in Edinburi;li, in 1.VJ9, a collection of " Hymns, 
or Sacred Songs," of wliich now only three copies are 
known to exist. The "Story of a Summer Day" has 
some precious passages, showing an original vein, but 
it is much too long. Campbell and Trench have both 
abridged il, and the same liberty has been taken in the 
following version. Hume died in 1009. 



THE STORY OF A SUMMEK DAY. 



i>y 



O perfect Light, which .shaid' aw 

The darkness from tho light, 
And sit a ruler o'er tho day. 

Another o'er tho night, — 
Thy glory, when tho day forth flies. 

More vivcly doth appear 
Tlian at mid-day unto our eyes 

The shining sun is clear! 

Tho shadow of tho earth anon 

Removes and drawds by, 
While iu the east, when it is gone, 

Appears a clearer sky; 
Which soon perceive the little larks, 

The lapwing, and the snipe. 
And tuno their song.s, liko Nature's clerks, 

O'er meadow, moor, and stripe. 

The dew upon tho tender crops, 

Like jiearMs white and round, 
Or liko to melted silver drops, 

Refreshes all the ground. 
The niistj- reek, iu clouds of rain, 

From tops of mountains scales; 
Clear arc tho highest hills and plain, 

The vapors take the vales. 

The ample heaven, of fabric sure, 

In cleanness doth surpass 
Tho crystal and the silver pure. 

Or clearest polished glass. 
Tho time so tranquil is and still, 

That nowhere shall yo find. 
Save on a high and barren bill. 

An air of piping wind. 



' Perfect of the verb to nrhed, or slieJ ; Germnn, schMen, to 
part, or u.-parnte from cue fluotticr. 



3f) 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Calm is the deep and purple sea, 

Yea, smoother than the sand ; 
The waves, that ■\velteriug ■\vout to be, 

Are stable like the land. 
So silent is the cessile' air. 

That every cry and call. 
The hills and dales and forest fair. 

Again repeats them all. 
jf * # It * # 

The snu, most like a speedy post, 

With ardent course ascends ; 
The beauty of the heavenly host 

Up to our zenith tends. 

# # * ^ ^ # 
The herds beneath some leafy tree — 

Amidst the flowers they lie ; 
The stable ships npon the sea 
Tend uj) their sails to dry. 

With gilded eyes and open wings, 

The cock his courage shows ; 
With claps of joy his breast he diugs. 

And twenty times he crows. 
The dove with whistling wings so blue 

The winds can fast collect, — 
Her purple pens turn many a hue 

Against the sun direct. 

Now noon is went ; gone is mid-day ; 

The heat doth slake at last ; 
The suu descends down west away. 

For three o'clock is x^ast. 
The rayons of the sun we see 

Diminish in their strength. 
The shade of every tower and tree 

Extended is in length. 

* # ^ # # * 
The gloaming comes, the day is spent. 

The suu goes out of sight. 
And painted is the Occident 

With jjurple sanguiue bright. 
What pleasure were to walk and see, 

End-laug a river clear. 
The perfect form of every tree 

Within the deep appear! 

Oh, then it were a seemly thing, 

While all is still and calm. 
The praise of God to play and sing 

With cornet and with shalm ! 



^ An unfiuthorized word, probably the equivalent of cessible, 
yielding, giving way ; from the Latin, cedo, ceasmn. 



All laborers draw home at even, 

And can to other say, 
"Thanks to the gracious God of heaven. 

Which sent this summer day !" 



Siljoinas C)c}iroooi). 

The dates of this writer's birth and death arc imknown. 
He is found writing for tlic stage in 1.5110, and he contin- 
ued to exercise his ready pen down to the year 1640. ' He 
lived iu the reigns of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I. 
He had, as he informs his readers, " au entire hand, or at 
least a main finger," in two hundred and twenty plays. 
He wrote, also, several prose works, besides attending to 
bis businesss as an actor. Of his plays only twenty-three 
have eome down to us; and among the best is "The 
Woman killed with Kindness." He seems to have been 
a man of genius; and his "Search after God" is a very 
noble poem, showing that, in his higher moods, the true 
spirit of poesy animated the humble playwright. 



FANTASIES OF DRUNKENNESS. 

Fbom " The English Traveller." 

This gentleman and I 

Passed but just now by your nest neighbor's house. 
Where, as they say, dwells one young Lionel, 
Au unthrift youth ; his father now at sea : 
And there, this night, was held a sumptuous feast. 
In the height of their carousiug, all their brains 
Warmed with the heat of wine, discourse was of- 
fered 
Of ships and storms at sea ; when, suddenly. 
Out of his giddy wilduess, one conceives 
The room wherein they quailed to be a piuuace, 
Moving and floating, and the confused noise 
To be the murmuring winds, gusts, mariners ; 
That their nnsteadfast footing did proceed 
From roekiug of the vessel. This conceived. 
Each one begins to apprehend the danger. 
And to look out for safety. Fly, saith one. 
Up to the main-top, and discover. He 
Climbs by the bedpost to the tester, there 
Reports a turbulent sea and tempest towaitls. 
And wills them, if they'll save their ship and lives. 
To cast their lading overboard. At this, 
AU fall to work, and hoist into the street. 
As to the sea, what next came to their hand — 
Stools, tables, tressels, trenchers, bedsteads, cups, 
Pots, plate, .and glasses. Here a fellow whi.stles ; 
They take him for the boatswain : one lies strug- 
gling 



THOMAS HETirOOD. 



:J7 



ITpou the floor, as if ho swam for life ; 

A third takes the bass-viol for the coek-hoat, 

Sits iu tho hollow ou't, labors, aud rows ; 

His oar, the stick with which the fiddler played; 

A fourth bestrides his fellow, thinking to escape. 

As <lid Arion, on the dolphin's back, 

Still rnnililin^ on a gittern. The rndo nmltitudc. 

Watching without, aud gapiug for the spoil 

Cast from tho windows, went by tho ears about it. 

Tho coustablo is called to atoue tho broil ; 

Which done, aud hearing such a noise within 

Of imminent shipwreck, enters tho house, and linds 

them 
In this confusion ; they adore his staff'. 
And think it Neptune's trident ; and that ho 
Comes with his Tritons (so they called his watch) 
To calm the tempest, and appease the waves : 
Aud at this point we left them. 



SONG: PACK CLOUU.S AWAV. 

Piick clouds away, and welcome day, 

With night we banish sorrow: 
Sweet air, blow soft, mount, lark, aloft, 

To give my love good-morrow. 
Wings from the wind to please her mind. 

Notes from the lark I'll borrow ; 
Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing! 

To give my love good-morrow. 

To give my lovo good-morrow, 
Notes from them all I'll borrow. 

AVake from thy nest, robin-redbreast ! 

Sing, birds, in every furrow ; 
And from each bill let music shrill 

Give my fair lovo good-morrow ! 
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow. 
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, 

Sing my fair lovo good-morrow. 
To give my lovo good-morrow, 
Siug, birds, in every furrow. 



SEARCH AFTER GOD. 

I sought tlieo round about, O thou, my God ! 

In thino abode : 
I saiil unto tho earth, " Sj^cak, art tlion he f" 

She answered nic, 
" I am not." I inijuired of creatures all, 

In general, 



Contained therein : they with one voice proclaim 
That none amongst them challenged such a name. 

I asked tho seas aud all tho deeps below, 

My God to know ; 
I asked tho reptiles aud whatever is 

In tho abyss : — 
Even from tho shrimp to the leviathan 

Inquiry ran ; 
But in those deserts which no line cau sound, 
Tho God I sought for was not to bo found. 

I asked tho air if that wcro he; but lol 

It told me " No." 
I from tho towering eagle to tho wren 

Demanded then. 
If any featheied fowl 'mongst them were such ; 

lint they all, much 
Offeuded with my question, iu full choir. 
Answered, "To find thy God thou must look higher." 

I asked tho heavens, sun, moon, aud stars; but they 

.Said, " Wo obey 
Tho God thou seekest." I asked what eyo or ear 

Could see or hear, — 
What iu tho world I might descry or know 

Above, below ; 
With an unanimous voice, all these things said, 
"We are not God, but we by him were made." 

I asked tho world's great universal mass. 

If that God was; 
Which with a mighty aud strong voice replied. 

As stupefied, 
"I am not he, O man! for know that I 

By him on high 
Was fashioned first of nothing ; thus instated 
Aud swayed by him by whom I was created." 

I sought tho court; but smooth-tongued Uatlery 
there 

Deceived each car ; 
In tho thronged city there was selling, buying, 

Swearing and lying ; 
Iu the country, craft iu simpleness arrayed ; 

And then I saiil, — 
"Vain is my search, although my pains bo great; 
Where my God is there cau bo no deceit." 

A scrutiny williiu myself I then 

Even thus bi'gau : 
" man, what art thou f" What more could I say 

Than dust and clay, — 



38 



CTCLOP^HDIA OF BRITISH AND AilEEICAN POETRY. 



Frail mortal, fading, a mere puff, a blast. 

That camiot last ; 
Eutbronctl to-day, to-morrow in an nrii, 
Formed from that earth to which I uiiist return ? 

I asked myself what this great God might ho 

That fashioned me ? 
I answered : The all-potent, sole, immense, — 

Surpassing seuse ; 
Uuspeakable, inscrutable, eternal. 

Lord over all ; 
The only terrible, strong, just, and true. 
Who hath no cud, and no beginning knew. 

He is the well of life, for he doth give 

To all that live 
Both breath and being ; he is the Creator 

Both of the water. 
Earth, air, and fire. Of all things that subsist 

He hath the list,— 
Of all the heavenly host, or what earth claims. 
He keeps the scroll, and calls them by their 
names. 

And now, my God, by thine illumining grace. 

Thy glorious face 
(So far forth as it may discovered he) 

Methinks I see ; 
And though invisible and iiitiiiite 

To liuuuin sight, 
Thou, in thy mercy, justice, truth, appearest. 
In which, to our weak seuse, thou comest nearest. 

Oh, make us apt to seek, and quick to find. 

Thou God, most kind! 
Give ns love, hope, and faith, in thee to trust. 

Thou God, most just! 
Kcmit all our offences, we entreat, 

Most good ! most great ! 
Grant that our willing, though unworthy, quest 
May, through thy grace, admit us 'mongst the blest. 



King 3anu's 2. of (!:nf\lani). 

James VI. of Scothiul and I. of Enghmd (1.5CC-1G3.5), 
the only otTspring of Mary, quecu of Scots, by her sec- 
ond luisband, llunry Stuart (Lord Daruley), was a prolific 
autlior, and wrote both prose and verse. The following 
sonnet from his pen will compare not unfavorably with 
the verses of some contemporarv poets of fame. It is 
notowortliy that Mary, her son James, and her grandson, 
Charles I., all wrote poetry. 



SONNET: TO PRINCE HEXKY. 

God gives not kings the style of gods in vain. 
For on the throne his sceptre do they sway ; 
And as their subjects ought them to obey. 
So kings should fear and serve their God again. 
If, then, you would enjoy a happy reign. 
Observe the statutes of our heavenly King, 
And from bis law make all your law to spring. 
If his lienteuaut here you would remain, 
Reward the just; be steadfast, true, and plain ; 
Repress the proud, maintaining aye the right ; 
Walk always so as ever in His sight 
Who/guards the godly, plaguing the profane ; 
And so shall yon in ])riueely virtues shine, 
Resembling right your mighty King diviue. 



(tl)omas ^Taslj. 

Nash (circa 1.501-1000) wrote a comedy called "Sum- 
mer's Last Will and Testament," which was acted before 
Queen Elizabeth in 1.593. He was also concerned witli 
Marlowe in writing the tragedy of "Dido." He was 
the Churchill of his day, and famed for his satires. He 
spealcs of his life as "spent in fantastical satirism, in 
whose veins heretofore I misspent my spirit, and prodi- 
gally conspired against good liours." 



SPRING. 

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; 
Then l)lo(uns each thing, then maids dance in a ring, 
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, 
Cticloo, jiui-JKi/, pii-icc, to-wltt a-ieoo. 

The palm and May malce country houses gay, 
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, 
And we hear aye birds tune tliis merry lay, 
C'uclcoo. jiirjjiKj, pn-KC, lo-witt a-woo. 

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet. 
Young lovers meet, old-wives a-suuning sit. 
In every street these tunes our ears do greet, 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-wc, io-witl a-woo. 
Spring, the sweet Spring ! 



THE COMING OF WINTER. 

Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful treasure: 
Goue is our sport, fled is our Croydon's pleasure ! 
Short days, sharp days, long nights, come on apace. 
Ah, who shall hide us from tlio winter's face? 



sin HESIiY WOTTOX. 



39 



Colli dotli increase, the sickness will uot cease, 
Aud heio we lie, God knows, with little ease. 
I'roin winter, plagne, and jiestilencc. 
Good Lord, deliver iis ! 

London iloili mniiiii, l..uiil"'tli is (piito tVirlnrii 1 
Trades cry, woe worth that ever tliey were born! 
Tbo want of term is town and city's liariu : 
Close elianibers wo do want to keep us warm. 
Long banished mnst we live now from our friends: 
This low-bnilt house will bring ns to our ends. 
From winter, plague, and pestilence, 
Good Lord, deliver us! 



THE DECAY OF SUMMER. 

Fair Summer droops, droop men and beasts, there- 
fore ; 
So fair a summer look for nevermore : 
AU good things vanish less than in a day ; 
Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay. 

Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year ; 
The earth is hell when thou lea vest to ap- 
pear. 
What ! shall those flowers that decked thy garland 

erst 
Upon thy grave bo wastefnlly dispersed ? 
O trees, consume your sap in .sorrow's source! 
Streams, turn to tears your tributary conr.sc ! 
Go uot yet hence, bright soul of the sad year ; 
The earth is hell when thon leavest to appear. 



Sir i)tx[\\} lllottcii. 

Wotton (l.i&S-l&JO), a. gentleman of Kent, was ambiis- 
saclor at Venice, under James I., and afteiwanl Provost 
of Eton. lie wrote a short poem " in praise of angling," 
and was the friend of Izaak Walton. As an early discov- 
erer of Milton's transcendent genius, be showed bis su- 
perior literary culture. Of the famous little poem, "Tlic 
Happy Life," Trench tells us there arc at least half a doz- 
en texts, with an infinite variety of readings, these being 
particularly numerous in the third stanza, wbicli is, in- 
deed, somewhat obscure as it now stands. The Ildiqiivr 
Wudniiiaiict, in which the poem was first published, ap- 
peared in 10.51, some twelve years aller Wotton's death ; 
but much earlitr MS. copies arc in existence: thus one, 
in the handwriting of Edward Alleyn, apparently of date 
lOlG. In some versions the word arcusct-s is changed to 
nppict-o-n in the last line of the fourth stanza. A little 
reflection will show that the former is the ])referal)lc 
word. Both Trench and Palgravc so regard it, aud adopt 
tt as the more nuthentic reading. 



ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOIIEMLV. 

You meaner beauties of the night, 
Wliieh poorly satisfy our eyes, 

More by your number than your light, — 
Y'ou comniou people of the .skies. 
What are you w lieu tlie Jloon shall rise f 

Y'on violets that first appear, 

By your pure purple mantles known. 

Like the proud virgins of the year, 
As if the spring were all your own, — 
What are you when the Rose is blown f 

You curious chantci's of the wood, 

That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, 

Thinking your passions understood 

By your weak accents, — what's your praise, 
When rhilomcl her voice doth raise? 

So when my Mistress shall be seen 
In form and beauty of her mind, 

By virtue first, then choice, a Qneeii, 
Tell me, if she were not designed 
The cclii>sc and glory of her kind t 



THE lIAPrY LIFE. 

How liapjiy is ho boru and taught 
That sex-vetli not another's will ! 

Whose armor is his honest thought, 
Aud simiile truth his utmost skill ! 

Whose pa.ssious not his masters are ; 

Whose soul is still prepared for ilealli ; 
Not tied unto the world with care 

Of public fame or private breath : 

Who envies none that chance dolh raise, 
Or vice; who never understood 

How deepest wounds are given by praise; 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good : 

Who hath his life from minors freed ; 

Whoso conscience is his strong retreat; 
Wlioso state can neither flatterers feed. 

Nor rniii make aceusera great: 

Who (hmI ildtli late and early pray 
More of his grace than gifts to lend, 

And entertains the harmless day 
With a religious hook or friend ; — 



40 



CYCLOPJiDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



This niau is freed from servile bauds 
Of liopo to rise, or fear to fall ; 

Lord of himself, though uot of lands ; 
Aud having nothing, yet hath all. 



3ol)n £illii. 



Lilly (ci'iw 1554-1601) was a native of Kent. His pi-in- 
cipal work was a prose romance called "Euphues." The 
name of the book has passed, as an abstract term, into 
our language ; but the book itself is no lony;er read, and 
the cuphuistic method of expression is cliietly known to 
us in these days by caricatures. Lilly wrote nine plays, 
in wliicli some songs occur. The following is from his 
play of " Campaspe," 1584. 



CUriD AND C.\JIPASPE. 

Cupid aud my Campaspe played 

At cards for kis.ses ; Cnpid paid. 

He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows. 

His mother's doves aud team of sparrows ; 

Lo.ses them too ; then down he throws 

Tlio coral of his lip, the rose 

Growing ou his cheek, but uouo knows how ; 

With these the crystal of his brow. 

And then the dimple of his chiu : — 

All these did my Campaspe win. 

At last ho set licr both his eyes ; 

She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 

O Love! has she doue this to thee? 

What shall, alas, become of me ! 



fjenni (Constable. 



Born about 1.560, and educated at O.xford, Constable 
published, in 1584, "Diana, or the excellent conceitful 
sonnets of II. C." The volume w.as reprinted for the 
Roxburglie Club in 1818. The following is from " Eng- 
land's Helicon," first published in 1600. 



DIAPHENIA. 

Diaphenia, like the daft'adowudilly, 

White as the sun, tair as the lily. 
Heigh-ho, how I do love thee ! 

I do love thee as my lambs 

Are belov(Sd of tlieir dams ; 
How blest were I if thou would'st prove me! 

Diaphenia. lilce the spreading roses, 
That iu tliy sweets all sweets enclosee, 



Fair sweet, how I do love thee ! 
I do love thee as each flower 
Loves the sun's life-giving power ; 

For dead, thy breath to life might move me. 

Diaphenia, like to all things blessed, 
When all tliy jiraises are expressed. 

Dear joy, how I do love thee ! 

As the birds do love the spring. 
Or the bees their careful king : 

Then iu requite, sweet virgin, love mo! 



iJoscplj i)a.\\. 



Hall (1574-16.56), bishop successively of Exeter in 1627, 
and of Norwich in 1641, is remembered chiefly for his 
prose theological works, written in the reigns of James 
and Charles. His only poems were a collection of Sat- 
ires, composed at Cambridge University before his twen- 
ty-third year. They were condemned to be burnt in 
1.599, by an order of Bishop Bancroft. Hall's satire on 
the amatory poets of his day, of which we give a speci- 
men, is coarse, but apt and pithy. 



ANTHEM FOR THE CATHEDRAL OF EXETER. 



Lord, what am I ? 
What is my life? 
What is my flesli ? 
What is my time ? 



A worm, dust, vapor, nothing ! 
.\ dream, a daily dying ! 

My soul's uneasy clothiug ! 

A minute ever flying ! 
My time, my flesh, my life, and I — 
What are we, Lord, but vanity 1 



Where am I, Lord ? Down in a vale of death ! 

What is my trade? Sin, mj' dear God oft'ending ; 

My sport, sin too! my stay a putf of brcalh! 

What cud of sin ? Hell's horror never-ending ! 
My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place 
Help to make up ray doleful case. 

Lord, what art thou? Pure life, power, beauty, bliss! 

Where dwell'st thou ? Up above in jierfect liglit. 

What is thy Timef Eternity it is. 

What state ? Attendance of each glorious spirit. 
Thyself, thy place, thy days, thy state 
Pass all the thoughts of powers create. 

How .sh.all I reach thee, Lord? Oh, soar above, 

Ambitions soul ! But which way should I fly ? 

Thou, Lord, art way and end. What wings have I ? 

Aspiring thoughts, of faith, of hope, of love. 
Oh, let these wings that way alone 
Present me to thy blissful throne ! 



JOHX ilAUSTOy.—VU. JOIIX DOXNE. 



41 



ON LOVE POETRY. 

SlTlRE III., Book II. 

Great is the folly of a fecblo bia'm 

O'cmilod ■nith love ami tyrannous ilisilaiu : 

I'or love, however in the basest breast 

It breeds hish thonglits that feed the fancy best, 

Vet is he blind, and leads poor fools awry, 

While they hang gazing on their mistress' eye. 

The love-sick poet, whose importune prayer 

h'l'pnlsdd is with resolute despair, 

Mopoth to con(|ner liis disdainful damn 

With public plaints of his coneeiv<5d tlamo. 

Then pours ho forth in patched sonnetings 

llis love, his lust, and loathsome llatteriugs; 

As though the staring world hanged on his sleeve. 

When ouco ho smiles to laugh, and when he sighs 

to jfi'ieve. 
Careth the worlil thou love, thou li\V, or die? 
Careth the world how fair thy fair one be f 
Fond wit-wal, that wonldst load thy witless head 
With timely horns before thy bridal bed ! 
Ttien eaii he term bis dirty, ill-fneed brido 
Lady and queen and virgin dcifii'd : 
He she all sooty-black or berry-brown. 
She's white as morrow's milk or flakes uew-blown : 
And thongh she be some dunghill drudge at home, 
Yet can Iio her resign some ix»fnse room 
Amidst the well-known stars; or if not there. 
Sure will he saint her in his Kaleudere. 



5ol)n illarston. 



Mansion, a rough but vigorous satirist nnd dramatic 
writer, produced his "Malcontent," a comedy, prior to 
1000. Ho was cduratcd at O.xford, became lecturer at 
the Middle Temple, and died in lOUS. He wrote eight 
plays, and three books of Satires, called "Tlic Scourge 
of Villuny." 



THE SCHOLAR AND III.S SPANIEL. 

X was a scholar : seven nsefnl springs 
Did I deflower in quotations 
Of crossed opinions 'bout the sonl of man ; 
The more I learnt, the more I learnt to doubt. 
IIiI'kiIiI, my spaniel, slept, while 1 turned leaves. 
Tossed o'er the dunces, pored on the old print 
Of titled words: and still my spaniel slept; 
Whilst I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh, 
Shrunk up my veins : and still my si>auiel slept : 
And still I held converse with Zabarell, 
Aquinas, Scotas, and the musty saw 



Of antick Donate : still my spaniel slept. 

Still on went I; iirst, (in sit itnimti ; 

Then, an it were mortal. Oh, hold, hold ! at that 

They're at brain bullets, M\ by the ears amaiu 

Pell-mell together: still my spaniel slept. 

Then, whether 'twere corporeal, local, fixed, 

/,'x trail Kce ; but whether 't had free-will 

Or no; hot philosoplnrs 

Stood banding factions, all so strongly propped, 

I staggered, knew not which was lirmcr part. 

But thought, quoted, read, observed, and pried, 

StulVcd notiug-books : and still my spaniel slept. 

At length lie waked, and yawned; and by yon sky. 

For alight I know, he knew .as much as I. 



TO DETRACTION I PRESENT JIY POESIE. 

Foul canker of fair virtuous action, 

Vilo blaster of the freshest blooms on earth, 

Envy's abhori-<Sd child, Detraction, 

I hero expose to thy all-tainting breath 

The issue of my brain : .snarl, rail, bark, bite; 

Know that my spirit scorns Detraction's spite. 

Know that the Genius which attendeth ou 

And guides my powers intellectual, 

n(dds in all vile repnte Detraetion. 

My soul — an cs.seneo metaphysical. 

That ill the ba.scst sort scorns critic's rage, 
Uecause he knows his sacred parentage, — 

My spirit is not pulled up with fat fiiiuo 
Of slimy ale, nor liacchiis' heating grape. 
Jly miiul di.sdaius the dungy, muddy scum 
Of abject thoughts and Envy's imaging hate. 
True judgment slight regards Opinion, 
A sprightly wit disdains Detraction. 

A partial prais<> shall never elevate 

My settled cen.sure of my own esteem : 

A cankered verdict of malignant hate 

Shall ue'er provoke mo worse myself to deem. 

Spito of despite and rancor's villauy, 

I am myself, so is my poesy. 



Dr. 3o[)n Pouuc. 



Donne (1.573-1031) was born in London, and as a eliild 
was a prodigy of learning. He became Cliaplniu in Ordi- 
nary to James I., and Dean of St. Paul's. Much aguiust 
the wislies of Ills devoted wife, he accunipanicd Sir Rob- 
ert Drury on an embassy to Paris. While there, Donne 



42 



CYCLOPMDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



had a singular vision, wliich is often reproduced among 
stories of psydiical or supersensual power. He saw (as 
Izaali Walton narrates) the apparition of his wife enter 
his room, bearing a dead child ; and shortly after he 
heard that his wife had been delivered of a still-born 
child at the very moment. The best known poetical 
■writings of Donne are his "Satires," and "The Progress 
of the Soul." His poems are characterized by brilliant 
wit, depth of reflection, and terseness of language; but 
his versiflcalion is generally rugged and uncouth, and lie 
is often so obscure as to taslc the closest attention. 



SONNET. 

Death, he uot proud, though some have called tlico 
Mighty and dreadful ; for thou art uot so : 
For those whom thou thiuk'st thou dost overthrow 
Die uot, poor Death ; uor yet canst thou kill me. 
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture he, 
Much pleasure ; then from thee much more must 

flow. 
Aucl soouest our best men with thee do go, 
Kest of their boues, and soul's delivery! 
Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kiugs, aucl desperate 

men, 
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell ; 
Ami poppy or charms cau make us sleep as well, 
Or better, tbau thy stroke : why swell'st thou theu f 
One short sleep past, we wake eternally, 
And Death shall be no more : Death, thou sbalt die ! 



THE SOUL'S FLIGHT TO HEAVEN. 
Think in how poor a prison thou didst lie! 

But think thai Death hath now enfranchised thee! 
And tliink this slovr-paced Soul which late did 

cleave 
To a body, and went but by the body's leave. 
Twenty, iierchance, or thirty miles a day, _ 
Despatches in a minute all the way 
'Twixt heaveu and earth ! She stays uot in the air, 
To look what meteors there themselves prepare ; 
She carries no desire to know, nor sense. 
Whether the air's middle region is intense ; 
For the element of fire, she doth uot know 
Whether she passed by such a place or no ; 
She baits not at the moon, uor cares to try 
Whether in that new world men live and die; 
Venus retards her not to inquire how she 
Cau, being one star, Hesper aucl Vesper bo. 
He that charmed Argus' eyes, sweet Mercury, 
Works not on her who now is grown all eye ; 



Who, if she meet the body of the Sun, 
Goes through, not staying till her course be run ; 
Who finds in Mars's camp no corps of guard ; 
Nor is by Jove, nor by bis father, barred ; 
But, ere she can consider how she went. 
At ouce is at, and through, the firmament : 
And, as these stars were but so many beads 
Strung on one string, speed undistinguished leads 
Her through those spheres, as through tho.se beadii 

a string, 
Whose quick succession makes it still one thing: 
As doth the pitli which, lest our bodies slack. 
Strings fast the little bones of ueck and back. 
So by the Soul doth Death string Heaven and 
Earth. 



ELEGY ON MISTRESS ELIZABETH DEUEY. 

She of whose soul, if we may say 'twas gold, 
Her body was tiie Electrum, and did hold 
Many degrees of that — wo understood 
Her by her sight : her jiuro and cloqueiit blood 
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought. 
That one might almost say her body thought. 
Slio, she, thus richly. Largely housed, is goue, 
And chides us slow-paced snails who crawl upon 
Our prison's prison, Earth, uor think us well 
Longer than whilst we bear our little shell. 
* *r # * * # 

— She w hom we celebrate is gone before : 
She who had here so much es.sential joy. 
As no chance could distract, much less destroy ; 
Who with God's presence was acquainted so 
(Hearing aud speaking to him) as to know 
His face iu any natural stone or tree 
Better than when in images they be ; 
AVho kept, by diligent devotiou, 
God's inuige iu such reparation 
Within her heart, that what decay was grown 
Was her first Parent's fault, aud nt>t her own ; 
Who, being solicited to any act. 
Still heard God pleading his safe pre-contract; 
Who by a faithful contidence was here 
Betrothed to God, aud now is niiirried there ; 
Whose twilights were more clear than our mid- 
day ; 
Who dreamed devoutlicr than most use to pray: 
Wlio, being here filled with grace, yet strove to be 
Both where more grace and more capacity 
At ouce is given. She to Heaveu is goue, 
Who made this world in some proportion 
A heaveu, aud here became unto us all 
Joy (as our joys admit) essential. 



BEN JOXSOX. 



43 



Ben Joucon. 

Joiison (1574-1037) was tliiity years oUl at tlic death 
of Queen Elizabetli. lie was ten years yoiiniier llian 
Slinkspeare, ami survived liim twenty-one yeai's, livini; 
on almost to tlie troubled close of the reis;n of Charles I. 
Hum in the North of England of humble parentai;e, Jon- 
son, after a period of soldier life in the Low Countries, 
wliere he foujrht bravely, settled in London, married, 
and took to literature and the stage as a means of live- 
lihood. He tried liis fortune !is an actor, but did not 
succeed. A duel with a brother actor, whom, unhapj)!- 
ly, he killed, caused his confinement for a time in jail. 
While there, he was visited by a priest; and liis mind 
being turned to religious subjects, he became a Roman 
Catholic, and continued one for twelve years. After 
that, when at the height of his ilime and prosperity, he 
once more professed himself a member of the Church 
of England. But an estimate of the quality of his relig- 
ious feeling may be formed from the fact that, on partak- 
ing of the Holy Communion for the first time after this 
event, he quailed off the entire contents of the chalice! 
" He did everything lustily," says one of his recent biog- 
raphers, as a comment on this incident. Whether "lust- 
ily" or through simple love of good liquor, and in un- 
concern as to the proprieties, may remain a question. 
Probably it was done in the si)irit of the reply of Theo- 
dore Hook, who, « hen asked by the College functionary 
if he could sign the Thirty-nine Articles, said, " Yes,Ji<c- 
ti/, if you wish it." 

On his release from prison, Jonson sprang at once into 
fame by his still-acted play of "Every Man in his Hu- 
mor," in the representation of which no less a person 
than Shakspeare took a part. Jonson's works consist 
mainly of dramas and masks, of which he produced, in 
all, more than llfty. Poverty cast a gloom over his last 
years ; he was obliged to solicit assistance from old 
friends ; and so the bright life dimmed, and llickered, 
and went out. His mortal remains were buried in the 
north aisle of Westminster Abbey ; and Sir John Young, 
a gentleman from O.xford, visiting the spot, gave eigh- 
tcen-i»enee to a mason, to cut upon the Hag-stone cover- 
ing the poet's clay this epitaph: " Hare lien Juiihou P' 
Such, at least, Is the tradition. 



TO Tin: MICMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, 

WII.I.IAM SIIAKSPK.VRE, AND WHAT 

Hi: HATH LEIT T.-;. 

To draw no envy, 8hak,spearo, on tliy name, 
Am I thus ample to thy book and lame ; 
\Vliil<> I confess thy wiiting.s to he such 
As neither man nor mnse can praise too mneli. 

• •*••• 

I, therefore, will begin : Soul of the age ! 
The applan.Hc, (lelighf, and woniler of onr stage! 
.My .Shakspeare, rise ! I will not loilgc fliee by 
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid lieannn)nt lie 



A little farther oft', to niako tliec room : 
Tliou art a moimnient without a tomb. 
And art alive still, while thy bonk ilotli live, 
And we l^n o wits to read, and praise to give. 

Trininpli, my liritain! tlion liast one to show 
To whom all scenes of Europe liomngc owe. 
He was not for au age, but for all time; 
And all the muses still were in their prime 
When, like Apollo, lie came forth to warm 
Onr ears, or, like a Mercury, to charm. 
Nature herself w.is inon<l of his designs. 
And .joyed to wear the dressing of his lines. 

Sweet Swan of Avon, what a sight it were 
To see tlico iu our water yet ajipear, 
And make those flights upon the banks of Tliaracs 
Tliat did so take Eliza and our James! 
But stay! I sec tlico iu the hemisphere 
Advanced, and made a constellation there. 
Shine forth, tliou star of poets! and wiih rage 
Or inlluence chide or cheer the droo|iiiig stage, 
Winch, since thy llight from lu'iice, hath mourned 

like night, 
And despairs day but for thy volume's light. 



SEE THE CHARIOT AT HAND. 

From ".-V Celebration op Cuaris." 

See the chariot at haml here of Love, 

Wlierein my lady ridel hi 
Each that ilravvs is a swan or a dove, 

Anil well the car Love guidelh. 
As she goes all hearts do duty* 

Unto her beauty : 
And, ei\amored, do wish, so they might 

But enjoy such a sight. 
That they still were to run by her side. 
Through swoi<ls, through seas, whither she would 
ride. 

Do lint look on iier eyes, they do light 

.Ml that Love's world ccnnpriseth! 
Do but lixdv on her liair, it is bright 

As Love's star when it risetli! 
Do but mark, Iii'r forehead's smoother 

Thau words that soothe her! 
.\ud frinn her arched brows, such a grace 
Sheds itscdf throngh the face, 
.\s alone tliere triumphs to the life 
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. 



44 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Have you seen but a bright lily grow, 
Before rude bands have touched it ? 
Have you marked but the fall o' the suow 

Before the soil bath smutched It ? 
Have you felt the wool of beaver ? 

Or swau's-down ever ? 
Or bavo smelt o' the bud o' the brier ? 

Or the uard in the fire ? 
Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 
O so white ! O so soft ! O so sweet is she ! 



THE SONG OF HESPERUS. 

From " Cynthia's Revels." 

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, 
Now the sun is laid to sleep. 

Seated in thy silver chair, 

State iu wonted manner keep : 

Hesperus entreats tliy light, 
Goddess excellently bright ! 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to interpose ; 
Cynthia's shining orb has made 

Heaven to clear when day did close : 
Bless us then with wishe'd sight, 

Goddess excellently bright ! 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart. 

And thy crystal shining quiver; 

Give unto the flying hart 

Space to breathe, how short soever : 

Thou that mak'st a day of night, 
Goddess excellently bright ! 



ON A PORTRAIT OF SHAKSPEARE.' 

Tliis figure that tliou here seest put. 

It was for gentle Shakspeare cnt, 

Wherein the graver bad a strife 

With nature, to outdo the life: 

Oh could he but have drawn his wit, 

As well iu brass, as he bath hit 

His face ; the print wonld then surpass 

All that was ever writ in brass : 

But since he cannot, reader, look 

Not on his picture, but his book. 



1 The nttestntion of Ben .Toiisou to the first eug:raved portrait 
of Shaks^peiire &eems to prove its fidelity as a likeness. Tlie 
portrait corresponds with the monumental efflgy at Stratford. 



AN ODE: TO HIMSELF. 

Where dost thou careless lie '? 

Buried in ease and sloth ? 
Knowledge that sleeps doth die ; 
And this security 

It is the common moth 
That cats on wits and arts, and [.so] destroys them 
both. 

Are all the Aonian springs 

Dried tip ? lies The-spia waste ? 
Doth Clarius" harp want strings. 
That not a nymph now slugs? 

Or droop they as disgraced. 
To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies 
defaced ? 

If hence thy silence be, 

As 'tis too just a cause, 
Let this thought qiticken thee : 
Minds that are great and free 

Should not on Fortune jiause ; 
'Tis crown enough to Virtue still, — her own ap- 
plause. 

What though the greedy fry 

Be taken with false baits 
Of worded balladry, 
And think it poesy ? 

They die with their conceits, 
And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits. 

Then take in hand thy lyre. 

Strike in thy proper straiu, 
With JaphetV line, aspire 
Sol's chariot for new fire 

To give the world again : 
Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain. 

And, siuce our daiuty age 

Cauuot endure reproof. 
Make not thyself a page 
To that strumpet the stage. 

But sing high and aloof. 
Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's 
hoof. 



1 A snrname of Apollo, derived from his famous temple at 
Claros, in Asia Minor. 

2 Prometheus, sou of lapetus, is here referred to; identified 
by .Jonson with Japhet, the sou of Noah. According to the le- 
gend, it was l)y the aid of Minerva, the "issue of Jove's braiu," 
that Prometlieus ascended to heaven, and there stole from the 
chariot of the Suu the fire which he brought down to earth. 



JJAA' joxsox.—sii: jojiy davies. 



45 



KPITAl'II ON THE COUNTESS OK PEMBROKE. 

T'liilfrncatb this s:il>le licaiso 
Lies the suliject of all verse, 
Sydney's sister, Pembroke's mother. 
Death, ero thou hast slain another, 
Learnetl, and fair, and good as she, 
Time shall throw a dart at thee ! 



THE SWEET NEGLECT. 

Still to be neat, still to be drest, 

As you were going to a feast ; 

Still to be powdered, still jjerfumcd ; 

Lady, it is to be jiresumed, 

Tlionjjh art's hid causes are not found. 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

Give mo a look, give nie a face, 
That makes simplicity a grace ; 
Robes loosely llowing, hair as free ; 
Such sweet neglect more taketh mo 
Than all the adulteries of art. 
That strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 



EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH, L. H. 

Wouldst thou hear what man can say 

In a little ? Reader, stay. 

l.'nderiioath this stone doth lie 

As nuicli beauty as could die, 

AVhich in life did harbor give 

To more virtue than doth live. 

If at all she bad a fault. 

Leave it buried in this vault. 

One nanu) av.-is Elizabeth ; 

The other, let it sleep with death : 

Fitter where it died to tell 

Than that it lived at all. Farewell ! 



SONG TO CELIA. 

Drink to me only with tliiue eyes, 

And I will pli-dge with mine; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cnp. 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup 

I would not change for thine. 



I sent thee late a rosy wreath. 

Not so much honoring thee. 
As giving it a hojie, that there 

It could not withered be. 
But thou thereon iliilst only breathe. 

And sent'st it back to me ; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear. 

Not of itself, but thee. 



GOOD LIFE, LONG LIFE. 

It is not growing like a tree 

In bulk, doth make men better be; 
Or standing long an oak, three hiiiidri'd year. 
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere : 
A lily of a day 
Is fairer far in May, 

Allhongh it fall and die that night; 

It was the plant and (lower of light. 
In small proportions wc just beauties sec; 
And in short measures life may perfect be. 



Sir 3ol)n DixnicG. 



Davies (1570-1026), an English barrister, was the au- 
thor of "Nosce Teipsum" (Know Thyself), a poem on 
tlic immorUility of the soul. It bears the date of 1C03, 
when Davies was about tliirty-two years old. It was 
printed five times diinng liisi life. In l.")08 Davies was 
ejected from membersliip in the Society of tlie Middle 
Temple, for having thrashed a man within tlic sacred 
precincts of that Inn of Court. But he was an able law- 
yer; and having won the favor of King James, he rose 
from one legal distinction to another, and w,is knighted 
in 1007. 



THE SOUL'S ASPIRATIONS. 

Again, how can she but immortal be, 

■\Vhen with the motions of both will and wit, 
She still aspireth to eternity, 

And never rests till she attain to iff 

• «»»»»• 

At first her mother earth she holdeth dear. 

And doth embrace the world and worldly things ; 
She Hies close by the ground, and hovers here. 

And mounts not np with her celestial wings. 

Yet under heaven she cannot light on aught 
That with her heavenly nature doth agree; 

She cannot rest, she cannot fix her thought, 
She cannot in this world contented be. 



46 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



For wbo did ever yet iii houor, wealth, 

Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find ? 

Who ever ceased to wish, Tvheu he had health ; 
Or, having wisdom, was not vexed in mind f 

Then, as a bee, whioh among weeds doth i'all, 
Which seem sweet flowers, with lustre fresh and 

She lights on that, and this, and tasteth all, 
But, pleased with none, doth rise and soar away. 

So, when the soul finds here no true content, 
And, like Noah's dove, can no sure footing take. 

She doth return from whence she first was sent, 
And flies to Him that first her wings did make. 



MYSELF. 

FfiOM " NoscE Teipsuji." 

I know my body's of so frail a kind. 

As force without, fevers within, can kill; 

I know the heavenly nature of my mind ; 
But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will. 

I know my soul hath power to know all things, 
Yet is she blind and ignorant iu all ; 

I know I'm one of Nature's little kings, 
Y'et to the least and vilest thing am thrall. 

I know my life's a pain, and but a span ; 

I know my sense is mocked in everything ; 
And, to conclude, I know myself a Man ; 

Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing. 



Beaumont ani) Jlctcljcr. 

Francis Beaumont (1.5S6-161G) and John Fletcher (1.57(>- 
162.5) were intimate friends; "the Orestes and Pylades 
of the poetical world." Both were of good descent. 
Beaumont's latlier was a Judge of the Common Pleas ; 
Fletcher was the son of tlic Bishop of London, and had 
for cousins Phineas and Giles Fletcher, the one the :iu- 
tlioi' of "The Purple Island," a tedious allegorical poem ; 
the other the anthor of "Christ's Victory and Triumph," 
a work from which Milton is said to have borrowed a 
feather or two. 

There was a dilfi^rence of ten years between the ages 
of Beaumont and Fletcher. The latter, who was the 
elder, survived his friend nine years, continued to write, 
and died at the age of forty -nine. Beaumont died at 
thirty, in 1616, the same year as Shakspeare. Beaumont's 
poetical taste, it was said, controlled, iu their joint work, 
Fletcher's luxuriance of wit and fancy. Their united 



works amount to about fifty dramas, and were very pop- 
ular in their day, even more so than those of Shakspeare 
and Jonson. As lyrical and descriptive poets they are 
entitled to high praise. Their dramas are sprightly, and 
abound in poetical ornament, but are often censurable 
for looseness of plot, rcpulsiveuess of subject, and laxity 
of moral lone. 



MELANCHOLY.' 

From " Nice Valor ; on, The Passionate JIadman." 

Hence, all you vain delights. 
As .short as are the nights 

Wherein you spend your folly ! 
There's naught iu this life sweet, 
If man were wise to see 't. 

But only melancholy : 

O sweetest melancholy ! 

Welcome, folded arms, and fixiSd eyes, 
A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
A look that's fastened to the ground, 
A tongue chained up without a sound! 

Fountain-heads, and pathless groves, 
Places which pale passion loves. 
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls ! 
A midnight hell, a parting groan, 
The.se are the sounds we feed upon ; 
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley : 
Nothing's so daintj^ sweet as lovely melancholy! 



CESAR'S LAMENTATION OVEE POMPEY'S 
HEAD. 

Feom " The False One." 

Oh thou conqueror, 
Thou glory of the world once, now the jiity ; 
Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus ? 
What poor fate followed thee, and iducked thee on 
To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian ? — 
The life and light of Eome to a blind stranger, 
That honorable war ne'er taught a nobleness, 
Nor worthy circnmstauce showed what a man 

was ?— 
That never heard thy name sung but in banquets 
And loose lascivious pleasures ? — to a boy 
That had no faith to comprehend tliy grt^atncss, 
No study of thy life to know thy goodness ? — 

I Miltou seems to have taken some hints for his "II Pense- 
roso ' ' from this song. 



BEAVMOST jyi) ILETCHER. 



47 



And leave tliy iintiou, nay, thy noble frienil, 
Leave bini distnisteil, that iu fears falls with thee — 
III soft relenting tears T Hear me, great ronipey, 
If thy great spirit can bear, I must task tliei-, 
Thou hast most umiobly robbed me of my victory, 
.My love and nierey. 

• *»*»« 

Egyptians, dare yo think your highest pyramids, 
Ibiilt to out-dure the sun, as you suppose, 
Wlicre your unworthy kings lie raUed In ashes, 
Are nionuiiients fit for him? Xo, brood of Xilus, 
Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven ; 
Xo pyramids set off his memories, 
l!nt the eternal substance of his greatness ; 
To which I leave him. 



SONG FROM " VALEXTIXIAX." 

Care-charming Sleep, thou caser of all woes, 
lirotlier to Death, sweetly thyself dispose 
Oil this alilicted prince : fall like a cloud 
III gentle showers; give nothing that is loud 
Or painful to his slumbers ; easy, sweet. 
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night, 
Pass by his troubled senses ; sing his pain. 
Like hollow murmuring wind, or silver rain. 
Into this i)rinco gently, oli, gently slide. 
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride ! 



ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTEK ABBEY. 

Francis Beacmont. 

Mortality, behold and fear! 

AVhat a change of llesh is here ! 

Think how many royal bones 

Sleep wilbiii these heaps of stones! 

Here they lie, bad realms and lands, 

Who now want strength to stir their hands, 

Where from their pulpits, sealed with dust, 

Tliey preach, "Iu greatness is no trust." 

Here's an acre sown indceil 

Willi the richest, royalest seed 

That the earth did e'er suck in, 

Since the first man died for sin : 

Hero the bones of birth have cried, 

" Tliongh gods they were, as men they died." 

Here are sands, ignoble things, 

Hiopt from the ruined sides of kings: 

Hire's a world of pomp and state 

Buried in dnst, once dead liv fate. 



INVOCATION TO SLEEP. 

Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving 
Lock mo in delight awhile ; 
Let some pleasing dreams beguile 
All my fancies: that from thence 
I may feel an iiilliience, 

All my powers of care bereaving! 

Tbongh but a shadow, but a sliding, 
Let me know some little joy ! 
Wo that suffer long annoy 
Are contented with a tlionglit. 
Through an idle fancy wrought : 

Oh, let my joys have some abiding! 



SONG FROM "ROLLO, DUKE OF NORMANDY." 

Take, oh take those lips away. 
That so sweetly were fors\^■o^l, 

And those eyes, the break of day. 
Lights that do mislead the morn ! 

But my kisses bring again, 

Seals of love, though sealed in vain. 

Hide, oh hide those hills of snow, 
Wliicli thy frozen bosimi bears. 

On whose tops the jiinks that grow 
Are of those that April wears : 

But first set my poor heart free. 

Bound in those icy chains by thee. 



FROM "THE HUMOROUS LIEUTENANT." 

Sclciiciis. Let no man fear to die : we love to 
sleep all, 
And death is but the sounder sleep: all ages. 
And all hours call lis; 'tis so common, easy. 
That little children tread those paths before us. 
W'e are not sick, nor our souls pressed with sorrows. 
Nor go wo out like tedious tales forgotten : 
High, high, we come, and hearty to our funerals; 
.\iid as the sun, that sets in blood, let's fall. 

Lynimachim. 'Tis true they have us fast : we can- 
not 'scape 'em ; 
Nor keeps the brow of Fortune one smile for us. 
Dishonorable ends wo can escape, though. 
And worse! than those, captivities : wo can die; 
And, dying nobly, though we leave behind us 
These clods of flesh, that are too massy burdens. 
Our living souls fly crowned with living conipiests. 



48 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTISH AND AMEEICAK POETBT. 



FROM "THE MAID'S TRAGEDY." 

Lay a garland ou my liearse 

Of tlie dismal yew ; 
Maidens, willow branches bear ; 

Say, I died true : 
My love was false, but I was firm 

From my bour of biitli : 
Ulion my buried body lie 

Ligbtly, gentle earth ! 



FROM "THE CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY." 

What sacrifice of thanks, what age of service. 
What danger of more dreadful loolc than death. 
What willing martyrdom to crown mo constant, 
May merit such a goodness, such a sweetness ? 
A love so nobly great no power can ruin : 
Most blessdd maid, go on : the gods that gave 

this. 
This pure unspotted love, tlie Child of Heaven, 
In their own goodness must preserve and save it, 
Aud raise you a reward beyond our recompense. 



jUip illassiiigcv. 



Massiuger {circa 1584-1040) began to write plays in the 
reign of James I. Like ni.any of his litenn-y brethren, 
lie was poor, aud one morning was found dead in his bed 
at Southwark. No stone marks his neglected resting- 
place, but in tlie parish register appears this brief me- 
morial: "March 20, 1639-1610.— Biirieci Pliihp Massin- 
ger, a stranger." His sepulchre was lilce bis life — ob- 
scure. Like tlie niglitingalc, lie sang darkling — it is to 
be feared, like the nightingale of the fable, with his 
breast against a thorn. Eighteen of liis plaj's are in 
print; and one of these, "A New Way to Pay Old 
Debts," is still often played at our theatres. Sir Giles 
Overreach, a greedy, crafty money -getter, is the great 
character oftliis powerful drama. This part was among 
the best personations of Keau and Bootli. 



WAITING FOR DEATH. 

Fkom "The Emperor of the East." 

Why art thou slow, thou rest of trouble. Death, 

To stop a wretch's breath 
That calls ou thee, and offers her sad heart 

A prey uuto thy dart ? 
I am nor young uor fair ; be, therefore, bold. 

Sorrow bath made me old, 



Deformed, and wrinkled ; all that I can crave 

Is quiet in my grave. 
Such as live happy bold long life a jewel; 

But to me thou art cruel 
If tliou eud not my tedious misery. 

And I soon cease to be. 
Strike, aud strike home, then ; pity unto me, 

In cue short hour's delay, is tyrauny. 



FROM "A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS." 

ilanj. Your jilcasure, sir ? 

Overreach. Ha! tliis is a neat dressing! 
These orient jiearls and diamonds well placed too ! 
The gowu affects me not : it .should have been 
Embroidered o'er and o'er with flowers of gold ; 
But these rich jewels and quaint fashion help it. 
And bow below ? since oft the wanton eye, 
The face observed, descends uuto the foot, 
Wliicli, being well-proportioned, as yours is, 
Invites as much as perfect white aud red. 
Though witliout art. 
How like you your new woman. 
The Lady Downfallen ? 

Mary. Well for a compauiou. 
Not for a servant. * * * l pity her fortnue. 

Orer. Pity her? Trample on her! 

ilttrij. You know your own ways ; but for me, 
I blush 
When I command her, that was once attended 
With persons not inferior to my.self 
In birth. 

Onr. lu birth ? AVby, art thou not ray daugh- 
ter. 
The blest child of my industry and wealth 1 
Why, foolish girl, was 't not to make tlieo great 
That I have run, and still pursue, those ways 
That hale down curses ou me, which I mind not ? 
Part with these humble thonglits, aud apt thyself 
To the noble state I labor to advance thee ; 
Or, by my hopes to see thee honorable, 
I will adopt a stranger to my heir. 
And throw thee from my care! do not i^rovoko me! 



jJolju Jovb. 



Ford (1.586-1630), a Devonshire man, belonged to the 
brilliant dramatic brotherhood of bis period. lie united 
autliorsliip willi pi-actice as a lawyer. Hallani says that 
Ford has "the power over tears;" but bis tbeiues are 
often painful aud even revolting. 



JOHN FOni). — WILLIAM DUVMMOM). 



40 



MfSICAL CONTEST WITH A NIGIITIXOAI.K. 
From "The Loveu's MELAsriioLY." 

Mtnaphou. Passing from Italy to (ircrco, llir tiilcs 
\Vlii(li pDL'ts of ail fUlor tiiiio liavc fciiiiuil 
Ti) glorify their Tempo biod in mo 
Do.siic (if visitiiiy; that ranuliso. 
To Thessaly I came : and living private, 
Without acqHaiiilaiicc of more sweet conipauioiis 
Than tlio old inmates to my love, my fhonglits, 
I (lay liy day fre(iuented silent groves 
And solitary walks. One nioining early 
This aeeident encountered me : I heard 
The sweetest and most ravishing contention 
That art aiul nature ever were at strife in. 

AmcthuK. I cannot yet conceive what yon infer 
By art and nature. 

-Veil. I shall soon resolve you. 
A sound of ninsiu touched mine ears, or, rather, 
Indeed, entranced my soul: as I stole nearer. 
Invited by the melody, I saw 
This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon liis lute. 
With strains of strange variety and harmony. 
Proclaiming, as it seemed, so bold a challenge 
To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds. 
That, as they flocked about him, all stood silcut, 
Wondering at what they heard. I wondered too. 

Ainil. And so do I. Good I On — 

iltn. A nightingale, 
Xature's best-skilled musician, undertakes 
The challenge; and for every several strain 
The wc-11-sliaped youth could touch, she sung her 

own. 
He could not run divisions with n\ore art 
I'pon his <inaking instrument, than she, 
Tlie nightingale, did, with her various notes, 
Keply to ; for a voice, and for a sound, 
Auiethns, 'tis much easier to believe 
That such they were than hope to hear again. 

Amvt. How did the rivals part ? 

.Ucii. You term them rightly; 
I\>r Ihey were rivals, and tlieir mistress, harmony. — - 
iSonic time thus spent, the young mau grew at last 
Into a pretty anger that a bird. 
Whom art had never taught clilfs, moods, or notes, 
Should vie with him for ma.stery, whose study 
Had busied many hours to perfect practice. 
To eiul the controversy, — iu a rapture 
I'pon his instruineut he plays so swiftly, 
So many voluntaries, and so quick, 
Tliat there was curiosity and cunning, 
Concord in discord, lines of differing method 
Meeting iu one full centre of delight. 
4 



Amct. Now for the bird. 

Mill. The biril, ordaiiieil to lie 
Music's lirst martyr, strove to imitate 
These several sounds; which when Iji'i- waibling 

throat 
Failed in, for grief down dropt she on his lute, 
And brake her heart. It was tlie ipiaintest sadness 
To see the eoniiucror upon her hearse 
To wei'p .a funeral elegy of tears : 
That, trust me, my Ametlius — I could chide 
Miiu> own uinuanly weakness — that made ine 
A fellow-inonrncr with liini. 

Aiiul. I believe thee. 

Men. Ho looked upon the trophies of his art. 
Then sighed, then wiped his eyes ; then sighed aiul 

cried, 
"Alas! poor creature, I will soon revenge 
This cruelly tipon llio author of it. 
Heiu-efortli this lute, guilty of innocent blood. 
Shall nevermore betray .a harmless peace 
To an untimely end:" — .■md in that sorrow, 
As he was pasliing it against a tree, 
I suddenly stept in.' 



lllilliam Diumiuouii. 

Druinmoiul (1.5S.5-iri40), " tlic first Scotcli poet who 
wrote well in English " fucconling to Soulhcy), was 
horn at llawlhonidcn, near Kdinburgli. His fatlicr. Sir 
Jolni Dnnnniond, licUI a situation abont the person of 
Janu'S VI, (allerward James I. of England). The poet 
studied law, but rclinriuislied it, ns his delight was iu 
lifcrature. Drayton and Ben .Tonson were among his 
friends ; and lie says of the latter, " He dissuaded me 
from poetry for tlial she had beggared him when he 
might have been a rich lawyer, physician, or merchant." 
Druminond reproduced the conventional Italian sonnet 
with success. He died, it is said, of grief at the execu- 
tion of Charles I. 



THK rXIVEKSE. 

Of this fair volume which we World do name, 
If wo the leaves and sheets could turn with care, — 
Of Him who it corrects ami did it frame 
We clear might read the art aiul wisdom rare, 
Find out His power, which wildest powers doth 

tame, 
His providence extending everywhere, 
His jimtico which proud rebels doth not spare, 
In every page and period of the same. 

' Crnslinw has vcrslllcd this Incident in Ills "Miixir'a DncI," 
which, like moBt linUnilons, |8 far Inrerlnr, in eimpllcily nnd 
point, to Ibe original. 



50 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN' POETRY. 



But silly ^ve, like foolish children, rest 
Well pleased with colored vellum, leaves of gold. 
Fair dangling ril)ands, leaving -nhat is best ; 
On the great Writei-'s sense ne'er taking hold ; 
Or, if by chance we stay our minds on aught. 
It is some picture on the margin wrought. 



MAN'S STRANGE ENDS. 

A good that never satisfies the mind, 

A beauty fading like the April flowers, 

A sweet with floods of gall that runs combined, 

A pleasure passing ere in tliought ni.ade ours. 

An honor that more fickle is than wind, 

A glory at opinion's frown that lowers, 

A treasury which bankrupt time devours, 

A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind, 

A vain delight our eqn.als to command, 

A style of greatness, in effect a dream, 

A swelling thought of holding sea and land, 

A servile lot decked with a pompous name, — 

Are the strange ends we toil for here below. 

Till wisest death malics us our errors know. 



THE HUNT. 

This world a hunting is ; 

The prey, jioor man ; the Nimrod fierce is Death ; 

His speedy greyhounds are, 

Lust, Sickness, Envj', Care, 

Strife that ne'er falls amiss, 

With all those ills which haunt us while wo 

breathe. 
Now, if by chance wo fly 
Of these the eager chase. 
Old Age with stealing pace 
Casts on his nets, and there we, panting, die. 



(Pcorge lUitljcr. 



Wither (158S-1GC7) was a native of Hampshire, and a 
prolific writer in James's reign. In 1013 he was impris- 
oned in the Marsbalsca for having written a satire called 
"Abuses Stript and Whipt." He was a Royalist luidcr 
Charles I., but cbauged his politics, and, liaving sold his 
estate, raised a troop of horse for the Parliament. Taken 
prisoner by the Royalists in 1C43, lie is said to have owed 
his life to Sir John Deubani, who requested the king not 
to hang Wither, because, while he lived, Dcnhara would 
not be thought tlic worst poet in England. Wither has 
been highly praised by Campbell, Sir Egerton Bi-ydges, 



Leigh Hunt, and Charles Lamb. He was styled by Philips 
( 1C7.5) " a most profuse jiourcr forth of English rhyme." 
A vein of lionesty, or at least earnestness in present con- 
viction, seems to run through his inconsistencies. He 
died in misery and obscurity, at the age of seventy-nine. 



COMPANIONSHIP OF THE MUSE. 

While iu the Marshalsea, Wither composed his poem of " The 
Shepherd's Hanti^^^" from the Fourth Eclogue of which the 
following extract is made. Iu it Roget (Wither) exhorts his 
frieud Willy (William Browne, author of "Britannia's Pasto- 
rals") not to give np poetry. The scene is supposed to he iu 
prison, where Browne visits him. 



And, though for her sake I'm crost. 
Though my best hopes I have lost ; 
And knew she would make my trouble 
Ten times more than ten times double ; 
I should love and keep her too, 
Spite of all the world could do. 
For, though banished from my flocks, 
And, confined withiu these roclvs. 
Here I waste away the light, 
And consume the sullen uiglit. 
She doth for my comfort stay. 
And keeps mauy cares away. 
* J* * » * # 

She doth tell me where to borrow 
Comfort iu the midst of sorrow ; 
Makes the desolatest place 
To her presence be a grace ; 
And the blackest discontents 
Be her fairest ornaments. 
In my former days of bliss. 
Her divine skill taught me this, 
Tliat from everything I saw, 
I could sonic invention draw, 
And raise pleasure to her height. 
Through the me.inest object's sight; 
By the murmur of a spring. 
Or the least bough's rustling. 
By a daisy, whose leaves spread, 
Slmt when Titan goes to bed ; 
Or a shady bush or tree, 
She could more infuse in me. 
Than all nature's beauties can 
Iu some other wiser man. 
By her help, I also now, 
Mal;e this churli.sh jdaco allow 
Some things tliat may sweeten gladness, 
In the very gall of sadness. 
The dull loneness, the black shade. 
That these hanging vaults have made ; 



GEORGE WITHER. 



51 



Tbc straugo music of tho waves, 
Uoatiiig on these hollow caves; 
This black ilea which rocks emboss, 
Overgrown with eldest moss; 
Tho nulc iiortals that give light, 
Jloro to terror than delight ; 
This my chamber of neglect. 
Walled about with disrespect; 
From all these, and this dull air, 
A fit object for desijair. 
She hath taiiglit mo by her might 
To draw comfort and delight. 

Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, 
I will cherish thee for this : 
Pocsie, thou sweet'st content 
That e'er Heaven to mortals lent. 
Though they as a tritio leave thee, 
AVhose dull thoughts cannot conecivo theo ; 
Though thou bo to them a scorn, 
That to naught but earth are born, — 
Let my life no longer bo 
Thau I am in love with thee ! 
Tliough our wise ones call it madness, 
Let me never taste of gladness. 
If I love not thy maddest tits 
Above all their greatest wits. 
And though some, too seeming holy, 
Do account thy raptures folly. 
Thou dost teach mo to contemn 
What makes knaves and fools of them. 



Tin: iii-.Avr.M.Y father and his errixg 

CHILD. 

Yet I confess in this my pilgrimage, 
I like some infant am, of tender age. 
For as the child who from his father hath 
Strayed in some grove thro' many a crookAl path, — 
Is sometimes hopeful that ho finds tho w.ay. 
And sometimes doubtful he runs more astray ; 
Sometime with fair anil easy paths doth meet, 
Simietimo witli rougher tracts that stay his feet; 
Hero goes, thiTO runs, and you amaz<?d stays, 
Tlieu cries, and straight forgets liis care, and plays: 
fben, hearing where his loving father calls, 
.Makvs haste, but, thro' a zeal ill-guided, falls ; 
Or runs gome other way, until that he 
(Wlioso love is more than his endeavors be) 
To seek the wanderer, forth himself doth come, 
And take him in his arms and bear him homo: — 
So in this life, this grove of ignorance. 
As to my homeward, I myself advance. 



Sometimes aright, and sometimes wrong I go, 
Sometimes my pace is sijoedy, sometimes slow : 
One while my ways are pleasant unto me, 
Another while as full of cares they be. 
I doubt and hope, ;ind doubt and hope again. 
And many a chauge of passion I sustain, 
lu this my journey, so that now and then 
I lost, jierhaps, may seem to other men, — 
Yea, to myself, awhile, when sins impure 
Do my Uedeemer's love from mo obscure ! 
But whatsoe'er betide, I know full well 
My Father, who above tho clouds doth dwell, 
An oyo upon his wandering child doth cast. 
And ho will fetch me to my home at last. 



VANISHED BLESSINGS. 

The voice which I did more esteem 
Than nuisic in her sweetest kej-, 
Those eyes which unto me did seem 
More comfortable than the day — 
Those now by me, as they have been, 
Shall never moro bo heard or seen ; 
But what I onco enjoyed in them 
Shall seem hereafter as a dream. 

All earthly comforts vanish thus ; 

So little hold of them have we. 
That we from them, or they from us. 

May in a moment ravished be. 
Yet we arc neither just nor wise, 
If present mercies we despise ; 
Or mind not how there may be made 
A thankful nso of what we had. 



I WILL SING AS I SHALL PLEASE. 

Pedants shall not tie my strains 
To our anti<|ue poets' veins; . 
As if we in later days 
Know to love, but not to praise; 
Being born as free as these, 
I will sing as I shall please, 
Who as well now ])aths may run, 
As tho best befiuo have done. 
I disdain to make my song 
For their pleasure short or long : 
If I please I'll end it here. 
If I lisi: I'll sing this year, 



52 



CTCLOP^DIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN RUETRY. 



Aud, though none regard of it, 

By myself I iileased cau sit, 

And with that contentment cheer me. 

As if half the world did hear me. 



SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR. 

Shall I, wasting in despair, 

Die because a woman's fair ? 

Or make itale my cheek with care, 

'Cause another's rosy are ? 

Be she fairer than the day, 

Or the flowery meads in May, 
If she be not so to me. 
What care I how fair she be ! 

Should my foolish heart be piued 

'Cause I see a woman kind ? 

Or a well-disposed nature 

Join&l with a lovely feature ? 

Be she meeker, kinder, than 

Turtle-dove or pelican, 

If she bo not so to me. 

What cave I how kind she be ! 

Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love ? 
Or, her merit's value known, 
Make me quite forget my own? 
Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may gain her name of hest, 
If she seem not such to me. 
What care I how good she bo ! 

'Cause her fortune seems too high. 
Shall I lilay the. fool and die ? 
Those that bear a noble mind. 
Where they want of riches find. 
Think what with them they would do 
Who, without them, dare to woo — 
Aud, unless that mind I see. 
What care I how great she be ! 

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
I will ne'er the more despair : 
If she love me, this believe, 
I will die ere she shall grieve : 
If she slight me when I woo, 
I cau scorn aud let her go : 
For, if slie bo not for me. 
What care I for whom she be ! 



iiljoiiias (Uarciu. 



Carcw (1589-1639), of an ancient Glouccstersliire fam- 
ily, was one of the courtier poets wlio clustered round 
the throne of Charles I. He produced some li^lit but 
eminently beautiful poems, and was one of the lirst who 
gave grace and polish to English lyrical verse. Late in 
life lie became very devout, aud deplored the licentious- 
ness of some of his poems. 



DISDAIN EETUKNED. 

He that loves a rosy cheek, 

Or a coral lip admires. 
Or from star-like eyes doth seek 

Fnel to maintain his fires ; 
As old Time makes these decay. 
So his flames must waste away. 

Bnt a smooth and steadfast mind. 
Gentle thoughts and calm desires, 

Hearts with equal love combined, 
Kindle never-dying fires. 

Where these are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 

No tears, Celia, now shall wiu 
My resolved heart to return ; 

I have searched thy soul within. 

And find naught but pride and scorn ; 

I have learned thy arts, and now 

Can disdain as much as thou. 

Some power, in my revenge, convey 

That love to her I cast away ! 



ON RETURNING HER LETTERS. 

So grieves the adventurous merchant, when he 

throws 
All the long-toiled-for treasure his ship stows 
Into the angry main to save from wrack 
Himself and men, as I grieve to give back 
These letters : yet so powerful is your sway. 
As, if you bid me die, I must obey. 
Go then, blest papers ! You shall kiss those 

hands 
Tliat gave you freedom, but hold me in bands ; 
Which with a touch did give you life; but I, 
Because I may not touch those hands, must die. 
« jf # * * * 

Tell her, no length of time, no change of air. 
No cruelty, disdaiu, absence, despair, 



THOMAS CAIlEtr.— iyiLLlAM JiliOWSE. 



53 



No, uor licr steadfast constancy, can deter 
My vassal heart from ever Louoriiig her. 
Though these be powerful arguments to iinive 
I love ill vain, yet I must ever love. 
Say, if she frown when you that word rehearee, 
.Service iu juosc is oft called love iu verse : 
Then pray her, since I send back on my part 
Her papers, she will send nic back my heart. 



MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED. 

tJivo lue more love, or more disdain, 
The torrid or the frozen zone 

Brings equal ease unto my iiain ; 
The temperate atfords mo none; 

Either extreme, of love or hate. 

Is sweeter than a calm estate. 

Give me a storm ; if it be love. 

Like Danac in that golden shower, 
I swim in pleasure ; if it prove 

Disdain, that torrent will devour 
My vultiirc-hopcs ; and he's possessed 
Of heaven that's but from hell relea.sed: 
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain ; 
(live me more love, or more disdain.' 



SONG. 

Ask me no more, where Jove bestows, 
When June is jiast, the fading rose ; 
Tor in your beauties' orient deep, 
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 

Ask me no more, whither do stray 
Tlie golden atoms of the day ; 
For, in puio love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more, whither doth haste 
Tlie nightingale, when May is p.ist ; 
l-'or ill your sweet dividing throat 
.Sbe winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me no more, where those stars light. 
That downward fall in dead of niglit ; 
For, in your eyes they sit, ami there 
Fixed become, as iu their sphere. 

' The idea mny be rnnnd \a nn old French paying, quoted by 
l.<iveliice: "IJitniic iiini plus de piiie cm plus dc creaiilte, cnr 
SI1U8 ce je lie puis paa Tivre, ue morir." 



Ask mo no more, if east or west. 
The phfTiiix builds her spicy nest ; 
For nnto you at last she flics. 
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 



llVilliam Crownc. 

Born in Devonshire (l.")00-104.5), Browne wiis educated 
at Oxford. He wrote "Britannia's Pastorals," "The 
Shcplierd's Pipe," "The Inner Temple Masque," and 
other poems. These were popular in his own day, but 
fell afterward into neglect. Tlic best of tlicm wore writ- 
ten before he was twenty years of age, and lie published 
none after thirty. "The Siren's Song" is one of the 
most precious felicities of genius. It is rare in literary 
history that so much promise is found so inex'plieably 
stunted and silenced by time. George Wither seems to 
have had a high estimate of Browuc's gifts, and wrote : 

" Thou art ynniis, yet such a Iiiy 
Xcver jjraccd tlic month of May, 
As (if they ])rovuke thy skill) 
Tlinii canst lit unto the quill.'' 



SHALL I TELL YOU AVMOM I LOVE? 

Shall I tell you whom I love f 
Hearken then awhile to me ; 

And if such a, woman move 
As I now shall ver.silie. 

lie a.ssiired 'tis she, or none. 

That I love, and love alone. 

Nature did her so much riglit. 
As she scorns the help of art ; 

111 as many virtues diglit 

As ne'er yet embraced .a heart : 

•So much good, so truly tried, — 

Some for less were deilicd. 

Wit she hath, without desire 

To make known how much she hath : 
And her anger tiaines no higher 

Than may fitly sweeten wrath : 
Full of pity as may be. 
Though, perhaps, not .so to me. 

Reason masters every sense, 

.\nd her virtues grace her birth ; 

Lovely as all exeelleiiee. 

Modest in her most of mirth ; 

Likelihood enough to prove 

Onlv worth coulil kindle love. 



54 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTISR AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Such she is ; and if you know- 
Such a one as I have sung, 

Be she brown, or fair, or so. 

That she he but soniewhile young ; 

Be assured 'tis she, or none, 

That I love, and love alone. 



THE SIREN'S SONG. 

From "The Inner Te^tple JIasque." 

Steer, hither steer your wiug^d iiines, 

All beaten mariners ! 
Here lie Love's undiscovered miues, 

A iirey to passeugers, — 
Perfumes far sweeter than the best 
Which make the jihffinix' urn and nest. 

Fear not your ships ; 

Nor any to oppose you, save our lips ; 
But come on shore. 
Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. 

For swelling waves, — our panting breasts, 

Where never storms arise, — 
Exchange, and be a while our guests ; 

For stars, gaze on our eyes ; 
The compass. Love shall hourly sing ; 
And, as he goes about the ring. 

We will not miss 

To tell each point he uameth with a kiss. 
Then come on shore, 
Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. 



tlobcrt fijcrrick. 



Hci-i'ick (1591-1674) was the son of a goldsmith of Lou- 
don. He was educated for the Church, aud obtained from 
Charles I. the living of Dean Prior, in Devonshire. From 
this he was ejected during the civil wars. His works con- 
sist chiefly of religious and Anacreontic poems in strange 
association ; aud his rank among the Ijric writers of his 
day is with tlie highest. He seems to liavc repented of 
the impure character of some of his verse, for he writes : 

"For those my unbaptized rhymes, 
Writ in my wild uuhallowed times — 
For every sentence, clause, and word 
That's not inlaid with thee, O Lord I 
For^rive me, God, .'ind blot each line 
Out of my book that is not thiue." 

Herriek's vein of poetry is of a high quality when he is 
at his best; but sometimes he sinks to mere doggerel. 
His verses to flowers, for wliieh lie seems to have had a 
genuine love, arc masterpieces of tenderness and grace. 



TO DAFFODILS. 

Fair daftbdils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon ; 
As yet the early rising suu 
Has not attained his uoou. 
Stay, stay, 
Until the hasting day 

Has run 
But to the even-soug ; 
And, having prayed together, we 
Will go with yon along. 

We have short time to stay as you, 

We have as short a spriug, 
As quick a growth to meet decay 
As yon or anything : 
We die 
As your hours do, aud dry 

Away, 
Like to the summer's rain, 
Or as the pearls of morning dew, 
Ne'er to be fouud again. 



NOT A PEOPHET EVERY DAY. 

'Tis not every day that I 
Fitted am to prophesy : 
No, but when the spirit fills 
The fantastic pannides ; 
Full of tire, then 1 write 
As the Godhead doth indite. 
Thus enraged, my lines are luirled. 
Like the Sibyl's, through the world : 
Look how next the holy fire 
Either slakes or doth retire ; 
So the fancy cools, till when 
That brave spirit comes again. 



ODE TO BEN JONSON. 

Ah, Ben ! 
Say, how or when 
Shall we, thy guests, 
Meet at those lyric feasts 

Made at the Suu, 
The Dog, the Triple Tun ; 
Where we such clusters had 
As made iis nobly wild, not mad, 
Aud yet each verse of thine 
Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wiue 1 



nOBEUT BERRICK. 



My Ben! 

Or come again, 

Or send to us 
Tliy wii's great overplus; 

Hut teaoli ns yet 
Wisi'ly to husl>ainl it, 
Lest wo that talent speud ; 
And having onco brought to an end 

That precious stock, the store 
Of siiih a wit, the world should have no more. 



LIT.VNY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT. 

In the hour of my distress, 
When temptations me oppress, 
And when I my sins confess. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort mo ! 

When I lie within my bed. 
Sick in heart, and sick iu Lead, 
Aud with doubts discomforted, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the house doth sigh aud weep, 
And the world is drowned iu sleep, 
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the artless doctor sees 
No one hope but of his fees, 
And his skill ruus on the lees, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me! 

When his potion and Iiis pill 
Has or none or little skill, 
Meet for nothing but to kill. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me I 

When the pa.ssing-bell doth toll, 
And the Furies iu a shoal 
Come to light a parting soul. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort inc ! 

When the tapers now burn blue, 

Anil the comforters are few. 

And that number more than tnic. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me I 

When the priest his last hath prayed. 
Ami I nod to what is said, 
'Cause my speech i» now decayed. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort mc ! 



When God knows I'm tossed about 
Lither with despair or doubt, 
Yet, before the glass be out. 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

Wbi 11 tho Temiiter me pursu'lh 
With tho sins of all my youth. 
Aud half damns mo with untruth, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort mo ! 

When the flames and hellish cries 
Friglit mine cars, and fright mine eyes, 
And all terrors me surprise, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the judgment is revealed. 

And that opened which was sealed, — 

When to thee I have appealed, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 



NIGHT-PIECE TO JULLV. 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
The shooting-stars attend thee ; 

Aud the elves, also. 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like tho sparks of fire, befriend thee ! 

No will-o'-the-wisp misliglit thee, 
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee ! 

But on, ou thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

Let not tho dark thee cumber ; 

What though tho moon does slumber f 
The stars of tho night 
Will lend thee their light. 

Like tapers clear without number. 

Tlieu, Julia, let me woo thee 
Thus, thus to come unto me ; 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet. 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 



TO liLOSSOJIS. 

Fair ]dedges of a fruitful tree, 
Why do ye fall so fast f 
Your date is not so post 



56 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



But you may stay yet here a while 
To Ijlush and gently smile, ' 
And go at last. 

What ! were ye born to be 

An hour or half's delight, 
And so' to bid good-night? 

'Twas pitjT Nature brought yo forth 
Merely to show your worth 
And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave : 

And after they have shown their pride, 
Like you, a while, they glide 
Into the grave. 



the 



TO CORINNA, TO GO A-MAYING. 

Get up, get up! for shame! the blooming morn 
Upon her wings presents the god uushorn. 
See how Aurora throws her fair 
Fresh-qniltcd colors through the air ! 
Get up, sweet slng-a-bed, and see 
The dew bespangling herb and tree. 
Each flower has wept, and bowed toward 

east. 
Above an hour since ; yet you not drest — 
Nay, not so much as out of bed ? 
When all the birds have matins said, 
And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin. 
Nay, profanation, to keep in, 
When as a thousand virgins on this day 
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. 



Kise, and put on your foliage, and be seen 
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and 
green. 
And sweet as Flora. Take no care 
For jewels for your gown or hair ; 
Fear not, the leaves will strew 
Gems in abundance upon you ; 
Besides, the childhood of tlie day has kept 
Against you come soiue orient pearls unwept: 
Come, and receive them while the light 
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night. 
And Titan on the castei-n hill 
Retires himself, or else stands still 
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in pray- 
ing : 
Few beads are best wheu ouce we go a-Mayiiig. 



Come, ray Coriuua, come, and conjing, mark 
How each field turns a street, each street a park. 
Made green, and trimmed with trees; see how 
Devotion gives each Louse a bough 
Or branch ; each porch, each door, ere this 
An ark, a tabernacle is. 
Made up of white thorn neatly interwove, 
As if hero were those cooler shades of love. 
Can such delights be in the street 
And open fields, and wo not see't ? 
Come, we'll abroad, and let's obey 
The proclamation made for May, 
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying ; 
But, my Coriuua, come, let's go a-Maying. 

There's not a budding boy or girl this day 
But is got up and gone to bring in 5Iay. 
A deal of youth, ere this, is come 
Back, and with white thorn laden, home ; 
Some have despatched their cakes and cream 
Before that we have left to dream ; 
And some have wept, aud wooed, and plighted troth. 
And cho.se their iiriest, ero wc can cast oti" sloth ; 
Many a green gown lias been given ; 
Many a kiss, both odd and even ; 
Many a glance, too, has been sent 
From out the eye, love's firmament ; 
Many a jest told of the keys' betraying 
This night, and locks picked ; yet we're not a-May- 



Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, 
And take the harmless folly of the time. 

We shall grow old apace, aiul die. 

Before we know our liberty. 

Our life is short, and our days run 

As fast away as does the snu ; 
And as a vapor, or a drop of rain, 
Once lost, can ne'er be found again, 

So when or you or I are made 

A fable, song, or fleeting shade. 

All love, all liking, all delight. 

Lies drowned with us in endless night. 
Tlion while time serves, and we are but decaying, 
Come, my Coriuua, come, let's go a-Maying. 



TO DL\NEME. 

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes 
Wliich, starlike, sparkle in their skies ; 
Nor be you proud that you can see 
All hearts your captives — yours yet free; 



FIIANCIS QCAULES. 



57 



Bo you not proiul of tliat rich hair 
Which wantons willi tho lovesick air; 
Wlicii as that niby which you wear, 
Sunk friiin the tip of your soft oar, 
Will last to he a precious stoiio 
When all your world of beauty's gone. 



TRAYKU TO lUCN JOXSOX. 

Wlien I a verse shall make, 
Know I have prayed thee. 

For old religion's sake, 
Saiut Ben, to aid inc. 

Make the way smooth for nic. 
When I, thy Herrick, 

Honoring thee on my kuce, 
OU'er my lyric. 

Candles I'll give to thee, 

And a new altar ; 
And thou, Saint Ben, slialt bo 

Writ in my Psalter. 



THE PRIMROSE. 

Ask mo why I send you here 
This sweet lufauta of the year ? 

Ask mo why I send to you 
This Primrose, thus bepcarled with dew ? 

I will whisper to your ears. 
The sweets of love are mixed with tears. 

Ask mc why this flower does show 
So yellow-green, ami sickly too f 

Ask me why the stalk is weak 
And bending, yet it doth not break f 

I will :jns\ver. These discover 
What fainting hopes are in a lover. 



-fiaiu'iG cDuailcs. 

Qunrlcs (1.59a-lG44), though quaint and fant.isHe in his 
style, is the author of some genuine poetical utterances. 
Ho seems to have disobeyed the ndvlcc he gave to oth- 
iTs— "Clothe not thy langna^e cith.cr witli obscurity or 
iilTietiition." He was extravagantly lauded in Iiis dny. 
I'hillips iWuTi) calls him "the darlhur of oar plebeian 
ju(li;mint?." Anotlier aclniir<T styles him "that swecl 
serapli of our nation, Quarles." Numerous editions of 
his "Emblems" have appeared even during this centu- 



ry. Hisl)octry is strongly tinctured with religious feel- 
ing. Tills docs not seem to liavc saved him from Puritan 
prosecution. He had his heart broken by tlie destruc- 
tion of his property, and especially of his rare library. 
He had, by the llrst of liis two wives, eighteen children, 
and died, much troubled, in 1044. .lohn Quarles, his son, 
wlio died of the plague in l(ilJ5, inherited much of his fa- 
ther's poetical ability. 



THE VANITY OF THE WOKLD. 

False world, lliou liest : tliou canst not lend 

Tlio le.ist delight ; 
Thy favors cannot gain a friend, 

Tliiy are .so slight ; 
Thy morning ])leasnrcs make an end 

To please; at niglit : 
Poor are the wants that thou supplicst. 
And yet thou vannt'st, and yet thon viest 
With heaven. Fond earth, thou boast'st ; 
world, thou liest. 



false 



Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales 

Of en<lless treasure; 
Thy boHuty oft'ers easy sales 

Of lasting pleasure ; 
Thou ask'sfc the conscience what she ails. 

And swcar'st to ease her: 
There's iu>no can want where thou supplicst. 
There's none can give where thon deniest. 
Alas! fond world, thou boast'st; false world, thou 
liest. 

What Well-advised ear regards 

Wliat earth can say t 
Thy words are gold, but thy rewards 

Are painted clay : 
Thy cunning can but pack the cards, 

Thon cau.st not play : 
Thy game at weakest still thon viest; 
If seen, and tlieu revii'd, deniest: 
Thou art not what tlion seem'st ; false world, thou 
liest. 

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint 

Of new-coined treasure ; 
A paradise that has no stint. 

No change, no nu'.asure ; 
A painted cask, hnt nothing in't, 

Xor wealth, nor pleasure. 
Vain cartli ! tliat falsely tlius complicst 
With man! Vain man! tliat tliou reliest 
On earlli ! Vain man, thou dot'st ; vain earth, ihou 
liest. 



58 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISR AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



What mean, dull souls ! in tWs high measure 

To babeidash 
In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure 

Is dross and trash ! 
The height of whose enchanting pleasure 

Is but a Hash! 
Are these the goods that thou suppliest 
Us mortals with ? Are these the high'st ? 
C'au these bring eordial peace 1 False world, thou 
liest ! 



DELIGHT IN GOD ONLY. 

I love (and have some cause to love) the earth : 
She is my Maker's creature — therefore good ; 
She is my mother, for she gave me birth ; 
She is my tender nurse — sbe gives me food. 

But what's a creature. Lord, compared with thee? 

Or what's my mother or my nurse to me ? 

I love the air : her dainty sweets refresh 

My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me ; 

Her shrill -mouthed quire sustain me with their 
llcsb. 

And with their polyphonian notes delight me: 
But what's the air, or all the sweets that she 
Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee ? 

I love the sea : she is my fellow-ereature, 

My careful purveyor; she provides me store; 

She walls me round ; she makes my diet greater ; 

She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore : 
But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee, 
AVliat is the ocean or her wealth to me f 

To heaven's high city I direct my journey. 
Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye ; 
Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney. 
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky : 
But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee t 
Witliout thy presence, heaven's no heaven to me. 

Without thy jiresence earth gives no refection ; 

Without thy presence sea affords no treasure ; 

Without thy presence air's a rank infection ; 

Without thy presence heaven itself no pleasure: 
If not possessed, if not enjoyed in thee. 
What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to mo ? 

The highest honors that the world can boast 
Are subjects far too low for my desire ; 
The brightest beams of glory are at most 
But dying siiarkles of thy living fire ; 



The loudest flames that earth can kindle be 

But nightly glow-worms, if compared to thee. 

AVithout thy presence wealth is bags of cares ; 

Wisdom but folly ; joy disquiet, sadness ; 

Friendship is treason, and delights are snares ; 

Pleasures but pains, and mirth but pleasing mad- 
ness : 
Without thee. Lord, things be not what they be. 
Nor have thej- being, when compared with thee. 

In having all things, and not thee, what have I ? 

Not having thee, what have my labors got ? 

Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I ? 

And having thee alone, what have I not ? 
I wish nor sea nor laud ; nor would I be 
Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of thee. 



fjcuri) King. 



King, bishop of Chichester (1591-1009), was the author 
of poems, elegies, and sonnets. His monody on his wife, 
wlio died before lier twenty-fifth year, is beautiful and 
tender, containing the germ of some famous passages by 
modern poets. 



FROM THE EXEQUY ON HIS AVIFE. 

Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint. 

Instead of dirges this complaint ; 

And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse, 

Receive a strew of weeping verse 

From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see 

Quite melted into tears for thee. 

Dear loss! since thy uutimely fate, 
My task has been to meditate 
On thee, on thee : thou art the book, 
The library, whereon I look, 
Though almost blind. For thee, loved clay, 
I languish out, not live, the day. 
Using no other exercise 
But what I practise with mine eyes, 
By which wet glasses I tiud out 
How lazily time creeps about 
To one that mourns ; this, only this. 
My exercise and business is : 
So I compute the weary hours 
With sighs dissolved into showers. 

Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed, 
Never to be disquieted ! 
My last good-uight ! Thou wilt not wake 
Till I thy fate shall overtake ; 



HESBT EiyG.—BARTEN HOLTDAT. 



59 



Till age, or grief, or sickness must 

Marry my body to tliat ilust 

It so much loves, and fill tlio room 

My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. 

Stay lor me there: 1 will not fail 

To meet thee in that hollow vale. 

Aud think not much of my delay ; 

I am already on the way, 

And follow thee with all the speed 

Desire can make or sorrows breed. 

Each minnte is a short degree. 

And every honr a step toward thee. 

At uight when I betake to rest, 

Next mora I rise nearer my west 

Of life almost by eight honrs' sail 

Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale. 

Tims from the sun my bottom steers, 

And my day's compass downward bears, 

Nor labor I to stem the tide 

Tbrongh which to thee I swiftly glide. 

'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield. 
Thou, like the van, first took'st the field, 
And gotten hast tlie victory, 
In thus adventuring to die 
Before me, whose more years might crave 
A just precedence in the grave. 
But hark ! my pulse, like a soft drum. 
Beats my aiiproach, tells thee I come; 
And slow howc'er my marches be, 
1 shall at last sit down by thee. 

The thought of this bids me go on, 
And wait my dissolution 
With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive 
The crime I). I am content to live 
Divided, with but half a heart, 
Till we shall meet and never part. 



SIC VITA. 

Like to the falling of a star, 
Or as the flights of eagles are ; 
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy line. 
Or silver drops of morning dew ; 
Or like a wind that chafes the Hood, 
Or bubbles which on water stood — - 
Kvcn sncU is man, whose bon'owcd light 
Is straight called iu aud paid to-night. 
The wind blows out ; the bubble dies ; 
The spring entomlied in autumn lies; 
Tlie dew dries up; the star is shot; 
The flight is past — and man forgot I 



Cartcn ijohiiitir). 



A native of Oxford (I593-l{j01), Ilolyday became chap- 
lain to Charles I., and Archdeacon of Oxford. He trans- 
lated .Juvenal, aud wrote a "Survey of the World," a 
poem eontainiui; a thousand disliehs, from which we cull 
the following speeiuicns, taken from Trench's collection. 
They will repay study. 



DISTICHS. 

River is time in water; as it came, 
Still so it flows, yet never is the same. 

I wake, aud so new live : a night's protection 
Is a new wonder whiles a resurrection. 

The sun's up, yet myself and (Jod most bright 
I cau't see ; I'm too dark, and he's too light. 

Clay, sand, and rock seem of a dill'erent birth ; 
So men: some still', some loose, some firm — all 
earth ! 

By red, green, blue, which sometimes paint the air. 
Guilt, pardon, heaven, the rainbow docs declare. 

The world's a piison ; no man can get out : 

Let the atheist storm then ; Heaven is round about. 

The rose is but the flower of a brier; 
The good man has an Adam to his sire. 

The dying mole, some say, opens his eyes : 
The rich, till 'tis too late, will not bo wise. 

Pride cannot see itself by mid-day light ; 
The peacock's tail is farthest from his sight. 

The swallow's a swift arrow, that may show 
With what an instant swiftness life doth flow. 

The nightingale's a qnire — no single note. 
Oh, various power of God in one small throat ! 

The silkworm's its own wonder : without loom 
It docs provide itself a silken room. 

Herodotus is history's fresh youth ; 
Thucydides is judgment, age, and truth. 

In Badness, M.ichiavel, thou didst not well 
To help the world to faster run to hell. 



60 



CYCLOPJIDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEHICAX I'OETIiT. 



Down, pickaxe! to the depths for gold let's go; 
We'll uudeniiiiic Pern. Isn't heaven below ? 

Who grilles too much casts all upon the ground ; 
Too great a greatness greatness doth confound. 

All things are wonder since the world began : 
The world's a riddle, and the meaning's man. 

Father of gifts, who to the dust didst give 
Life, say to these uiy meditations, Live ! 



iJamcs Sljirlcji. 



Sliii-lcy (1596-lGnC), born in London, was the last of the 
Elizabethan dramatists. Indications of the true poet 
flasli out in many passages of his phiys. But his narrow 
circumstances probably prevented him from giving his 
genius fair scope. He wrote for bread, and lived on into 
the reign of Charles II. The gfeat fu-e of 1606 burnt 
him out of house and home ; and a little after, in one of 
the suburbs of London, his wife and he died on the same 
day. Shirley took orders in the English Church, b\it left 
his living on being converted to the Cliurch of Rome. 
" Gentle, modest, and full of sensibility," says bis biog 
rapher, "he seems to have conciliated the affection of all 
his associates." 



DEATH'S CONQUESTS. 

This famous little pncni oppears iu Shirley's oue-act di-am.T 
of "The Coiiteiitiim of .\jax and Ulysses," aud is siipposcil lo 
be recited or SHng by C'nlchas hefure tile dc.id body of A.iax. 
Oklys refers to it as " the fine song which old Bowm.an used to 
sing to King Charles II., aud which he has often sung to me." 

The glories of our blood and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things; 
There is no armor against fate ; 

Death lays his icj' hands on kings. 
Sceptre and crown 
Mnst tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap tlie field. 
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
But their strong nerves at last mnst yield ; 
They tame but one another still. 
Early or late. 
They stoop to fate, 
And must give np their murmuring breath, 
When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

Tlie garlaiuls wither on your brow. 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds : 



Upon Death's pnrple altar now, 

See where the victor-victim bleeds. 

Your' heads must come 

To the cold tomb ; 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom iu their dust. 



C&cov^c fjcvbcvt. 



Herbert (1.593-1633) was the brother of Lord Ilerlicrt 
of C'herbury, the deistic mystic. Disappointed in court 
advancement by the death of James I., George took holy 
orders, and earned the appellation of " Holy " by his ex- 
emplary discharge of Ids sacred office. His style, like 
that of so many of Ids brother poets, is founded on the 
manner of his friend Donne. The volume of his poems, 
still often republished, is entitled "The Temple." He 
died at the early age of thirty-niuc. 



MAN. 



My God! I heard this day 
That none doth bnild a stately habitation 
Hut he that means to dwell therein. 
What house more stately liath there been, 
Or can he, than is Man, to whose creation 
All things are iu decay ? 

For Man is everything, 
And more: he is a tree, yet bears no fruit; 
A beast, yet is, or should be, nmre : 
Eeason aud speech we only bring. 
Parrots may thank ns, if tliey are not mute. 
They go upon the score. 

Man is all symmetry, 
Full of proportions, one limb to another, 
And all to all the world besides : 
Each part may call the farthest brother ; 
For head with foot hath private amity, 
And both with moons and tides. 

Notlung has got so far 
But Man hath caught aud kept it as his prey. 
His eyes dismount the Inglicst star; 
He is iu little all the sphere ; 
Herbs gladly cure his ilesh, because that they 
Fiud their acquaintance there. 

For ns the winds do blow, 
The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains 
flow : 



GEORGE UEKBEIIT. — WILLIAM STRODE. 



Gl 



Nothing wc see but means our good, 
A8 our delight or as our treasure : 
The whole is either our cupboard of food, 
Or cabinet of pleasure. 

The stars have us to bed ; 
Night draws the curtain which the sun withdraws; 
Music and light attend our head ; 
All things unto our llesh are kind 
lu their descent and beiug ; — to our uiiud, 
In their ascent and cause. 

Each thing is full of duty : 
Waters, united, aro our navigation ; 
Distingnish<5d, our habitation; 
Below, our drink ; above, our meat ; 
Both aro our cleanliness. Hath on(^ such beauty? 
Then how arc all things neat .' 

More servants wait on Man 
Than he'll take notice of; in every path 

Ho treads down that which doth befriend him 

When sickness makes him palo and wan. 
O mighty Love ! Man is one world, and Lath 

Another to attend him. 

Since, then, my God, thou hast 
So bravo a palace bnilt, oh, dwell in it. 

That it may dwell with thee at last! 

Till then afl'ord us so much wit. 
That, as the world serves us, wo may servo thee. 

And both thy servants be. 



THE ELIXIR. 

Teach me, my God and King, 
In all things thee to see ; 

And what I do in anything, 
To do it as for thee : 

Not rudely, as a beast. 

To run iuto an action ; 
But still to make thee preposses.scd, 

.Vnd give it his perfection. 

A man that looks on gla.ss. 

On it may stay his eye ; 
Or, if he pleaseth, through it- pass. 

And then the heaven espy. 

All may of thee partake ; 
Nothing can be so mean 



Which with liis tincture, for thy sake, 
Will not grow bright and clean. 

A servant, with this clause. 

Makes drudgery divine : 
Who sweeps a rocun as for thy laws 

Makes that and the action tine. 

Tills is the famous stono 

That turneth all to gold ; 
For that which God doth touch and owu 

Caunot for less bo told. 



SWEET DAY. 

Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright! 
Tile bridal of the earth and sky ! 
Tlie dew shall weep thy fall to-night, 
For thou must die. 

Sweet Rose ! whoso hue, angry and brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ; 
Thy root is ever in its grave. 
And thou must die. 

Sweet Spring ! full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie ! 
My music shows ye have your closes ; 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul. 
Like seasoned timber, never gives; 
But, though the wludc world turn to coal, 
Then chiclly lives. 



llHlliciin Strobe. 



This .necomplislicd divine was born in Devonshire 
aljout iriOS; (lied 1(>44. His scattered poetical i>icce3 
have never been collected into a volume. lie was in- 
stalled Canon ofChristchurch in lUSS. 



MUSIC. 



When whispering strains with creeping wind 
Distil soft passions through the heart; 
.\nd when at every touch wc (iiid 
Our pulses beat and bear a part ; 

When threads can make 

."V lieartstring ache, 



62 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Philosophy 

Can scarce deny 

Our souls are made of harmouy. 

When unto heavenly joys Tve faine 
Whate'er the soul affecteth most, 
AVhich only thus we can exjilaiu 
By music of the heavenly host, 

Whose lays, we think, 

Make stars to wink ; 

Philosophy 

Can scarce deny 

Our souls consist of harmony. 

Oh, lull me, lull me, charming air! 
My senses rock with wonder sweet ! 
Lilce snow ou wool thy fallings are ; 
Soft like a spirit's are thy feet ! 

Grief who needs fear 

That hath an ear ? 

Down let him lie. 

And slumbering die, 

And change his soul for harmony. 



!2lnonijmous aub illiGccllancous |]Jocms 
of tijc loti) aiii) lUtl) (Centuries. 



CHEVY CHASE. 

Anonymous. 

A "chevanchee" (corrupted iuto Chevy Chase) is the French 
word for a raid over the euemy's border. It represented such 
attacks as were often made by the Scots against England. The 
famons battle of Otterburn, in 138S, came of a "chevauchee." 
The corrupted name was transhited iuto tlie "nuuting of (he 
Cheviot," a confusiun easily made, since there are Cheviot Hills 
in Northumberland as well as in Otterburn. In the oldest ex- 
taut version of "Chevy Chase," the name means " the Cheviot 
huuting-grouud." It is claimed that the old ballad of " The 
Huutiug of the Cheviot" has priority over this, which is proba- 
bly not older than the time of James I. It is the versiou of 
which Addison said, *'The old soug of Chevy Chase is the fa- 
vorite ballad of the common people of England ; and Ben Jon- 
sou used to s.ay he had rather been the author of it than of all 
his works." 

God prosper long our noble king. 

Our lives and safeties all! 
A woeful hunting once there did 

In Chevy Chase befall. 

To drive the deer witli hound and horn 
Earl Piercy took his way : 



The child may rue that was unborn 

The hunting of that day! 

The stout Earl of Northumberland 

A vow to God did make. 
His pleasure in the Scottish woods 

Three summer days to take, 

The chicfest harts in Chevy Chase 

To kill and bear away. 
These tidings to Earl Douglas came, 

In Scotland where ho lay. 

Who sent Earl Piercy present word 

Ho would prevent the sport. 
The EiiglLsh Earl, not fearing him, 

Did to the woods resort, 

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold. 

All chosen men of might, 
Who knew full well in time of need 

To aim their .shafts ariglit. 

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran 

To chase the fallow-deer ; 
Ou Monday they began to bunt, 

When daylight did appear; 

And long before high noon they had 

A hundred fat bucks slain. 
Then, having dined, the drivers went 

To rouse the deer again. 

The bowmen mustered on the hills. 

Well able to endure ; 
And all their rear with special care 

That day was gutirded sure. 

Tlie hounds ran swiftly through tlie woods 

The nimble deer to take, 
And with their cries the hills and dales 

An echo shrill did make. 

Earl Piercy to the quarry went 

To view the tender deer ; 
Quoth he, "Earl Douglas promised once 

This day to meet me here ; 

" But if I thought ho would not come. 

No longer would I stay." 
With that a brave young gentleman 

Thus to the Earl did say: 



JXOXTMOUS AXD MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



63 



•' Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come, 

His men in armor bright, 
Full twenty linudrcd Scottish spears 

All marching in our sight ; 

"All men of pleasant Tividalo, 

Fast by the river Tweed." 
" Ob, ceaso yonr sports," Earl Picrcy said, 

"And take your bows with si)eed; 

"And now with me, my countrymen, 

Your courage forth advance ; 
For there was never champion yet, 

In Scotland nor in France, 

"That ever did on horseback come, 

But, if my hap it were, 
I dnrst encounter man for man. 

With him to break a spear." 

Earl Douglas, on a niilk-wlnto steed. 

Most like a l)aion bold, 
Rode foremost of his company, 

Whoso armor shone like gold. 

" Show me," said he, " whoso men you bo 

That hunt so boldly here ; 
That without my consent do chase 

And kill my fallow-deer." 

The first man tliat did answer make 

Was noblo Piercy, he, — 
Who said, " We list not to declare 

Nor sliow whose men w<i be ; 

"Yet will wo spend our dearest blood 

The chicfest harts to slay." 
Then Douglas swore a solemn oiith, 

And thus in rage did say : 

"Ero thus I will outbrav(jd bo 

One of us two shall die ! 
I know thee well ! an earl thou art, 

Lord Picrcy ! So am I. 

" But trust me, Piercy, pity it were. 

And great ofl'ence, to kill 
Any of these our harmless men, 

For they have done no ill. 

"Let thou and I th<' Iiattle try, 

And set our men asiili'." 
"Accurst bo he," Lord I'icrcy said, 

" By whom this is denied." 



Then stepped a gallant squire forth, — 
Witherington was his name, — 

Willi said, " I would not have it told 
To Henry our king, for shame, 

"That e'er my captain fought on foot. 

And I stand looking on: 
You two bo Earls," said Witherington, 

"And I a Squire alone. 

'•ni do tlie best that do I may, 
While I have jiower to stand ! 

While I have power to wield my sword, 
rU tight with heart and hand !" 

Our Knglish archers bent their bows — 
Their hearts were good and true, — 

At tho tirst llight of arrows sent 
Full fourscore Soots they slew. 

To drive the deer with hound and liorn 

Douglas biido on tho bent ; 
Two captains moved with mieklo might — 

Their spears in shivers went. 

They closed full fast on every side, 
No slackness tliero was found. 

But many a gallant gentleman 
Lay gasping on tho ground. 

O Christ I it was great grief to see 
How each man clioso liis spear. 

And how the blood out of their breasts 
Did gush like water clear! 

At last these two stout Earls did meet. 
Like captains of great miglit : 

Like lions moveil, they laid on load, 
They made a cruel fight. 

They fought until they both diil sweat 
With swords of tempered steel, 

Till blood upon their cheeks, like rain. 
They trickling down did feel. 

"Oh, yield thee, Piercy!" Douglas said, 
"And in faith I will thee bring 

Where thou shall high advancM bo 
By James, our Scottish king. 

"Tliy ransom I will fncly give. 

And this report of thee : 
Thou art tho most courageous knight 

That ever I did sec." 



64 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BltlTISH AXD AilEUICAN FOETUY. 



" No, Douglas !" qnotli Lord Piercy then, 

" Thy profter I Jo scorn ; 
I will nut yield to any Scot 

That ever yot was horn !'' 

With that there came an arrow keen 

Ont of an English bow, 
Wliicli strnck Earl Douglas to the heart 

A deep and deadly blow ; 

Who never spake more words than these : 
" Fight on, my merry men all ! 

For why ? uiy life is at an end ; 
Lord Fiercy sees my fall." 

Then, leaving strife. Earl Piercy took 

The dead man by the hand, 
And said, "Earl Douglas! fur thy life 

Wonld I had lost my land ! 

" Christ ! my very heart doth bleed 

Witli sorrow for thy sake ! 
For snre a more renowned knight 

Mischance did never take !" 

A knight amongst the Scots there was, 

"Who saw Earl Donglas die, 
Who straight in wrath did vow revenge 

Upon the Lord Piercy. 

Sir Hngh Montgomery he was called. 
Who, with a spear full bright. 

Well monnted on .a gallant steed, 
Ban iiercely through the fight : 

He p.asscd the English archers all 

Without a dread or fear. 
And through Earl Piercy's body then 

He thrnst his hateful spear. 

Witli such a vehement force and might 

His body ho did gore, 
Tlie stall' ran through the other side 

A large cloth-yard and more. 

So thus did both those nobles die. 
Whose courage none could stain. 

An English archer then perceived 
The noble Earl was slain : 

He had a l)0w beut in his hand 
, Made of a trusty tree ; 
An arrow of a cloth-yard long 
Uuto the head drew he: 



Against Sir Hugh Montgomery, 

So right the shaft he set, 
The gray goose-wing that was thereon 

In his heart-blood was wet. 

This fight did last from bre.ik of day 

Till setting of tlie sun, 
For when they rung the evening bell 

The battle scarce was done. 

With stout Earl Piercy there were slaiu 

Sir John of Ogerton, 
Sir Robert Ratclitl'e and Sir John, 

Sir James, that bold baron ; 

And with Sir George and stout Sir James, 
Both knights of good account. 

Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain, 
Whose prowess did surmount. 

For Witheringtou needs must I wail, 

As one in doleful dumps ; 
For when his legs were smitten off, 

He fought upou his stumps. 

And with Earl Douglas there were slain 

Sir Hugh Montgomery ; 
Sir Charles Carrel, that from the field 

One foot would never fly ; 

Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliffe too, — 

His sister's son was he, — 
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed. 

Yet saved he could not be. 

And the Lord Maxwell, in like case, 

Did with Earl Douglas die ; 
Of twenty hundred Scottish sjiears 

Scarce fift.y-fivo did fly. 

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen 

Went home but fifty-three ; 
The rest were slain in Chevy Chase, 

Under the greenwood tree. 

Next day did many widows come, 

Their husbands to bewail ; 
They washed their wounds in brinish tears. 

But all would not prevail. 

Their bodies, bathed in purple blood, 

They bore with them away; 
They kissed them dead a thousand times 

When they were clad in clay. 



AyOXTMOUS AXD MJSCELLASEOrS I'OEMS. 



(m 



This news was brouglit to Eiliuburgb, 
Wlicrc Scotlaml's king (liil reign, 

That bravo Earl Douglas siuldeuly 
Was with au arrow slaiu. 

" Ob, heavy news I" King James did say ; 

" Scotland can witness bo 
I have not any captain more 

Of such account as he !" 

Like tidings to Kiug Henry came 

Within as short a space, 
That riiTcy of Xorthumberland 

Was slain in Chevy Chase. 

"Now God bo with him!" said our king, 

"Sitli 'twill no better be; 
I trust I have within my realm 

Five hundred good as he ! 

" Yet shall not Scot nor Scotland say 

But I will vengeance take, 
And be revenged on tliera all 

For brave Lord Piercy's sake." 

This vow full well the kiug performed 

After on Humble Down; 
In one <lay fifty knights were slain, 

With lords of great renown; 

And of tho rest, of small account, 

Did many huudicds die : 
Thus ended the hunting in Chevy Chase 

Made by the Earl Piercy. 

God save tbe King, aud bless the laud 

In plenty, joy, and peace ! 
Aud grant henceforth that foul debate 

Twixt noblemen may cease .' 



SIR PATHICK SPEXS. 

ANOMMOCs. 

There has been much dispnte as to Itic historical gi'ouiids for 
Ihis liiillnil, Hvled by Coleridge "the grand old ballad of Sir 
Patrick Spen!*.'" The wci-iht of lesiimony is in favor of ite rc- 
ferrinir to the fate of an expedition which in 12S1 carried one 
Lady Mnrgnrct to Nor^vny, na the bride of Kin^ Eric. Mr. 
Robert C'bainbera translates from Fordonu this accomit of the 
incident : "In 12SI, Margaret, danshtcr of Alexander III., naa 
married to the King of Norway; leaving Scotland on the last 
day of .Inly, she was conveyed thither in noble style, in com- 
pany with many knights and nobles. In nturnilig home, after 
the celebration of her nnptial-, the Abbot of Ualinerinork, Der- 
nard of 3Ionte-.Mt<i, nnd many other persons were drowned." 
But why, if the cxpedlllou eailed "tbe l.tst day of Jnly," should 
6 



Sir Pnlrick object to "the lime of the year?" Perhaps the 
best answer will be. We mnst not hold ballad-makers to too 
strict an account. Percy's version differs considerably from 
the following, which will be found to conform pretty closely to 
Waller Scott's edition, "made up from two MS. Cfipics, collated 
with several verses recited by a friend." The versions given 
by Scott, Jamieson, linchau, Motherwell, Alliugbam, nud Rob- 
erts all seem to diDTer. 

The king sits in Dunfermliuo town, 

Drinking the bltide-rcd wine : 
"Oh where Avill I get a skeely skipp(?r,' 

To sail this new ship o' mine f" 

Then up and spake an elderu knight, 

Sat at tho king's right knee : 
" Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 

That ever sailed tho sett." 

The king has written a braid letter, 

Anil scaled it wi' his hand, 
Aud sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 

Was walking ou the strand. 

"To Noroway, to Noroway, 

To Noroway o'er the faem ; 
The king's daughter of Noroway, 

'Tis thon muuii bring her hame." 

The fir.st line that Sir Patrick read, 

A loud langli l.iughod he : 
The neist line that Sir I'atiiek read. 

The tear bliudit his e'e. 

"Oh wha is this li;is done tliis deed. 

Hits taiild the king o' me. 
To send us out at this time o' the year 

To sail upon the sea ? 

" I5e 't wind or weet. be 't hail or sleet. 

Our sliip maun sail the; faeiu ; 
The king's d.iiighter of Noioway, 

'Tis we inauu fi'tcii her hame." 

They hoysod their sails on Moueuday morn, 

Wi' a' the speed they may; 
Aud they ha'e laiidetl in Norow.iy 

I'pipii a Wodensday. 

They liadu.t been a week, a week, 

In Noroway but twae, 
When that the lords o' Norow.iy 

Began aloud to say : 

' A skilful captain. 



66 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AilEBICAN POETBT. 



" Ye Scottishmeu speud a' our king's gowd, 

And a' our queeuis fee." 
" Ye Ice, ye lee, ye leears loud ! 

Fii' loud I hear ye lee ! 

"For I brought as much o' the white nionie 

As gaue' uiy meu and me, 
Aud a half-fou''' o' the gude red gowd. 

Out o'er the sea with me. 

" Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a' ! 

Our gude ship sails tlie morn." 
" Now, ever alake ! my master dear, 

I fear a deadlj' storm. 

"I saw the new moon, late yestreen, 

^Vi' the auld moon in her arm ; 
And if we gang to sea, master, 

I fear we'll come to harm !" 

They hadna sailed a league, a league, 

A league, hut harely three. 
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew 
loud. 

And giu'ly grew the sea. 

The ankers brak, and the top-masts lap, 

It was sic a deadly storm ; 
Aud the waves cam' o'er the broken ship, 

Till a' her sides were torn. 

" Oh where will I get a gude sailor 

Will tak' the helm in hand. 
Till I gae up to the tall top-mast, 

To see if I can spy laud ?" 

" Oh here am I, a sailor gnde, 

To tak' the helm in hand. 
Till you gae up to the tall top-mast — 

But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." 

He hadna gano a step, a step, 

A step but barely aue, 
When a bolt flew out o' the glide ship's side, 

Aud the saut sea it cam' in. 

" Gae fetch a web o' the silken claitb, 

Anither o' the twine, 
Aud wap them into our gude ship's side, 

And let na the sea come in." 



^ Served, sufficed. 

3 The eighth of a peck. 



They fetched a web o' tlje silken claith, 

Anither o' the twine, 
Aud they wapped them into the gude ship's side 

But aye the sea cam' in. 

Oh laith, laith were our Scots lords' sous 

To weet their milk-white hands ; 
Bnt lang ere a' the play was o'er, 

They wat their gowden bauds. 

Ob laith, laifh were our Scots lords' sons 

To weet their cork-heeled shoon ; 
Bnt lang ere a' the plaj' was played. 

They wat their hats aboou. 

Aud mony was the feather-bed 

That floated ou the faem, 
And mony was the gude lord's son 

That never mair cam' hamc. 

The ladyes wraug their fingers white, — 

The maidens tore their hair ; 
A' fin- the sake of their trne loves,- 

For them they'll see nae mair. 

Oh lang, lang may the ladies sit, 

Wi' their fans into their Ijand, 
Before they see Sir Patrick Sxiens 

Conic sailing to the strand ! 

Aud lang, lang may the maidens sit, 
Wi' the gowd kaims in their hair, 

xV waiting for their aiu dear loves, — 
For them they'll see nae mair. 

Half o'er, half o'er to Aberdour, 

It's tiffy fathom deep, 
Aud there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, 

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 



GIVE PLACE, YOU LADYES ALL. 

Ballad of 1566. 

Give place, you ladyes all. 

Unto my mistresse faiio. 
For none of you, or great or small, 

Can with my love compare. 

If yon would kuowe her well, 
Yon shall her nowe beholde. 



AXOXYMOVS AXD MISCELLAXEOCS POEMS. 



67 



If any tongo at all may tell 
Her beauties maiiyfolde. 

She is not high no lowc. 

Hut just the jicrtVct heifiht, 
Below my head, above iny hart. 

And than a wand more straight. 

She is not full no spare, 

But just as she sholde hep, 
An aruifull for a god, I swearc ; 

Aud more — she loveth meo. 

Her shape bath noe defect, 

Or none that I can linde. 
Such as indecde you might expect 

From so well fornidc a miudo. 

Her skin not hlacke, no white, 

But of a lovolie hew, 
As if created for delight : 

Yet she is mortall too. 

Her baire is not too darke, 

No, nor I weenc too light ; 
It is what it sholde be ; and marke — 

It pleaseth me outright. 

Her eie.s nor greene, nor gray. 

Nor like the heavens above ; 
And more of them what ueedes I saj-, 

But that they looke and love ? 

Her footo not short no long. 

And what may more surprise, 
Though some, perchance, may tbiuke me wrong, 

'Tis just the fitting size. 

Her Iiaudo, yea, then, her hande. 

With lingers large or line, 
It is enough, you understaud, 

I like it — anil 'tis mine. 

Ill hriife, I am content 

To take her as she is, 
.\ud holdo that sIm; liy heaven was sent 

To make conipleale my blisse. 

Then, ladies, all give place 

Into my mistresso faire, 
For now you knowe so well her grace, 

You ncedes nuist all dispaire. 



TAIC YOUR AULD CI.OAK ABOUT YE. 

AxoNTuors. 

The following 18 printed by Roberts as it nppc.irs in tlic 
"Tca-tablc Miscellany." with the addition of the second stan- 
za from Percy's version, whicli is nndou1)Iedly genuine, and is 
required if the f^udeman is to answer his wife stanza for stan- 
za. The ballad must have been common to both countries at 
an early period, as Shakspearc malces Othello quote a stanza 
of it. The simplicity is marked. 

In winter, when llio rain rained cauld, 

And frost and snaw on ilka hill, 
And Boreas wi' his blasts sac bauld 

Was threatcuing a' our kyo to kill; 
Then Bell my wife, wha loves na strife, 

8he said to me right h.istily, 
"Get up, gudeman, save Crummie's life, 

And tak' your auld cloak about ye," 

'• O Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorn ? 

Thou ken'st my cloak is very thin ; 
It is so bare and over worn, 

A crick he thereon cauiia rin. 
Then I'll nao lauger borrow nor lend ; 

For aues I'll new appareled be ; 
To-morrow TU to town and spend, 

I'll h.i'e .1 new cloak about me." 

'•My Cruininie is a usefu' cow. 

And she is come o' a gude kine; 
Aft bath she wet the bairnies' mou', 

Aud I am laith that she should tyue. 
Get up, gudeman. it is fu' time. 

The sun shines in the lift sae hie; 
Sloth never niaile a gnicious cud, 

G.io tak' your aiiUl ilo.ak about ye." 

"Jly clotik was aiies a gude grey cloak, 

When it was fitting for my wear; 
But now it's scantly worth a groat. 

For I lia'e worii't this thirty year. 
Let's spend the gear that we ha'e won. 

Wo little ken the day we'll dee; 
Then I'll be ])roud, since I have sworn 

To ha'e a new cloak about me." 

" In days when gude King Kobert rang. 
His trews they cost but half a crown ; 

Ho said they wi-re a groat owre dear. 
Anil ca'd the tailor thief and loiin. 

lie was the king, that wore a crown, 
And thoii'rt a man o' l.iii;h digree : 



68 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



'Tis prifle puts a' the country down, 
Sao talc' your auld cloak abont ye." 

"Every land has its ain laugh, 

Ilk kind o' corn it lias its hool ; 
I think the warhl is a' run wrang, 

Wlieu ilka ■nife her mau wad rule. 
Do ye not .see Rob, Jock, and Hab, 

As they are girded gallantly, 
While I sit hurklin" in the ase? 

I'll ha'e a new cloak about me." 

"Gndenian, I wat 'tis thirty year 

Since we did aue auither ken; 
And we ha'e had atween us twa 

(.)!" huls and bonny lasses ten : 
Now they are women grown and men ; 

I wi.sh and praj' weel may they be ! 
And if you'd prove a good hii.sb;tnd. 

E'en tak' j'our auld cloak about ye." 

Bell my wife she loves na strife, 

But she wad guide me, if she can ; 
And to maintain an easy life, 

I aft mann yield, tho' I'm guderaan. 
Nought's to be won at woman's band, 

Unless ye gio her a' the plea : 
Then I'll leave off where I began, 

And tak' my auld cloak about me. 



THE HEIR OF LINNE. 

ASOSTMOUS. 

This ballad, witli three or foiu' slight v.iriatioiis th.al npjicar 
in other versions, is from Pt-rcy's "Reliqnes." Tliere is a 
Scotch version of it; but it differs nmcli from the following, 
and is far inferior. 

PART FIRST. 

Lithe" and listen, gentlemen ; 

To sing a .song I will begin : 
It is of a lord of fair Scotland, 

Which was the unthrifty heir of Linne. 

His father was a right good lord. 
His mother a lady of high degree ; 

But they, alas! were dead him fro, 
And he loved keeping compauie. 

To spend the day with merry cheer, 
To drink and revel every night, 



' Crouching. 



' Wait, stay. 



To card and dice from eve to mom, 
It was, I ween, his heart's delight. 

To ride, to run, to rant, to roar; 

To ahvay spend and never spare : 
I wot an' he were the king himsel', 

Of gold and fee he mote be bare. 

So fares the unthrifty heir of Linne, 
Till all his gold is gone and spent ; 

And ho maun sell bis laucis .so broad — ■ 
His house, and lands, and all bis rent. 

His father had a keen steward, 
And John o' Scales was call(5d he ; 

But John is become a gentleman, 

And John has got baitb g(dd and fee. 

Says, "Welcome, welcome, Lord of Linne! 

Let nought disturb thy merry cheer ; 
If thou wilt sell tby lands so broad. 

Good store of gold I'll give thee here." 

"My gold is gone, my money is spent; 

My land now take it unto thee ; 
Give me the gold, good John o' Scales, 

And thine for aye my land shall be." 

Then John he did him to record draw, 
And John he gave him a god',s-pennie ;' 

But for every pound that John agreed. 
The land, I wis, was well worth three. 

He told him the gold upon the board ; 

He was right glad the land to win : 
"The land is mine, the gold is thine, 

And now I'll be tho Lord of Linne." 

Thus he hath sold his land so broad, 
Both hill and holt, and moor and fen; 

All but a poor and lone.some lodge, 
That stood far oft' in a lonely glen. 

For so he to his father bight : 

"My son, when I am gone," said he, 

"Then thou wilt spend thy land so broad. 
And thou wilt spend thy gold so free : 

" But swear to me now njion the rood, 
Tliat lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend ; 



' Earnest-money. 



AXONTMOUS AXD JillSCELLAXEOUS POEMS. 



CD 



For when all tho world doth irowii on tliee, 
Tlum tbero sbalt liud a I'aithf'iil fiieiul.'' 

Tlio heir of Liiine is full of golil : 

And, '• C'omo with lue, my tViLMids," said ho ; 
"Lot's drink, and rant, and merry make. 

And he that si)ares uc'er uiote he tliri'e."" 

They ranted, drank, and merry made, 

Till all bis gold it waxed thin ; 
And then his friends they slnnk away, 

They left the nntbrifty heir of Linnc. 

lie had never a penny left in his pnrse, 

Never a penny left bnt three ; 
And Olio was brass, another was lead, 

And t'other it was white mouic. 

'•Xow wcll-a-day !" said tho heir of Linnc; 

" Now well-a-day, and avoo is me ! 
Tor when I was the Lord of Linue, 

I never wanted gold nor fee. 

'• Bnt many a trnsty friend have I, 
And why sboiiUl I feel dnle or care f 

I'll borrow of them all by turns, 
So need I not be ever bare." 

But one, I wis, was not at home. 
Another had paid his gold away; 

Auothcr called him thriftless loon. 

And sharply bade him wend his way. 

'•Now well-a-day!" said the heir of Linne, 
"Xow wi'11-a-day, and woe is me! 

For wlien I liad my land so broad, 
On me they lived right meiTilie. 

" To beg my bread from door to door, 
I wis, it were a burning shame ; 

To rob and steal, it were a sin ; 
To work my limbs I cannot frame. 

"Xow I'll ;iway to the lonesome lodge. 
For there my father bade me wend ; 

When .ill the world should frown on me, 
1 there should liud a trusty friend." 

P.UtT SECOXI>. 

Away tlieu hied tho beir of Liune, 
O'er hill and holt, aud moor and fen, 

' Thrive. 



Until ho camo to tho lonesome lodge. 
That stood so low in a lonely glen. 

Ho looked up, ho looU^^d down, 
In hope some eonil'ort for to win ; 

But bare and lothely were the walls: 

"Here's sorry cheer!'' iinolh the heir of 
Liuuo. 

The little window, dim and dark. 
Was bung with ivy, brier, and yew ; 

No shimmering sun here ever shone. 
No halesomo breeze hero ever blew. 

No chair, no table he mote s])y. 

No clieerfnl hearth, no welcome bed ; 

Nought s.ive a rope with a running noose. 
That dangling hung up o'er his head. 

Aud over it, in broad Icttdrs, 

These words were written so plain to see: 
"Ah, graceless wretch! hast spent thy all, 

And brought thyself to penurie ? 

"All this my boding mind misgave ; 

I therefore left this trusty friend : 
Now let it shield thy fonl disgrace. 

And all thy shame and sorrows end." 

Sorely shenl' with this rebuke. 

Sorely shent was the heir of Linne ; 

His heart, I wis, was near to burst, 
With guilt aud sorrow, shame and sin. 

Never a word spaU' the luir of Linne, 
Never a word ho sp.ak' but three: 

"This is a trusty friend indeed. 
And is right welcome unto me.'' 

Then round his neck the cord ho drew, 

And sprang aloft with his bodio; 
When lo ! tbo ceiling burst in twain, 

And to tbo ground camo tumbliug be. 

Astonied lay tlic heir of Linue, 

Nor knew if he were live or dead : 

At length he looked and saw a bill. 
And iu it a key of gold bo red. 

He took the bill, anil lonked it on; 
Straight good comfort found bo there; 

' Shnmod, niortiflod. 



70 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



It told him of a hole iii the wall 

lu which there stood three chests iu-ferc.' 

Two were full of the heateu gold, 
The third was full of white inonie ; 

Aud over them, in broad lett&s, 

These words were written so plain to see: — 

" Once more, my son, I set thee clear ; 

Amend thy life and follies past ; 
For but thou amend thee of thy life. 

That rope must be thy end at last." 

"Aud let it be," said the heir of Liuue ; 

"And let be, but if I amend: 
For here I will mate mine avow. 

This rede^ shall guide me to the end." 

Away then went the heir of Linne, 
Away he went with merry cheer; 

I wis, he neither stiut nor staid, 

Till John o' the Scales' house he cam' near. 

And when he cam' to John o' the Scales, 
Up at the speero' then looked he : 

Til ere sat three lords at the board's end, 
Were drinkiug of the wine so free. 

Tben up bespak' the heir of Linne, 
To John o' the Scales tlieu spak' he : 

" I pray thee now, good John o' the Scales, 
One forty pence to lend to me." 

"Away, away, thou thriftless loon ! 

Away, away ! this may not bo ; 
For a curse be on my head," ho said, 

"If ever I lend thee one peunie !" 

Theu bespak' the heir of Linne, 

To John o' the Scales' wife then spak' he : 
" Madam, some alms on me bestow, 

I pray, for sweet Sainto Charitie." 

"Away, away, thou thriftless loon ! 

I swear thou gettest no alms of me ; 
For if we suld hang any losel here, 

The first we would begin with thee." 

Then up bespak' a good fellow, 

Which sat at John o' the Scales his board; 

' Together. 

- Advice. 

3 Au aperture iu the wall ; a shot wiudow. 



Said, " Turn again, thou heir of Liuno ; 
Some time thou wast a right good lord : 

" Some time a good fellow thou hast been, 
And sparedst not thy gold aud fee ; 

Therefore I'll lend thee forty pence. 
And other forty, if need be. 

"And ever I pray thee, John o' the Scales, 
To let him sit iu thy conipanie ; 

For well I wot thou hadst his land, 
And a good bargaiu it was to thee." 

Theu up bespak' him John o' the Scales, 

All wud' he answered him again : 
"Now a curse be on my head," ho said, 



"And here I proffer thee, heir of Linne, 
Before these lords so fair aud free. 

Thou shalt have 't back again better cheap, 
By a hundred merks, than I had it of tliee." 

"I draw you to record, lords," he said : 
With that ho gave him a god's-peunie. 

"Now, by my fay," said the heir of Liuue, 
"Aud here, good John, is thy monie." 

Aud he pulled forth the bags of gold, 
Aud laid them donu upon the board : 

All woe-begoue was John o' the Scales, 
So shent he could say never a word. 

He told him forth the good red gold, 
He told it forth with mickle din : 

"The gold is thine, the land is mine; 
Aud now I'm again the Lord of Liiuie !" 

Says, "Have thou here, thou good fellow! 

Forty pence thou didst lend me ; 
Now I'm again the Lord of Linne, 

And forty pounds I will give thee." 

"Now wcU-a-day!" quoth Joan o' the Scales; 

"Now well-a-day, and woe is my life! 
Yesterday I was Lady of Liuue, 

Now I'm but Joan o' the Scales his wife." 

"Now faro thee well," said the heir of Linne, 
" Farewell, good John o' the Scales," said lu' ; 

"When next I want to sell my land, 

Good John o' tlie Scales, I'll come to thee." 

1 Fnrious. 



JNOXTMOUS AXl) MISCELLANEOUS P0E3IS. 



ri 



Till-: NUT-BROWN MAIUE. 

Anonvmoi's, 

This famous old ballad appears in "ArnnWs Chioiiicle," 
printed nbmit 15112. On it Prior founded his versified story of 
*' Henry and Emma," much inferior to this in simplicity and 
force. \Vc have adhered quite closely to the old spellinir, in- 
asmuch as it could hardly be dissevered from tl>e style without 
injury to the latter. The "banished raau" and the "nut-brown 
maid" are well contrasted. 

15o it ri^lit or Tvrong, these iiieii iiinoiig 

Oil women <lo coinplaiiic ; 
Afliriiiyiig tliis, liow tliat it is 

A Inboiir sjient iu vniiie 
To loTo them wele, for never a dele 

They lovo a iiiau a^ayne ; 
I'or lete a man <lo what he can 

Their favour to attayiie, 
Vet, yf a newe do them piirsiio, 

Theiv first trew lover than 
Lalionreth for iionght ; for from her thought 

He is a banysshed man. 

I say uot uay, bnt that all day 

It is both writ and sayde 
That woman's fayth is, a.s who sayth, 

All utterly decayed ; 
But, nevertheless, right good witnds 

In tliis case might be layd : 
That they love tiew, and contynew, 

Kecord the Nut-browno Maide, 
Whicho from her love, whan her to prove 

He cam to make his nu>ne, 
Wolde not dejjarle ; for in her harto 

She lovyd bnt hym allone. 

Then betweene us leto us discusso 

AVIiat was all the niauer 
Betwene them too ; wo wyl also 

Tell all tlio iieyne and fere 
That she was in. Xowo I bcgynne, 

So that ye me ausw<?rc ; 
Wherefore, all yo that present bo, 

I pray yon, gi-ve au eare. 
I am the knyglit : I cum be nyglit, 

As .secret as I cm, 
.Saying, "Alas! thus stniidyth the case — 

I ain a banysshed man." 

SHE. 

And I your wylle for to fulfyllo 
lu this wyl not refuse ; 



Trusting to shewo, iu wordis fewe, 

That men have au ille use 
(To their owno sliam'c) wymeii to blame, 

.\iid can.seles them accuse : 
Therefore to you I answero now, 

Alle wymen to excuse, — 
Mine owue lierte dere, with you what chicreT 

I pray you, tell .anoou ; 
For, in my myude, of all maukyndo 

I love but yon .nllou. 



It stoudeth so: a deed is do 

Whereof mocho liarme shal growe ; 
My desteny is for to dye 

A .slianifiil dethe, I trowe, 
Or cllis to dee : the one must be : — 

Noue other wey I knowe 
But to withdrawe as au oittlaw. 

And take mo to my bowe. 
Wherefore, adieu, my own hert trowe 

None other red I can ; 
For I muste to the grene wode go. 

Alone, a bany.sshed man. 



Lordc, what is this worldls blisse, 
That ehaiingeth as the inouc ? 

My .somer's day in lusty May 
Is derked before the none. 

1 here yon say farewel : Nay, nay, 
Wc df^jiarto not so sone. 

Why say ye .so? wheder wyll ye go? 

Alas! what have ye done? 
Alio my welfare to sorrow and care 

Sliuldo chaunge, yf ye were gou ; 
For, iu my myude, of all maiikyiido 

I love bnt yon alone. 



I can belcve it shal yon greve. 

And somewhat you distrayne ; 
Bnt aftyrwardo your paynds hardo 

Within .1 d.ay or tweyno 
Shall sone aslake, and ye shal take 

t'oinfort to you agayiic. 
Why shnld ye nought ? for, to make thought. 

Your labour were in vayne. 
And thus I do, and pray you too. 

As hertely as I can ; 
For I must to the grceno wode go, 

Alone, a banysshed man. 



72 



CYCLOrJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



No'n', syth that ye have shewed to me 

The secret of your myude, 
I shall be playue to you agayue, 

Lyke as ye shal nie fyude. 
, Syth it is so, that ye wyll go, 

I wole cot leve hebyude ; 
Shal never be sayd the Nut-lirowne Mayd 

Was to ber love uukiiid : 
Make you redy, for so am I, 

Although it were auoou ; 
For, in my myiide, of all maukyude 

I love but you aloue. 



Yet I you rede to take good hedo, 

What meu wyl thiuk aud say: 
Of yonge aud olde it shal be told 

That ye he goue away. 
Your wauton wylle for to fulfylle, 

In greene woode you to play ; 
And that ye myght from your delyte 

No Icuger make delay. 
Rather than ye shuld thus for mo 

Be called an ill woman. 
Yet wolde I to the greeue woode go, 

Aloue, a bauyssbed niau. 



Though it be sunge of old and yonge 

That_ I shuld be to blame. 
Theirs bo the charge that speke so large 

In hurting of my name ; 
For I wyl prove that feythful love 

It is devoyd of shame ; 
In your distresse aud beavinesse 

To parte wyth you, the same : 
And sure all tbo' that do not so, 

Trewe lovers ar they none ; 
For, in my myude, of all maukyude 

I love but you alone. 



I counsel you, remembre bow 

It is no maydeu's lawe 
Nothing to doubt, but to renue out 

To wood with au ontlilwe ; 
For ye must tliere in your haude here 

A bowe, to here and drawe ; 
Aud, as a theef, thus must you lyeve. 

Ever in drede aud awe ; 



Whereby to you gret barme meghto grow : 

Yet bad I lever than 
That I had to the greene woode go, 

Alone, a banysshed man. 



I thinke not nay, but as ye saye, 

It is no maydeu's lore ; 
But love may make me for your sake. 

As ye have said before. 
To com on fote, to huute, and shote, 

To gete us mete and store ; 
For so that I your company 

May have, I aske no more : 
From which to parte it makith my herte 

As colde as ony ston ; 
For, in my myude, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 



For au outlawe this is the lawe. 

That men bym take aud biude, 
Without pitee banged to bee, 

And waver with the wyude. 
If I had ncede (as God forbede !), 

What rescue coude ye finde ? 
For sothe, I trow, yo aud your bowe 

Shuld drawe for fere bebyude ; 
Aud no merveyle, for lytel avayle 

Were in your councel than : 
Wherofore I to the woode will go, 

Aloue, a banysshed man. 



Ful wcl knowe ye that wymen bee 

But febyl for to fyght ; 
No womaiihed is it, indeede, 

To bee bolde as a knight : 
Yet, in such fere yf that ye were 

Among enemys day and uyght, 
I wolde wythstonde with bowe in haude, 

To giceve them as I myght, 
Aud you to save — as wymen have 

From deth men many one : 
For, in my myude, of all maukyude 

I love but vou aloue. 



Yet take good hede ; for ever I drede 

That ye coude not susteiu 
The thorney wayes, the deep valle'ys. 

The Buowe, the frost, the reyn, 



AyOXTMOVS AND illSCELLAXEOCS POEMS. 



Tbo coUle, the bete : for, ilrye or wete, 

We inust lodge ou tlie iil;iyn ; 
Ami IIS aboove none otber roof 

But a brake bussb or twayne ; 
Wbicbe soiie slmlil jjreve you, I beleve, 

And yo ■niilile gladly tbaii 
Tbat I had to llio grecne vrooile go, 

iUouc, a banysshed man. 



Syth I have here been partyu<5ro 

With you of joy and blyssc, 
I must also parte of your woo 

Endure, as reason is : 
Yet am I sure of one pleasure ; 

And, shortly, it is this: 
That wbeio ye bee, me semeth, perdc?,' 

I toldo not fare aniysse. 
Wytlidut more siicche, I you beseclie 

That wo were soon agoue ; 
For, iu my myude, of all mankyndo 

I love but vou alone. 



Yf ye go thyder, yo must consider. 

Whan ye have lust to <Une, 
Ther shcl no mete be fore to gete. 

Nor driuke, here, ale, nor wine. 
No shetis clene to lye betwene, 

Made of thred and twyue ; 
None other house but levys and bowes 

To kever your bed and myn : 
So, niyne liertc swet<', this evil di^te 

Shuld make you pale and wan ; 
Wherefore I will to the greene woode go, 

Alone, a banysslied man. 



Araongo the wylde dere. such an archdre 

As men .say that ye bee 
Xe may not faylo of good vitayle, 

Where is so grete plentd. 
And watir cleerc of the ryvdro 

.Slial be ful swete to rac ; 
Wylli whiohe iu hele' I shal right welo 

Kiidure, as ye shall see ; 
Anil, or wo go, a bed or too 

I can provide auonc ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mank3rndo 

I love but you alone. 



' Par (lieu. 



ncallh. 



Lo, yet before yo must ilo more, 

Yf yo wyl go u ilb iiii' : 
As cntte your here up by your ere,' 

Your Uirtle by the knee; 
Wyth bowo in hande, for to withstonde 

Your enniys, yf nedo bo ; 
And this same uyght, before daylight, 

To woodward wyl I lice. 
And yf ye wyl all this fulfyUc, 

Do it shortly as yo can : 
Ellis wyl I to the greene woode go 

Alone, a bauysshed man. 

SHE. 
I slial as now do more for you 

Than 'longeth to womanliede : 
To short my here, a bowo to here, 

To shote in tyme of nede. 
O my swete moder! before all other 

For you have I most drede! 
But now adiew ! I must ensue 

Wher fortune doth me Icde. 
All this make ye : Now leto ns llee ; 

The day cums fast upon ; 
For, in my mynde, of all mankynde 

I love but you alone. 



Nay, nay, not so ; ye shal not go, 

And I shal telle you whye, — 
Your appetytc is to be lyght 

Of love, I welo aspic. 
For like as yo have sayd to me, 

In lyUo wyse hardely 
Yo woldo answdre whosoever it were. 

In way of company. 
It is saydo of olde, Soue bote, sone colde ; 

And so is a womiin. 
Wherefore I to the wode wyl go, 

Alone, a banysslied man. 



Yf ye take hede, It is no nede 
Suclic wordis to say bo mee ; 

For oft ye preyd, and long assayed, 
Or I you lovid, perdd : 

And though that I of auncestry 
A baron's dougliter be. 



' As cut yoar hair np by yonr cnr. 



74 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISS AND AMERICAN POETBT. 



Yet Lave you proved how I you loved, 

A squyer of lowo degree — 
And ever sbal, wbatso befalle ; 

To dey' therefore auoue ; 
For, iu my niyude, of all maukyude 

I love but you aloue. 



A barou's cbilde to be begyled ! 

It Tvere a cussed dede ! 
To be felow with an outlawe! 

Almyghty God forbede ! 
You bettyr were the pouer squy6r 

Aloue to forest yede,^ 
Than ye shulde saye another day 

That be my wykdd dede 
Ye were betrayed : Wherefore, good maide. 

The best rede that I can 
Is that I to the greeiie woode go, 

Aloue, a bauysshed man. 



Whatsoever befalle, I never slial 

Of this thing you upbraid ; 
But yf ye go, aud leve me so. 

Than have ye me betraied. 
Keniembre you wele how that ye dele ; 

For yf ye, as ye sayde. 
Be so luikynde, to leve behyndo 

Y'our love, the Nut-brown Maide, 
Trust mo truly that I shall dey 

Sone after ye bo gone ; 
For, iu my mynde, of all maukyude 

I love but you aloue. 



Yf that ye went ye shulde repente. 

For in the forest now 
I have purveid me of a maide 

Whom I love more than you ; 
Another fayrdr thau ever ye were, 

I dare it wel avowe ; 
And of you bothe eche shulde be wrothe 

With other, as I trowe. 
It were myu ease to lyve in pease ; 

So wyll I, yf I can ; 
Wherefore I to the woode wyl go, 

Aloue, a bauysshed man. 



> To die. 



' Went. 



Tliougli iu the wode I understodo 

Yo had a paramour. 
All this may nought remeve ray thought 

But that I will be your : 
And she shall fynd me softe and kynde, 

And courtcis every our ; 
Glad to fulfylle all that she wylle 

Commaunde me to my power : 
For had ye, lo, an hundred mo, 

Yet wolde I be that one ; 
For, in my myude, of all maukyude 

I love but you alone. 



Mine ouune dear love, I see the prove 

That ye be kyude and treue ; 
Of maydo and wyf in all my lyf 

The best that ever I knewe. 
Be mery aud glad, be no more sad. 

The case is chaungcd newe ; 
For it wei'o ruthe that for your truthe 

You shulde have cause to rewe. 
Be not dismayed whatsoever I sayd 

To you whau I begau ; 
I will not to the greeue woode go, 

I am no bauysshed man. 



Theis tidingis be more glad to me 

Thau to be made a queen, 
Yf I were sure they shuld endure ; 

But it is often seeu. 
When luen wil breke promyse, they speke 

The word is on the spleue." 
Ye shape some wyle me to begyle, 

Aud stele fro me, I wenc : 
Then were the case wurs thau it was, 

Aud I more wo-begoue ; 
For, iu my niynde, of all maukyude 

I love but you aloue. 



Ye shal not nede further to drede ; 

I wyl not disparage 
You (God defende!), sith you desceude 

Of so gret a lineage. 
Nou uuderstonde : to Westmerlande, 

Which is mine herytage, 



1 On a sudden. 



JXOyTMOrS JXD AIISCELLAKEOrS POEilS. 



I wyl you briiige ; anil wyth a ryug, 

Be wcy of luaryuge, 
I wyl you take, ami lady make, 

As sliorlly as I can : 
Tims liave ye woiie an erle's sou, 

Anil uot a bauysslied uiau. 

AiTnon. 
Here may ye see that wyraeu be 

lu love, lueke, kiude, and stable ; 
Lot never man repreve them than, 

Or calle them variable ; 
Bnt rather prey God that we may 

To them be comfortable ; 
Wliirli sonityme provyeth suehe .is be loveth, 

Vl" they be charitable. 
For sitli men wolde that wynien sholdo 

He meko to them echc one; 
Much more ought they to God obey, 

And serve but ITvm alone. 



SIR JOHN B.U?LEYCOKX. 

ASONVMOl-3. 

This favorite oid ball.id, often nttribated to Burns becnnec of 
titp alteration of some of the lines, is an anonymous prodnction, 
and believed to be anterior to 1646. 

There came three men out of the West, 

Their victory to try ; 
And they have taken a solemn oath 

Poor B.'irleyeorn should die. 
They took a plough and ploughed him in, 

And harrowed clods on his head ; 
.\nd then they took a sidcmn oath 

Poor Barleycorn was dead. 
There he lay sleeping in the gronud 

Till rain from the sky did fall ; 
Then Barleycorn sprung np his he.id, 

And so amazed them all. 

There he remained till midsummer. 

And looked both pale and wan ; 
Then Barleycorn he got a beard. 

And so became a man. 
Then they sent men with scythes so sharp," 

To cut him off at knee ; 
And then poor little Barleycorn 

They served liim barbarously : 
Then they sent men with pitchforks strong, 

To pierce him through the heart ; 
And, like a dreadful tragedy, 

They bound him to a cart. 



And then they brought him to a barn, 

A prisoner, to endure ; 
And so they fetched him out again, 

And laid him on the lloor : 
Then they set men with holly clubs 

To beat the flesh from his boues; 
Bnt the miller he served him ■woi'so than that, 

Vor he ground him betwixt two stones. 
Oh, Barleycorn is the choicest grain 

That ever w.is sown on land ! 
It will do more than any grain 

By the turning of your hand. 

It will make .a boy into ,a man, 

And a man into an ass ; 
It will change your gold into silver, 

And yonr silver into brass: 
It will make the huntsman hunt the fox 

That never wound his horn ; 
It will bring the tinker to the stocks, 

That people may him scorn : 
It will put sack into a, glass, 

And claret in the can ; 
.\nd it will cause a mau to drink 

Till he neither can go nor stan'. 



TRUTHS INTEGRITY. 

Anonymous. 

The followini; is from a black-letter copy, reprinted in Ev- 
ans's *'01d Ballads,'' London, 1777. 

FIRST I'AIiT. 

Over the mountains, 

And under tlio waves ; 
Over the fountains. 

And under the graves ; 
Under floods which are deepest, 

Which do Xeptuno obey; 
Over rocks which are steepest. 

Love will find out the way. 

Where there is no place 

For the glowworm to lie ; 
Where there is no place 

For the receipt of a fly ; 
Where the gnat dares not venture. 

Lest herself fast she lay ; 
But if Love come, he will enter. 

And find out the way. 

You may cstcc'm him 
A child of his force, 



76 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISR AXD AMEUICAN POETRY. 



Or you may deem him 

A coward, which is worse ; 

But if he whom Love doth houor 
Be concealed from the day, 

Set a thousand gnards upon him, 
Love will liud out the way. 

Some think to lose him, 

Which is too uukiud ; 
And some do suppose him, 

Poor heart, to be blind : 
But if he were hidden, 

Do the best you may, 
Blind Love (if you so call him) 

Will lind out the way. 

Well may the eagle 

Stoop down to the fist. 
Or you may inveigle 

The Phoenix of the East : 
With fear the tiger's mov^d 

To give over his prey. 
But never stop a lover — 

He will lind out the way. 

From Dover to Berwick, 

And nations thereabout, 
Brave Guy, Earl of Warwick, 

That champion so stont. 
With his warlike behavior 

Through the world he did stray, 
To win his Pliillis' favor: 

Love will find out the way. 

In order next enters 

Bovis so brave, 
After adventures 

And policy brave, 
To see whom he desired, 

His Josian so gay, 
For whom his heart was fired : 

Love will find ont the way. 

SKCON'D PART. 

The G(n-dian knot 

Which true-lovers knit. 
Undo it you cannot, 

Nor yet break it : 
Make use of your inventions 

Their fancies to betray, 
To frustrate tlieir intentions ; 

Love will find out the way. 



From court to the cottage. 

In bower and iu hall, 
From the king unto the beggar. 

Love conquers all. 
Though ne'er so stout and lordly. 

Strive or do what you may ; 
Yet, be you ne'er so hardy. 

Love will find out the \Yay. 

Love hath power over princes 

And greatest emperors ; 
In any provinces 

Such is Love's power. 
There is no resisting 

But him to obey ; 
In spite of all contesting. 

Love will find out the way. 

If that he were hidden. 

And all men that are 
Were strictly forbidden 

That place to declare ; 
Winds, that have no abidings. 

Pitying their delay, 
Would come and bring him tidings, 

And direct him the way. 

If the earth should part him. 

He would gallop it o'er ; 
If the seas should o'erthwart him, 

Ho would swim to the shore. 
Should his love become a swallow, 

Through the air to stray. 
Love will lend wings to follow, 

And will find out the way. 

There is no striving 

To cross his intent, 
Tliere is no contriving 

His plots to prevent ; 
But if once the message greet him 

That his true love doth stay. 
If death should come and meet him, 

Love will find out the way. 



THE TWA SISTERS 0' BIXXOEIE. 

Anontmocs. 

This bnllad was popular in Eiijjlaucl before 1056. There nre 
several versions of it. Jamieson ^'ives one taken down from 
the recitation of a Mrs. Brown, "who had it from an old wom- 
an ;" but he interpolates it with several stanzas of his own. 
There are numerous parodies of the piece. Both Scott and 



.IXOWMOrS AXD .MISCELLAXKUIS POEMS. 



■Jamicson ndupted the " Binnnrie " burden withont saying dis- 
liiiclly where it cnme from. We hiive selected tlie version in 
Allinghani'9 coUeclinn ns llie best and probably the most au- 
thentic. Opinions difl'er as to the pronunciation of Binnorie. 
Loclihart and Aytuun say ilie accent should be on the tiret syl- 
lable : other and equally good authorities say Binnu'rie. 

Tlicro were twa sisters sat in a bow'r: 

(Hiiiimiit', O ISimioric !) 
A knight cam' tlit-rc, a noblo wooer, 

Uy the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 

Ho conrtcil the ohitst wi' glove aiut ring, 

(liliiniirii', U Hinnoriel) 
Bnt he hiVil the yonii-jest aboon ;i' thing, 

liy the bonny inill-danis o" Ijinnurie. 

The eldest she was vex<^d sair, 

(Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
Aiul sair envied her sister fair, 

By the bonny inill-dains o' Binnorie. 

I'pon a morninf; I'uir and clear 

(Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
She cried upon her sister dear, 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 

" O sister, sister, tak' my hand," 

(Binnorie, O Biiniorie!) 
".\nd let's j;i> down to the river-strand, 

By the bonny inill-danis o' Binnorie." 

She's ta'en her by the Illy hand, 

(Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
And down they went to the river-strand, 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 

The yonngcst stood npon a stane, 

(Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
The eldest earn' and pushed her in. 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 

"O sister, f-ister, reach yonr hand!" 

(.Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
"Ami ye sail be heir o' half my lainl" — 

By the bonny niill-dains o' Binnorie. 

"O sister, reach me bnt y<nir j^love!" 

(Binmirie. O Binnorie!) 
"And sweet William .sail be your love" — 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 

Sometimes she sank, sometimes sbo swam, 

(Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
Till she cam' to the mcintli o' yoti mill-dam, 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 



Out then cam' the miller's sou 

(Binnorie, O Binnorie !) 
Aud saw the fair m.aid souinniin' in. 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 

"O father, father, draw yonr dam!" 

(Binnorie, O Binnorii'!) 
"There's eithi'r a nierinaiil or a swan," 

By the bmiiiy mlll-danis o" Binnorie. 

The miller (jiiicUly drew the (lain, 

(Binnorie, O Bimiorle!) 
Ami there he found a drowned woman. 

By tint bonny mill-dams o" Birniorie. 

Komid about her middle sma' 

(Binnorie, O Binin)rie!) 
There went a gowden girdle hr.a'. 

By tlie boiniy mill-dams o' Binnorie. 

All amang her yellow hair 

(Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
A string o' ])carls was twisted rare, 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 

On her fingers, lily-white, 

(Binnorie, O BInuorio !) 
The jewel-lings were shining bright. 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 

And l)y there cam' a harper liuo, 

(Binnorie. O Biniu)rie !) 
Harpt'd to iu)l>les when they dine, 

I!y the bonny mlll-danis o' Binnorie. 

Anil when he lookiil that l.idy on, 

(Binmn-ie, O Binnorie!) 
Ho sighed ami made a heavy moan, 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 

He's ta'en three locks o' her yellow hair, 

(Binnorie, O Binnorie!) 
Anil wi' them stritng bis harp s.ac rare. 

By the bonny mill-dams i>' Binnorie. 

He went Into her father's hall, 

(Binnorie. () Bluin)rle!) 
Ami played his harp before llieni all. 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 

And snne the harp sang hind and clear, 

(Binnorie. () Binnorie !) 
"Fareweel, my father ami inilher dear!" 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Binnorie. 



78 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRT. 



And neist wlien the harp began to siug, 

(Biunorie, O Biimorie!) 
'Twas " Fareweel, sweetheart !" said the striug, 

By the bonny mill-dams o' Binuone. 

And then, as plain as plain could be, 

(Binuorie, O Binnorie !) 
" There sits my sister who di'owni?d me !" 

By the boimy mill-dams o' Biunorie. 



DOWIE DENS O' YARROW. 

Anonymous. 

Of this b.all.id there are various versions. We have chosen 
that collated by Mr. Alliugham. It is supposed to be founded 
on fact, but there is little except loose tradition by which to 
verify it. The river Yarrow, nnich famed iu song, runs through 
a wide vale in Selkirkshire, between lofty green hills, and .joins 
the Tweed above the town of Selkirk. The "Teunies" is a 
farm below the Yarrow Kirk. 

Late at e'eu, drinking the ■wine. 
And ere they paid the lawiug,' 

Tliey set a combat them between, 
To fight it iu the dawing. 

" Wliat though 56 be my sister's lord ? 

We'll cross our swords to-morrow." 
"What though my wife your sister be? 

I'll meet ye theu on Yarrow." 

" Oh, stay at hame, my aiu gude lord ! 

Oh, stay, my ain dear marrow !' 
My cruel brother will you betray 

On the dowie" banks o' Yarrow." 

"Ob, fare ye weel, my lady dear! 

And put aside your sorrow ; 
For if I gae, I'll sune return 

Frae tlie bonny banks o' Yarrow." 

She IvLssed his cheek, she kaimed his hair. 

As oft she'd done before, O ; 
She belted him wi' his gude brand. 

And he's awa' to Yarrow. 

When he gacd up the Tonnies bank, 

As he gaed many a morrow. 
Nine armiSd men lay in a den. 

On the dowie braes o' Yarrow. 

1 Reckoning. 

- Married; husband or wife. 

3 Doleful. 



" Oh, come ye here to hunt or hawk 

The bonny Forest thorough ? 
Or come ye here to wield your brand 

Upon the banks o' Yarrow ?" 

"I come not here to hunt or hawk. 

As oft I've dune before, O ; 
But I come here to wield my brand 

Upon the banks o' Yarrow." 

" If ye attack me nine to ane, 
That God may send ye sorrow ! — 

Yet will I tight while staiul I may, 
On the bonuy banks o' Yarrow." 

Two has he hurt, and three has slain. 
On the bloody br.aes o' Yarrow; 

But the stubborn knight crept in behind. 
And pierced his body thorough. 

"Gae hame, gae hame, yoit brither John, 
And tell your sister sorrow, — 

To come and lift her leafu' lord 
On the dowie banks o' Yarrow." 

Her brither John gaed o'er yon hill, 

As oft he'd done before, O ; 
There he met his sister dear, 

Cam' rinniu' fast to Yarrow. 

" I dreamt a dream last night," she says ; 

"I wish it binna sorrow ; 
I dreamt I pu'd the heather green 

Wi' my true love on Yarrow." 

" I'll read your dream, sister," he says ; 

" I'll read it into sorrow : 
Ye're bidden go take n|) your love ; 

He's sleeping sound on Yarrow." 

She's torn the rilibons frae her head 
That were baith braid and narrow; 

She's kilted up her lang claithiug, 
And she's awa' to Yarrow. 

She's ta'en him iu her armes twa. 
And gi'eu him kis.ses thorough ; 

She sought to bind his many wounds, 
But he lay dead on Yarrow. 

"Oh, baud your tongue," her father says, 

"Aiul let be a' your sorrow; 
I'll wed yon to a better lord 

Thau him ye lost on Yarrow." 



AyoxTMocs jyi) miscellaneous poems. 



■y 



"Oil, baud your tongue, fatlidr," slie says; 

" Far warse ye mak' my sorrow : 
A hotter lord could never bo 

Tbau him that lies ou Yarrow."' 

She kissed his lips, she kaimed his hair, 

As aft she'd done before, O ; 
Aud there wi' };ricf her heart did break. 

Upon tho banks o' Yarrow. 



IfOBIX HOOD'S RESCin^ OF WILL STt'TLY. 

ASONYMOrS. 

This is but one or the numerous Robin Hood ballads, popu- 
lar in En^^lnnd early in the 15th century, perhaps earlier. It 
is from an old black-letter copy in the collectiou of Anthony 
Wood. Robin Hood was born about IICO, in the reign of 
llcury n. 

When Rol)in Hood in tho greenwood lived, 
JDcrrji, dirrtj, down, 
Under tho greenwood-tree. 
Tidings there eaiuo to him with speed, 
Tidings for eertaiiity, 

7/(1/ (loini, (hrri/, derri/, down. 

That Will Stutly siirprisM was, 

And eke in prison lay ; 
Three varlcts that the sheriff had hired, 

Did likely him betray : 

I, and to-morrow hanged must be, 

T(i-mi>rri)W as soon as it is day ; 
Before they eould tliis vietory get, 

Two of them did Stutly slay. 

When Robin Hood he heard this news, 

Lord ! he was grievc'd sore ; 
And to his merry men he did say 

(Who altogether swore), 

That Will Sintly shonlil resened be. 

And be brought back again ; 
Or else should many a gallant wight 

For his sake tliiTe be slain. 

He clothed himself in scarlet red, 

His men were all in green ; 
.\ finer show, throughont the world, 

In no place could be seen. 

fiood Lord ! it wtis a gallant sight 

To SCI- tlietn all on a row; 
With every man a good broad sword, 

And eke a good yew bow. 



Forth of the greenwood are they gone, 

Yea, all courageously, 
Resolving to bring Stutly home, 

Or every man to die. 

-Viid when they came the castle near, 

Whereas Will ^^tutly Iny, 
"I hold it good," sailli Koliiii Hood, 

"Wo hero in ambush stay, 

"And send one forth .some news to bear, 

To yonder palmer fair. 
That stands under The cjistlo wall, 

Some news he may declare." 

With that steps forth :i brave young inau, 

Wliicli was of courage btdd, 
Tims did he .speak to the old man : 

'• I pray thee, paliiiei- old, 

"Tell me, if that thou riglilly ken. 

When mnst Will Stutly die. 
Who is one of bold Robin's men. 

And here doth prisoner lie ?" 

"Alack! al.is!" the palmer said, 

".\nd forever wo is me ! 
Will Stutly hanged must be this day, 

On yonder gallows-tree. 

"Oil. bad his noble master known. 

He would some succor send ; 
\ few of his bold yeomaiidrie 

Full soon would fetch him hence." 

"I, that is true," the young man said; 

" I, that is true," 8ai<l he. 
" Or, if they were near to this place, 

They soon would set him free. 

" But fare thee well, thou good old niau. 

Farewell, and thanks to thee ; 
If Stutly hang<;d bo this day, 

Revenged his death will be." 

H(> was no sooner from the palmer gone, 
But the gates were opened wide. 

And out of the castle Will Stutly came. 
Guarded ou every side. 

When he was forth of the castle come, 

.\nd saw no help was nigh, 
Tims he did say to the slierifl', 

I'liiis he said gallantly : 



80 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



"Now seeing that I needs must die, 

Grant me one boon," said he, 
"For my noble master ne'er had a man, 

That hanged ■nas on the tree : 

" Give me a sword all in my hand, 

And let me be unbound. 
And with thee and thy men I"ll fight, 

'Till I lie dead on the ground." 

But his desire he would not grant, 

His wishes were in vain ; 
For the sherift' had sworn he hanged should bo, 

And not by the sword be slain. 

"Do but unbind my hands," he says; 

" I will no weapons crave ; 
And if I haug(^d be this day, 

Damnation let nie have." 

" Oh no, oil no," the sheriff said, 

"Thou sbalt on the gallows die, 
I, and so shall thy master too. 

If ever in me it lie." 

" Oh, dastard coward !" Stutly ci-ies, 

" Thou faint-heart peasant slave ! 
If ever my master do thee meet, 

Thou shalt thy payment have. 

" My noble master doth thee scorn, 

And all thy coward crew ; 
Such silly imps unable are 

Bold Robin to subdue." 

But when he was to the gallows come, 

Aud ready to bid adieu, 
Out of a bush leaps Little John, 

And comes Will Stutly to: 

" I pray thee. Will, before thou die, 

Of thj' dear friends take leave ; 
I needs must borrow him for a while. 

How say you, master shrieve ?" 

" Now, as I live," the sheriff he said, 

" That varlet well I know ; 
Some sturdy rebel is that same, 

Therefore let him not go." 

Then Little John most hastily 

Away cut Stutly's bands. 
And from one of the sheriff's men 

A sword twitcht from his hands. 



" Here, Will, take thou this same, my lad, 

Thou canst it better sway ; 
And here defisnd thyself awhile. 

For aid will come straightway." 

And there they turned them back to back, 

In the middle of them that day. 
Till Robin Hood approached near. 

With many an archer gay. 

With that an arrow by them flew, 

I wist from Robin Hood. 
" Make haste, make haste," the sheriff he said, 

" Make haste, for it is good." 

The sheriff is gone, his doughty men 

Thonght it no boot to stay. 
But as their master had them taught, 

They ran full fast away. 

" Oh stay, oh stay," Will Stutly said ; 

'■ Take leave ere you depart ; 
You ne'er will catch bold Kobiu Hood, 

Unless you dare him meet." 

" Oh ill betide you," quoth Robin Hood, 

'• That you so soon are gone ; 
My sword may in the scabbard rest. 

For here onr work is done." 

" I little thought," Will Stutly said, 

" When I came to this place. 
For to have met with Little John, 

Or seen my master's face." 

'Tims Stutly was at liberty set. 

And safe brought from his foe : 
'' Oh thanks, oh thanks to my master, 

Since here it was not so. 

"Aud once again, my fellows all, 
We shall in the greeu woods meet, 

Where we will make our bow-striugs twang, 
Music for us most sweet." 



BEGONE, DULL CARE. 

Anonymous (before 1G89). 

Begone, dull care ! 

I prithee begone from me; 
Begone, dull care ! 

Thou and I can never agree. 



JXOyYMOVS AXD MISCELLAXEOVS POEMS. 



81 



Long while tlinu hast been tarrying here, 
Ami lain thou woilldst iiir kill ; 

Uiit i" failli, iluU onic. 

Thou never shalt liavo tliy will. 

Too niiu'h caro 

Will make a yonn^ man gray; 
Too much tan; 

Will turn an olil man to clay. 
Sly wife shall ilance, anil 1 will sing, 

So merrily pass the il.iy ; 
For I holil it is the wisest thing 

To drive ilnll care away. 

Hence, (lull care ! 

ru none of thy company ; 
Heiu'e, (lull care ! 

Thou art no pair for nu\ 
We'll hunt the wild boar through the wold, 

So nn-rrily pass the day ; 
And then at night, o'er a cheerful bowl, 

We'll drive didl care awav. 



MAN'S JIOUTALITY. 
Simon Wasieli. (1500-1030). 

Like as the damask rose you see, 

Or like the blossom on the tree. 

Or like the dainty tlowcr in May, 

Or like the morning of the day, 

Or like the sun, or like the shade. 

Or like the gouiil which .Jonas liad ; — 

Kven such is man, whose thread is spun, 

IJrawn out and cut, and so is done. 

The rose withers, the blossom blasteth ; 

The flower fades, the nioruiug hasteth ; 

The sun sets, the shadow flies; 

The gourd consumes, anil man he dies. 

Like to the grass that's newly sprung. 

Or like a tale that's new begun. 

Or like the l)ird that's here to-day, 

Or like the pearli^d dew of May, 

Or like an hour, or like a span, 

Or like the singing of a swan ; 

Kven such is man, who lives by bieatli. 

Is here, uow there, in life and death. 

The grass withers, the tale is ended ; 

The bird is flown, the ilew's ascended ; 

The hour is short, the span not long; 

The swan near death; man's life is done. 



KOr.IX HOOD AND ALLIN-A-UALE. 
Anonymous. 

Come, listen to me, you gallants so free. 

All you that love mirth for to he.ar. 
And I will tell you of .a bold outlaw 

That lived in Nottinghamshire. 
As Hobin Hood in the forest stood. 

All under the greenwood tree, 
There ho was aware of a brave young man. 

As lino as lino might be. 
The youngster was clothed in scarlet red. 

In scarlet tine and gay ; 
And he did frisk it over the plain. 

And chanted a roundelay. 

As Robin Hood next nmrning stood 

Amongst the leaves so gay. 
There did he espy the same young man 

Come drooping along the way. 
The scarlet he wore the day before 

It was clean cast away ; 
And at every step he fetched a sigh — 

".Vlaelc, and a well-a-day 1'' 
Then stejipi^d forth brave Little John, 

And Midge, the miller's son. 
Which made the young man bend his bow, 

AVhen as he saw them come. 

"Stand oil', stand oil'!'' the young man said; 

"What is your will with me?'' 
" Von must come before our m.aster straight, 

liiilir you greenwood tree." 
And when he eauui bold Robin before, 

Robin asked him courteously, 
"Oh, hast thou any money to spare 

For my merry men and me t" 
" I have no money," the young man said, 

" Ibit five shillings and a ring; 
And that I have ke])t this seven long years, 

To have it at my wedding. 

"Yesterday I should have married a maid, 

But she soon from me was ta'en. 
And chosen to lie an old knight's delight, 

Wlierel>y my poor heart is slain." 
"Wliat is thy name?" then .said Kobiu Hood; 

"Come, till me witlioiil any fail." 
" I5y the faith of my Imily," then said the young 
man. 

"Jly name it is Alliu-a-l)ale." 
"What wilt thou give uie," said Robiu Hood, 

"lu ready gold or fee. 



82 



CTCLOFjEDIA of BRITISH AND AMERICAN I'OETRT. 



To help thee to thy true love again, 
Aud deliver her uuto thee ?" 

"I have no money," then quoth the young man, 

" No ready gold nor fee ; 
But I will swear upon a book 

Thy true servriut for to be." 
" How many miles is it to thy true love ? 

Come, tell mo without guile." 
" By the faith of my body," then said the young 
man, 

" It is but five little mile." 
Then Kobin he hasted over the plain, 

He did neither stint nor bin. 
Until he came unto the church 

Where Alliu should keep his weddiug. 

"What hast thou here?" the bishop then said; 

" I prithee now tell unto me." 
"I am a bold harper," quoth Kobin Hood, 

"And the best in the north countree." 
" O welcome, O welcome !" the bishop he said, 

"That music best pleaseth me." 
" You shall have no music," quoth Robin Hood, 

"Till the bride aud the bridegroom I see." 
With that came in a wealthy knight, 

Which was both grave and old ; 
And after him a finikin lass 

Did shine like the glistering gold. 

"TUis is not a fit match," quoth bold Robin Hood, 

"That you do seem to make here; 
For since we are come into the church. 

The bride shall choose her own de.ar." 
Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth. 

And blow blasts two or three, 
Wheu four-and-twenty bowmen bold 

Came leaping o'er the lea. 
And wheu thej' came into the church-yard. 

Marching all in a row, 
The very first man was Allin-a-Dale 

To give bold Robin his bow. 

"This is thy true love," Robin he said, 

"Young AUin, as I hear say; 
And you shall be married at this same time, 

Before we depart away." 
"That shall not be," the bishop he s.aid, 

"For thy word shall not stand; 
They shall be three times asked in the church. 

As the law is of our land." 
Robin Hood pulled oft' the bishop's coat, 

And put it on Little John : 



" By the faith of my body," then Eobiii said, 
" This cloth doth make thee a man." 

When Little John went into the quire 

The peoijle began to laugh ; 
He asked them seven times in the church, 

Lest three times should not be enough. 
"Who gives me this maid?" said Little John. 

Quoth Roliin Hood, "That do I; 
And he that takes her from Allin-a-Dale, 

Full dearly he shall her buy." 
And thus having end of this merry wedding. 

The bride looked like a queen ; 
And so they returned to the merry greenwood, 

Amongst the leaves so green. 



WxVLY, WALY. 

Anonymous. 

First published as au old song in Allan Ramsay's "Te.a-Table 
Miscellany," in 1724. Tait of it (by Rol)eit Chambers all of it) 
has been pieced into a later ballad on tlie Marchioness of 
Dou;iIass; married 1670, aud deserted by her husband. 

Oh waly, waly," up the bank, 

Oh waly, waly, donn the brae,' 
And waly, waly, yon burn-side," 

Where I aud my love were wont to gae ! 
I leaned my back unto an aik, 

I thocht it was a trustie tree. 
But first it bowed, and syne it brak', — 

Aud sae did my fause love to me. 

Oh waly, waly, but love be bonuie 

A little time while it is new ! 
But when it's auld it waxeth cauld. 

And fadeth awa' like the morning dew. 
Oh, wherefore should I busk* my heid. 

Or wherefore should I kame my hair? 
For my true love has me forsook, 

Aud says he'll never lo'c mo mair. 

Noo Arthur's Seat sail bo my bed. 

The sheets sail ne'er be pressed by me ; 
Saint Anton's Well' sail bo my drink; 

Since my true love's forsaken me. 
Martiumas wind, wheu wilt thou blaw. 

And shake the green leaves oft' the tree ? 
Oh gentle death, when wilt thou come? 

For of my life I am wearie. 

■ An exclamation of sorrow, tlie root and the pronunciation 
of which are preserved in caterwaiU. 

2 Hill-side. = Brook. ' Adcn-n. 

' Saint Anton's Well was at the foot of Arthur's Seat, by 
Edinburgh. 



AXOXTMOCS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



83 



Tis uot the frost that freezes fell, 

Nor blawiiig snaw's iiiclemeucie, 
'Tis not sic cuiild that makes nio cry ; 

Hut my love's heart grown eaiild to nie. 
When we cam' in by Glas-gow tonn, 

We were a comely sicht to see ; 
My love was clad in the black velvet, 

Au' I mysel' in craniasie.' 

But hail I wist, before I kissed, 

Tlial love had been so ill to win, 
I'd locked my heart in a case o' gond. 

And i)iimed it wi' a siller pin. 
Oh, oh ! if my young babe were bom, 

And set upon the nurse's knee ; 
And I mysel' were deid and gone, 

And the green grass growing over me! 



EDWARD. 

Anonymous. 

This remarkable little dramatic ballad was first printed in 
Percy's "Rcliqaes," from a manuscript traiismilted by Lord 
llailes. There are several versious, aud a good German trans- 
lation of it by Herder. 

"Why docs your braml sae drap wi' blmle, 

lMwar<l, Kdward ? 
Why does yonr brand sae drap wi' blude. 

And why sae sad gang ye, O f" 
"Oh, I ha'e killed my hawk sao gude, 

Jlither, mither : 
Oh, I ha'e killed my hawk sae gude, 

.\nd I ha'e nao niair but he, O." 

" Your hawk's bliide was never sae red, 

Edward, Edward : 
■your hawk's blude was never sae red. 

My dear son, I tell tliee, O." 
"Oh, I ha'o killi-d my red-roan steed, 

ilithiT, mither: 
Oh, I ha'e killed my red-roan steed. 
That was sac fair and free, O." 

"Your steed was anhl, and yc've plenty mair, 

Kilward, Kdward: 
Y'onr steed was aiild, and ye've plcuty mair; 

Some ither diile ye dree,' O." 
"Oh, I ha'o killed my father dear, 

Jlilhcr, mither: 
Oh, I ha'e killed my father di^ar! 
Alas ! and wao ia me, O !" 



Crimson. 



' Some other grief yon eaSTer. 



"What penance will ye dree for that, 
Edward, Edward f 
What penance will ye dree for that 1 
5Iy dear son, now tell nu>, O." 
"I'll set my feet in yonder boat, 

Mither, mither : 
I'll set my feet in yonder boat. 

And I'll fare o'er the sea, O." 

"And what will ye do wi' your towers and ha', 

Edward, Edward ? 
And what will ye do wi' your towers aud ha', 

That were sao fair to see, O ?" 
"I'll let them stand till they douu fa', 

Mither, miklicr : 
I'll let them st.and till they doun fa'; 
For hero I niannna be, O." 

"And what will yo leave to yonr bairns and wife. 

Edward, Edward ? 
And what will ye leave to your bairus aud wife, 

When ye gang o'er the sea, O i" 
"The warld's room: let them beg through life, 

Mither, mither : 
The warld's room : let them beg through life ; 
For them I ne'er maun see, O." 

"Aud what will ye leave to your mither dear, 

Edward, Edward ? 
And what will ye leave to yonr mitlier dear? 

My dear son, now tell me, O." 
"The curse of hell frae me sail ye bear, 

Mithi'r, mither: 
The cnrse of hell frae me sail ye bear, — 
Sic counsels ye gied me, O !" 



LOVE ME LITTLK, LOVE ME LONG. 

ASONVJIOl'8 (1570). 

Love me little, love me long. 
Is the burden of my song. 
Love that is too hot and strong 

linrneth soon to waste. 
Still I would not have tliec cold. 
Not too backward or too bold ; 
Love that lasteth till 'tis old 

Fadetli not iu haste. 



If thou lovest mo too much, 
'Twill not prove as true as touch; 
Love me little, more than such. 
For I fear the end. 



84 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



I'm Tvitli little well content, 
And a little from thee sent 
Is enongli, •with true intent, 
To bo steadfast friend. 

Say thou lov'st me while thou live, 
I to thee my love will give, 
Never dreaming to deceive 

While that life endnrcs : 
Nay, and after death, in sooth, 
I to thee will keep ray truth 
As now, in ray Jlay of youth. 

This ray love assures. 

Constant l(We is moderate ever, 
And it will through life persever ; 
Give rae that, witli true endeavor 

1 will it restore ; 
A suit of durance lot it he 
For all weathers ; that for me. 
For the land or for the sea. 

Lasting evermore. 

Winter's cold or Summer's heat. 
Autumn's tempests on it heat. 
It can never know defeat. 

Never can rebel : 
Such the love that I wonhl gain, 
Such the love, I tell thee plain. 
Thou must give, or woo in vain — 

So to thee farewell ! 



TRUE LOVELINESS. 



It is not beauty I demand, 

A crystal brow, the moon's despair. 
Nor the snow's dauglitcr, a white hand, 

Nor mermaid's yellow juide of hair : 
# # # jt -f # 

Give me, instead of beauty's bust, 

A tender heart, a loyal mind, 
Which with temptation I would trust. 

Yet never linked with error find, — 
One in whose gentle bosom I 

Could pour my secret heart of woes, 
Like the care-burdened honej'-tly. 

That hides his murmurs in tlie rose,— 
My earthly comforter ! wliose love 

So indefeasible might be, 
That when my spirit wonned above, 

Hers could not stiry for sympathy. 



LINES WRITTEN BY ONE IN THE TOWER, 
BEING YOUNG, AND CONDEMNED TO DIE. 

CnlDiocK Tycbborn. 

Cliidiock Tych1)orD, the aiUliov of tliese lines, sliared in Balj- 
iugtou's conspiracy, and was executed with him in IfiSG. For 
move about him, sec an article in D'Israeli's "Curiosities of 
Literature." 

My pi'ime of youth is but a frost of cares ; 

My feast of joy is but a dish of pain ; 
My crop of corn is but a field of tares ; 

And all my good is but vain hope of gain : 
The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun ; 
And now I live, and now my life is done. 

The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung; 

The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green; 
My youtii is gone, and yet I am but young ; 

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen : 
My thread is cut, and yet it is not .spuu ; 
And now 1 live, and now my life is done. 

I sought my dcatli, and found it in the worab ; 

I looked at life, and saw it was a shade; 
I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb ; 

And now I die, and now I am l)nt nnule : 
The glass is full, and now my glass is run ; 
And now I live, and now my lite is done. 



BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL. 

ANoNVMors. 

]\[r. MotlierwctI suijpnses that tliis l)alhid is probably a La- 
ment for one of the adherents of tlie hoirse of ArLCyle, who fell 
in the battle of Gleulivat, October, 1094. 

Hie upon Hielands, and low upon Tay, 
Biinnie (Jeorge Campbell rade out on a d.ay. 
.Saddled and bridled and gallant rade he ; 
Hame cam' his horse, but never cam' he! 

Ont cam' liis anld niither, greeting fii' sair ; 
And ont cam' his bonnie bride, riving her hair. 
Saddled and Inidled and booted rade he; 
Toom' htime cam' the saddle, but never cam' he ! 

" My meadow lies green, and my corn is unshorn ; 
Mv barn is to liigg,' and my babie's unborn." 
Saddled and bridle<l and liooted rade he; 
Toom cam' the saddle, but never cam' lie ! 



Empty. 



2 Build. 



AXOXYMOCS AKD MISCELLAXEOVS POEMS. 



85 



SILENT MUSIC. 

The fiillowiiii; 19 found in "Obseivntions on the Art of Eng- 
lish Pite.-y ■' (London, 1002), by Tliomas Campion. The pnrpose 
of the hook is niniuly to prove that rhyme is altogether an nu- 
neceesnry appendage to Engtii^h veri^e. The lines are so grace- 
ful, it is a wonder lliat we have nothing more from the same 
pen. 

Iiosc-cliookcil L;uii:i. eoiiiu I 
Sing tliou sinootlily with thy beauty's 
Silent, imisic, cither other 
Sweetly gruciiii;. 

Lovely forin.s do flow 
From concent divinely framed ; 
Heaven is music, and thy beauty's 

liirth is heavenly. 

These dull notes wo sing, 
Discords need lor heliis to grace tlicni ; 
Only beauty purely loving 

Knows uo discord ; 

But still moves delight. 
Like clear siu'ings renewed by flowing, 
Lver perlect, ever in them- 

Selvcs eternal. 



THE HEAVENLY JERUSALE.M. 

.\SONT«Of9. 

This old poem, wliicli was nitcrcd and enlarged by David 
Dickson, a Scotch clergyman 05S3-lcri2), seems to have been by 
no means improved by (he enlargement ; and we give it here in 
its earlier form. Probabiy the hymu has received contributions 
from varions hands, and it would &cem to be partly derived 
from trnnslaiions from the Latin. 

Jerusalem, my bappy home, 

When shall I come to thee f 
When shall niy sorrows have au end f 

Thy joys when shall I see f 
happy harbor of the saints! 

() sweet and pleasant soil! 
In theo uo sorrow may be fouud, 

No grief, no care, no toil. 

Ill thee no sickness may be seen, 

Nor hurt, nor ache, nor sore ; 
There is no death, nor ugly dole, 

Hut Life for evermore. 
There lust and lucre cannot dwell. 

There envy boars no sway ; 
There is no hunger, beat, nor cold, 

Hut pleasure every way. 



Thy walls are made of jjrecious stones, 

Tliy bulwarks di.amouds stiuare ; 
Thy gates aro of right orient pearl, 

Exceeding rich and rare. 
Thy turrets and thy pinnacles 

With carbuuelcs do shine; 
Thy very streets are paved with gold. 

Surpassing clear and fine. 

Thy bonses are of ivory, 

Thy windows crystal clear; 
Thy tiles are made of beaten gold; — 

O Ciod, that I were tliere! 
Ab, my sweet home, Jerusalem ! 

Would God I were in tbeo ! 
Would God my woes wore at an end, 

Thy joys that I might see I 

Thy saints aro crownetl with glory great; 

They see God face to face ; 
They triumph still, they still rejoice; 

Most happy is their ca.se. 
Wo that are here in banishinent 

Continually do moan ; 
Wo sigb and sob, wo weep and w:iil. 

Perpetually wo groan. 

Our sweet is mixed with bitter gall, 

Onr pleasure is but pain ; 
Our joys scarce host the looking on, 

Our sorrows still remain. 
But there they live in such delight. 

Such pleasure, and such play. 
As that to them a thousand years 

Doth seem as yesterday. 

Thy garilcns and thy gallant tv.alks 

Continually aro green ; 
There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers 

As nowhere else aro seen. 
Quite through the streets, with silver souud, 

Tiie Hood of Life dolb flow; 
Upon whose banks on every side 

The wood of Life dolb grow. 

There trees for evermore bear fruit, 

And evermore do spring; 
There evermore the angels sit. 

And evermore do sing. 
Jerusalem, my happy homo, 

Would (Jcxl I were in tliec! 
Wonlil God my woes were at an end, 

Thy joys that I might see ! 



86 



CTCLOPJEDIJ OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL. 

ANONTsiors. 

Helen Irviug, (iaiighter of the lairil of Kiikconnell, lu Dnm- 
friesshire, was beloved by two gentlemen. The name of the 
one suitor was Adam Fleming ; that of the other has escaped 
tradition. The addresses of ihe latter were, however, favored 
by the lady, and the lovers were obliged to meet in the church- 
yard of Kirkcouuell. During one of these interviews, the jeal- 
ous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank 
of the stream, and levelled his carbine at the breast of his rival. 
Helen threw herself before her lover, received in lier bosom the 
bullet, and died in his arms. A desperate and mortal combat 
ensued between the rivals, in which Fleming was cut to pieces. 
The graves of the lovers are still shown in the church-yard of 
Kirkcouuell. 

I ■wisli I nvere where Helen lies ! 
Night aud daj' on nie she cries. 
Oh that I were where Helea lies, 
Oil fair Kirkcouuell lea! 



Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 
Anil curst the band that fired the shot, 
Wheu in my arms burd' Helen dropt. 
And died to succor uie ! 

Oh, thiuk ye na my heart was sair, 
When my love dropt down aud sjiake nae luair 
There did she swoon wi' lueikle care, 
On fair Kirkcouuell lea. 

As I went down the water-.side. 
None but my foe to be luy guide, 
None but my foe to be luy guide, 
On fair Kirkcouuell lea, — 

I lighted down, my sword did draw; 
I hack(?d him in pieces snia', 
I hack<^d him in pieces sina'. 
For her sake tliat died for nie. 

O Helen fair, beyond compare ! 
I'll weave a garland of tliy hair 
Shall bind my heart for evermair, 
Until the day I dee ! 

Oil that I were where Helen lies ! 
Night aud day on me she cries ; 
Out of my bed she bids me rise, 
Says, " Haste, aud come to me !" 

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! 
Were I with thee I would be blest, 



Where thou lies low and takes thy rest, 
On fair Kirkcouuell lea. 

I wish my grave were growing greeu, 
A wiudiug-sheet drawn o'er my ecu, 
And I in Helen's arms lying, 
On fair .Kirkcouuell lea. 

I wish I were where Helen lies ! 
Night and d;iy on me she cries. 
And I am weary of the skies. 
For her sake that died for me. 



King (Uljavlcs 



Charles I., King of England, grandson of Mary, Queen 
of Scots. Avas born at Dunfermline, in Scotland, in 1600, 
and executed iu London, January SOtli, 1649. The poem 
from wliich the following twelve triplets are taken con- 
sists of twenty-four, most of them quite inferior to the 
following. Archbishop Trench does "not doubt tliat 
these lines are what they profess to be, the composition 
of King Charles ; their authenticity is stamped on every 
line." Tliey are creditable to his literary culture, and 
show that he inherited some of the jioetical faculty of 
his grandmother. 



A ROYAL LAMENTATION. 

Great Monarch of the world, from whoso power 

springs 
The potency aud power of kings. 
Record the royal woe my suffering sings. 

Nature and law by Thy divine decree 
(The only root of righteous royalty). 
With (his dim diadem invested me. 

With it the sacred sceptre, purple robe. 
The holy unction, and the roy.al globe ; 
Yet am I levelled with the life of Job. 

The fiercest furies, that do daily tread 
Upon my grief, my gray discrowu(^d head, 
Are they that owe my bounty for their bread. 

Great Britain's heir is forced into France, 
Whilst on his father's head his foes advance : 
Poor child! he weeps at his iuheritauce. 

With my own power my majesty they wound, 
In the King's name the king's himself uncrowned; 
So doth the dust destroy the diamond. 



,S[R WILLIAM DArEXJNT.—SIB THOMAS liROWyE. 



87 



With propositions daily they enchant 

My people's ears — such as do reason i1:iiimI, 

And the Aluiislity will not let me praut. 

They promise to erect my royal stem, 

To make me jtreat, to advance my diadem. 

It I will lii.st tall down and \vor.shi[i them. 

My life tliey prize at such a slender rate, 
That in my aliseiiee they draw hills of hate, 
To prove the king a traitor to the State. 

Felons ohtaiii more privilege than I; 
They are allowed to answer ere they die ; 
'Tis death for me to ask the reason why. 

Mat, sacred Saviour, with thy words I woo 

Theo to forgive, and not bo bitter to 

Such as thou know'st do not know what they do. 

.\n^'ment my patience, nullify my hate. 

Preserve my issue, and inspire my mate ; 

Yet, though we perish, bless this Church and State ! 



5ir llVilliam Daticuant. 

A native of Oxford, Davcnant ( 1 IJO.5-1668) succeeded 
Ben Jonson as poet laureate. He was llic son of an inn- 
keeper, and educated at Oxford. In 1IJ4S he was knij^hted 
by Kiii^ Charles. His works consist of dramas, masques, 
addresses, and an untiuished epic called "Gondlbert," 
» liich he dedicates to lloljbcs. He left a son, Charles, 
who sat in Parliament, and distinguished himself some- 
what as a literary man. 



THE SOLUIKK GOING TO TllK FIELD. 

Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl, 

To purify the air; 
Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl. 

On bracelets of thy hair. 

The trumpet makes the echo hoarse, 
And wakes the lon<ler drum; 

Expense of grief gains no remorse, 
When sorrow should be dumb : 

For I must go, where lazy peace 
Will hide her drowsy head ; 

And, for the sport of kinj^s, increase 
The number of the dead. 



But first I'll chide thy cruel theft ; 

Can I in w.ar delight, 
Wlio, being of my heart bereft. 

Can have no heart to fight f 

Tliou know'st the sacred laws of old 
Ordained a thief should pay. 

To (piit him of his theft, seveufold 
What he had stolen away. 

Tliy payment shall but double be; 

Oh, then, with speed resign 
My own sedueiSd heart to me, 

Accompanied with thine. 



TO THE QUEEN. 

Fair as unshaded light, or as th<' day 
In its first birth, when all the year was May ; 
Sweet as the altar's smoke, or as the new 
I'ntohied bud, swelled by the early dew ; 
Smooth as the face of waters first appeared. 
Ere tides began to strive or winds were heard ; 
Kind as the willing saints, and cahner far 
Than in their sleeps forgiven hermits are ; — 
Von that .are more than our disereeter fear 
Dares praise, with such full art, what make you 

here ? 
Here, where the summer is so little seen, 
That leaves, her cheapest wealth, scarce reach at 

green ; 
Vou come, as if the silver planet were 
Misled awhile from her much-injured sphere ; 
And, to eas(^ the travels of her beams to-nii;lit, 
III this small laiitliiirii would contract her light. 



Sir Cljomas Urotonc. 

Browne (1G0.5-I(i82) is known chiefly for his prose 
wrilinirs. His •'Kelijrio Medici" is still in demand at 
the book-stores. Of his poems we liave one favorable 
specimen. He was liorn in London, bcoaine a practising 
phj'siciun at Norwich, and was kiiiu'litcd by Cliarks II. 
in 1071. . 



THE NIGHT IS COME. 

The night is come: like to the day, 
Depart not Thou, great God, away ! 
Let not my sins, black as the night, 
Eclipse the lustre of Thy light. 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BHITISB AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Keep still iu my horizon ; for to nie 

The sun makes not the day, but Tlioe. 

Thou whoso nature cannot sleep, 

On my temples sentry keep ! 

Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes, 

Whoso eyes are open while mine close ; 

Let no dreams mj' head infest. 

But such as Jacob's temples blest. 

While I do rest, my soul advance ; 

Make my sleep a holy trance. 

That I may, ray rest being "wrought, 

Awake into some holy thought ; 

And with as active vigor run 

My course as doth the nimble sun. 

Sleep is a death ; oh ! make me try, 

By sleeping, what it is to die; 

And as gently lay my head 

On my grave, as now my bed. 

Howe'er I rest, great God, let me 

Awake again at last with Thee. 

And thus assured, behold I lie 

Securely, or to wake or die. 

These are my drowsy days; in vain 

I do now wake to sleep again : 

Oh! come that hour when I shall never 

Sleep again, but wake forever. 



(Jrbimmb lUtallcr. 

Waller (160.5-1687) noarislicd under the rale of Charles I. 
and Charles II. His mother was aunt of the celebrntL-d 
John Hampden, who was first cousin hotli of Edmund 
Waller and Oliver Cromwell. Rich aii„ well-born, Wal- 
ler was educated at Eton, and became a member of Par- 
liament at eighteen. His political life was eventful, and 
not wholly to his credit. He sat in all the parlianKnts 
of Charles II., and was the delight of the House : even at 
eighty years of age he was the liveliest and wittiest man 
within its walls. His verses are smooth and polished, 
but superticial. Overpraised iu his day, bis fume has, not 
undeservedly, declined. He was left heir to an estate 
of £3500 in his infancy, and was either a Roundhead or 
a Royalist, as the time served. At twenty-five he mar- 
ried a rich heiress of London, who died the same year. 
Easy and witty, he was yet cold and selfish. 



THE MESSAGE OF THE EOSE. 

Go, lovely Rose, 
Tell her that wastes her time and me 

That now she knows, 
When I resemble In-r to tliee. 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 



Tell her that's young. 
And shnn.s to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts, where no men abide. 
Thou must have uneonimeuded died. 

Suurll is the worth 
Of Beauty from the light retired : 

Bid her come forth, 
Sulfer herself to be desired. 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die, that she 
Tlie common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee : 
How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 



ON A GIRDLE. 

Tliat which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyfifl temples bind : 
No monarch but would give his crown 
His arms might do what this has done. 

It: was my heaven's extremest sphere, 
The pale which held that lovely deer; 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love. 
Did all within this circle move. 

A narrow compass, and yet tliero 
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair: 
Give mo but what this riband bound, 
Take all the rest the sun goes round. 



lUilliam ijixbiujjton. 

Habington (160.5-104.5) was a Roman Catholic. He was 
educated at St. Oiuer's and Paris, and after his return to 
England married the lady who is the "Castara" of his 
volume of poems. Ho had no stormy passions to agitate 
him, no unruly iinagination to control. His verses are 
often of a placid, tender, elegant description, but studded 
with conceits. 



NOMINE LABIA MEA APERIES. 

No monument of me remain, — 
My memory rust 
In the same marlile with my dust,- 
Ere I the spreading laurel gain 
By writing wanton or profane! 



WILLIAM II.IIU.yGTOX.—JOIIX MILTOX. 



89 



Vi- glorious woiulers of tbo skies ! 
Sliiiie still, bright stars, 
The Almighty's mystic oliaracters! 
IM not your beauteous lights surprise 
To illuiuinate a woman's eyes. 

\or to \ierfiime her veins will I 
In eaeh one set 
The purple of the violet : 
The nntonoheil llowers may grow and ilio 
Safe from my fancy's injury. 

Open my lip.s, great God ! and then 
I'll soar above 
The humble flight of carnal love : 
Upward to tbce I'll force my pen, 
And trace no paths of vulgar men. 

Fiu- what can our unbounded sonls 
Worthy to bo 
Tluir object find, excepting thee ? 
Where can I fix ? since time controls 
Our pride, whoso motibn all things rolls. 

Should I myself ingratiate 
To a prince's smile, 
How soon may death my hopes beguile! 
And should I farm the proudest state, 
I'm tenant to uncertain fate. 

If I court gold, will it not rust f 
And if my love 
Toward a female beanty move. 
How will that surfeit of our Inst 
Distaste us when resolved to dust ! 

But thou, eternal banquet! where 
Forever wo 
5Iay fi'cd without satiety! 
Who harnu>ny art to the ear, — 
Who arl, while all things else appear! 

While up to thee I shoot my flame. 
Thou dost dispense 
A holy death, that murders sense. 
And makes me scorn all pomps that aim 
At other triumphs than thy name. 

It crowns me with a victory 
So heavenly, — all 
That's earth from me away doth fall : 
.\nd I, from my corrnptiou free, 
Grow ill my vows oven part of flicc. 



i?ol)u iUiltoii. 



Milton (1C0S-1C74) was the younger son of a London 
scrivener in good eiieuniftanccs. At sixteen he entered 
Christ's College, Canilnidge ; taking his degree of M.A. 
in 103i, about wliieli time lie wrote "L'Allcgro," "II 
Peuseioso," "Comus," " Lyeidas," and other of liis 
shorter jioems. Afterward he travelled in Italy for 
some fifteen months, and visited blind old (ialileo. Re- 
turning to Englond, he kept eeliool for awhile. Ho 
strongly advocated the Republican cause, and, on the 
death of Charles I., was appointed Latin Secretary to the 
Council of State. At the Restoration he retired into 
private life; and it was then, in his old age, when he had 
become totally blind, tliat lie wrote his immortal poems, 
"Paradise Lost" and "Paradise Regained." 

Milton was married three times— lirst, in 1G43, to Mary 
Powell. It was a hasty marriage, and an unhappy one. 
Six years after her death he was united to Catherine 
Woodcock, with whom he lived happily for a year, 
when, to his great grief, she died. It is of her he speaks 
in one of his sonnets as "his lute espoused saint." In 
IfiCO he married Elizabeth Minsluill, who proved an ex- 
cellent wife. Milton's English sonnets, seventeen in 
ninnber, arc happily described by Wordsworth as "soul- 
animating strains, alas ! too few." Johnson, however, 
could not see their grandeur, and explained what ho 
considered Milton's "failure" by remarking to Hannah 
More, " Milton's was a genius that could hew a Colos- 
sus out of a rock, but could not carve heads on clierrv- 
stoncs." In his youth Milton was remarkable for his 
beauty of countenance. His life was the pattern of sira- 
l)lieity and purity, almost to austerity. He acted from 
his youth as "under his great Taskmaster's eye." 

Milton's two juvenile poems, "L'Allegro" and "II 
Penscroso," liardly deserve the reputation they have 
long held. He evidently took bis hints for them partly 
from a forgotten poem prelixed to Burton's "Anatomy 
of Melancholy," and partly from the soiur, by Beaumont 
and Fleleher, "Hence, all you vain delights!" (which 
see). The poem in Burton's book has these lines : 

"When I go musitij: all alone, 
Thinkiii!; of rtiveise Ihings forckaowii ; 
AVhen I batid castles In Ihe air, 
Viild of Sitrrnw, void of fear, 
Plcnsiiijj nivfelf wilh iihaiilasms sweet, 
MeLliiiiks Ihc time runs very fleet. 

All my joys to lliis are folly; 

Nutight so sweet as Mclauchuly !'* 

The remainder of the poem is still more suggestive of 
resemblance, both in the measure and the general tone. 
The following tribute to the nobility of .Milton's charac- 
ter is |iaid liy Maeaulay: "If ever despondency and as- 
perity could be excused in any man, it might have been 
excused in Milton. But the strength of his mind over- 
came every calamity. Neither blindness, nor gout, nor 
age, nor penury, nor domestic atUictions, iior political 
disappointments, nor abuse, nor proscription, nor neg- 
lect, had power to disturb his sedate and maje.-lie pa- 
tience. " The fame of this eminent poet seems to have 
been undisturbed by the lapse of time. 



90 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



L' ALLEGRO.' 

Hence, loatlied Melaucboly, 

Of Cerberus aud blackest Midnigbt born ! 

lu Stygiau cave forlorn, 

'Mougst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights 
unholy, 

Find out some uncouth cell. 

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous 
wings. 

And the night-raveu sings ; 

There, under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks, 

As ragged as thy locks. 

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 
But come, thou goddess, fair and free, 
lu heaven y-cleped Euphrosyne,^ 
And by men, heart-easing Mirtli ! 
Whom lovely Venus at a birth, 
With two sister Graces more. 
To ivy-crown(?d Bacchus bore ; 
Or whether (as some sages sing) 
The frolic wind that breathes the spring. 
Zephyr with Aurora playing — 
As he met her once a-Maying — 
There, on beds of violets blue, 
Aud fresh-l)lown roses washed in dew. 
Filled her with thee, a daughter fair. 
So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee 
Jest and youthful Jollity, — 
Quips, and Cranks, aud wanton Wiles, 
Nods, aud Becks, and wreathed Smiles, 
Such as hang ou Hebe's cheek. 
And love to live iu dimple sleek ; — 
Sport, that wrinkled Care derides. 
And Laugiiter holding both his sides. 
Come, and trip it, as you go. 
On the light fantastic toe; 
And in thy right hand lead with thee 
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; 
And if I give thee honor due. 
Mirth, admit mo of thy crew. 
To live with her, and live with thee. 
In uureprovdd pleasures free; — 
To hear the lark begin his flight. 
And, singing, startle the dull night 
From his watch-tower iu the skies. 
Till the dappled dawu doth rise ; 
Theu to come, in spite of sorrow. 
And at my window bid good-morrow. 



' The man of mirth. 

2 Eiiphrosi/7iG {Gr.), Cheerfulness: one of the Grnces. 



Through the sweet-brier, or the vine. 
Or the twisted eglantine ;' 
While the cock, with lively din, 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 
Aud to the stack or the barn-door 
Stoutly struts his dames before ; — 
Oft listening how the hounds aud horn 
C'heerly rouse the slumbering Morn, 
From the side of some hoar hill, 
Through the high wood echoing shrill ; — 
Some time walking, not unseen. 
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 
Right against the eastern gate. 
Where the great sun begins his state, 
Robed iu flames and amber light. 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 
While the ploughman near at hand 
Wliistles o'er the furrowed land, 
And tlie milkmaid singeth blithe, 
Aiul the mower whets his scythe, 
And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine cy<3 hath caught new pleasures, 
Wliilst the landscape round it measures : 
Russet lawns and fallows gray. 
Where the nibbliug flocks do stray ; 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The laboring clouds do often rest ; 
Meadows trim with daisies pied. 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosomed high in tufted trees. 
Where, perhaps, some beauty lies, 
The Cynosure of ueighboriug eyes. 
Hard by a cottage chimney smokes, 
From betwixt two aged oaks, 
Where Corydou aud Thyrsis, met. 
Are at their savory dinner set, 
Of herbs and other country messes, 
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses: 
Aud theu iu haste her bower she leaves. 
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; 
Or, if the earlier season lead 
To the tanued hay-cock in the mead, 
Sometimes with secure delight 
Tlie upland hamlets will invite. 
When the merry bells ring round. 
And the jocund rebecks" sound 
To many a youth and many a maid 
Dancing iu the checkered shade ; 

1 Wnrtou says: "Sweethrier aud eghinthie are the same 
plant; by the 'twisted eglantine' he thercfoie means the 
iioneysuckle." ^ A sort of tiddle. 



JOBN MILTON. 



91 



And younj; and old como forth to play 

On a snnsbino holiday, 

Till tbo livelong daylight fail ; — 

Theu to the spicy nut-browu ale, 

With stories told of many a feat, 

How fairy Mali tin- junkets eat; 

She was pinched and pulled, she said, 

And he by friars' lauthorn led ; 

Tells bow tlie drudging goblin sweat 

To earn his cream-bowl duly set, 

AVheii in one night, ere glimpse of inoni, 

His shadowy Hail bath tbreshed the corn 

That ten day-laborers could not end ; 

Theu lies him down, the lubber lieud ! 

And, stretched out all the chimney's length, 

Uasks at the lire his hairy strength, 

And, crop-full, out-of-doors he llings 

Ere the lirst cock his matin rings. 

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 

By whispering winds soon lulled to sleep. 

Towered cities please us then. 
And tln^ l)nsy hum of men, 
AVbere tlirougs of knights and barons bold 
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, — 
With store of ladie.s, whose bright eyes 
Rain iullueucc,' and judge tbo prize 
Of wit or arms, while both contend 
To win her gr.ico whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft ajipc.ar. 
In satVron mhi\ with taper clear, 
And pomp, and fisist, and revelry. 
With mask and anti<|no jjageantry; 
Such sights as youthful jjoets dream 
Oil summer eves by haunted stream. 
Then to the well-trod stage anon. 
If Jonson's leannSd sock bo on. 
Or sweetest Shakspcaro, Fancy's child. 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever against eating cares, 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs, 
Married to immortal verso, 
Snch as the meeting sonl may pierce; 
lu notes with many a winding bout' 
Of linki^d sweetness long dr.awu out. 
With wanton liet'd and gidily cunning 
The melting voice through mazes running, 
Untwisting all the chains that tie 
Tho hidden sonl of harmony, — 
That Orpliens' self may heave his head 
From golden slumber ou a bed 



■ A fold or twisu 



Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 
•Such strains as would have won the car 
Of I'luto to have (piito set free 
His half-regained Eurydice. 

These delights if tliou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee 1 mean to live. 



IL PENSEROSO.' 

Hence, vain, (leliiditig joys. 

The brood of folly, without father bred! 

How little yon bestead, 

Or till the fi.vdd mind with all your toys! 

Dwell in some idle brain. 

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, 

As thick and numberless 

As the gay motes that people the sunbeams. 

Or likest hovering dreams, 

Tlie tickle pensioners of Morjiheus' train. 
Hut bail, thou goddess, sage and holy! 
Hail, divinest Melancholy! 
Whoso saintly vis.ago is too bright 
To hit the sense of human sight. 
And therefore to our weaker view 
O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's hue ; 
Black, but such as in esteem 
Prince Meuiuon's sister might beseem, 
Or that starred Ethiop ((ueen that strove 
To set her beauty's praise above 
T^lie se.a-nymphs, and their powers ofleuded : 
Yet thou art higher far descended ; 
Thee bright-haired Vesta, long of yore. 
To solitary Saturn bore ; 
His daughter .she (in Saturn's reign 
Such mixture w:is not held a stain): 
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
Ho met her, and in secret shades 
Of woody Ida's inmost grove. 
While yet there w.is no fear of Jove. 

Come, ]iensivo nnn, devout and ptire. 
Sober, steadfast, and demure. 
All in a robe of darkest grain. 
Flowing with inajestic train, 
And sable stole of cyi)ress' lawn 
Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
Come, but keep thy wonted state. 
With even step, and musing gait, 
And Io(d{s comnn'rclng with tho skies, 
Tliy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: 



' Tlie mclnnclioly mnn. 

^ A llifii Irniitipnrcut texture. 



92 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISK AND AMEUICAX POETRY. 



There, beld in holy passion still, 

Forget, thyself to niarWe, till 

With a sad, leaden, downward cast 

Tlion fix; them on the earth as fast ; 

And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, 

Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 

And hears the Muses in a ring 

Aye round about Jove's altar sing ; 

And add to these retired Leisure, 

That iu trim gardens takes his pleasure ; 

But first and chicfest, with thee bring 

Hiui that yon soars on golden wiug. 

Guiding the liery-wheeled throne, 

The cherub Contemplation ; 

And the mute Silence hist along, 

'Less Philomel will deign a soug, 

Iu her sweetest, saddest plight, 

Smoothiug the rngged brow of night. 

While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 

Gently o'er the accustomed oak : 

Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly. 

Most musical, most melancholy ! 

Thee, chau tress, oft the woods among 

I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 

And, missing thee, I walk unseen 

Ou the dry smooth-shaven greeu. 

To behold the wandering inoon, 

Eiding near her highest noon, 

Like one that had been led astray 

Through the heaven's wide, pathless way; 

And oft, as if her head she bowed, 

Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 

Oft, on a plat of rising grouud, 

I hear the far-off curfew souuel 

Over soiiio wide-watered shore, 

Swinging slow with suUeu roar ; 

Or, if the air will not permit. 

Some still, removed place will fit, 

Where glowing embers through the room 

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 

Far from all resort of mirth, 

Save the cricket ou the hearth, 

Or the bellman's' drowsy charm 

To bless the doors from nightly harm : — 

Or let my lamp at midnight hour 

Be seeu iu some high, lonely tower, 

Where I may oft out-wateh the Bear, 

With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 

The spirit of Plato, to unfold 

What worlds or what vast regions hold 



' Anciently the wntchmnn, who ciied the hours, need suudry 
'jeDedictiouB. — Wauton. 



The immortal mind that hath forsook 
Her mansion in this fleshly nook : 
And of those demons that are found 
In fire, air, flood, or under ground, 
VVhose jjower hath a true consent 
With plauet or with element. 

Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
In sceptcred p.all come sweeping by, 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' liue, 
Or the tale of Troy divine. 
Or what (though rare) of later age 
Ennobled hath the buskiued stage. 

But, O sad Virgiu, that thy power 
Might raise Musieus from his bower! 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes as, warbled to the string, 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, 
Aud made Hell grant what love did seek ! 
Or call up him that left half told 
The story of Cambuscau bold,' 
Of Camball, aud of Algarsife, 
Aud who had Cauace to wife, 
That owned the virtuous ring and glass, 
Aud of the wondrous horse of brass 
On which the Tartar king did ride ; 
And if aught else great biu'ds beside 
In sage aud solemn tunes have sung, 
Of tourneys aud of trophies hung. 
Of forests, aud enchantments drear, 
Where more is meant than meets the ear. 

Tbus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career. 
Till civil-suited Morn appear. 
Not tricked aud frounced," as she was wont 
With the Attic boy to hunt, 
lint kerchiefed iu a comely cloud. 
While rocking winds are piping lond. 
Or ushered with a shower still. 
When the gust hath blown his fill. 
Ending ou the rnstling leaves, 
With minute" drops from oft" the eaves. 
And when the sun begins to fliug 
His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring 
To arched walks of twilight groves, 
Aud shadows browu, that Sylvau loves, 
Of iiine or monumental oak. 
Where the rude axe, with heavcSd stroke, 
Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt. 
Or fright them from their hallowed hanut. 



' A refereuce to the "Squire's Tale," by Ch.aiicer. 
' From the French /ro/icer, to curl, :ind refers to nn excessive 
dressin-r of the liair. 
3 That is, drops at intervals, by minutes. 



.lOUX MILTdS. 



93 



There, in close covert, by son\e brook, 
WluTi' no jirofjiuer eye may look, 
Ilidr mo IVoni day's garish eye. 
While the lieo with honeyed thigh, 
That at her llowcry work iloth sing, 
And the waters niurinnring 
With such consort as they keep 
Entice the dewy-feathered sleep ; 
And let some strange, mysterious dream 
Wave at his wings in aery stream 
Of lively portraiture displayed, 
Softly on my eyelids laid ; 
And as I wake, sweet music breathe 
Above, about, or underneath. 
Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, 
Or the unseen (Jenius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloisters pale, 
And love the high embowM roof, 
With antic pillars massy proof. 
And storied windows, richly diglit, 
Casting a dim, religions light : 
There let the pealing organ blow 
To the full-voiced quire below. 
In service high and nuthems clear. 
As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 
Dissolve me into ecstasies. 
And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage. 
The hairy gown and mossy cell. 
Where I may sit and rightly spell 
Of every star that heaven doth show, 
And every herb that sips the dew. 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures, Slelaiicholy, give, 
And I with thee will choose to live. 



LYCIDAS. 

Tills Dobtc monody wns written in memory of ft donr and 
lenraed (Hcnd, Mr. Edwnrd Kin<;, Fellow of Chiist's College, 
and ilr^t .ippeitrcd iu a Cambridge collectiuu of verses on the 
subject, 163S. 

Yet once more, oh ye laurels, and once more 

Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude ; 

.•\nd, with forced lingers rude. 

Shatter your leaves before the nndlowing year: 

Hitter eonstr.iint, and sad occa.sion dear, 

Compels mo to disturb your season duo : 



I'or Lycidas is dead, dead ere his lu-ime. 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 
Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew 
Himself to sing, and build tiie lofty rhyme. 
He must not lloat upon his watery bier 
rnwejit. anil welter to the parching wind, 
Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

I5egi[i then. Sisters of the sacred well. 
That from beneath the .seat of Jove doth spring; 
Hegin, and scmiewhat loudly sweep the string. 
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse : 
So may some gentle Muse 
With lucky words favor my destined urn ; 
And as he passes turn. 
Ami bid fair peace bo to my sable sliro vid. 

For wo were iiur.sed upon the self-saiJG hill. 
Fed the same fioik, by fountain, shade, niid rill. 
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 
Under the opening eyelids of \\u; Morn, 
AVe drove a-(ield, and both togetli<-r heard 
What time the gray-lly winds her sultry horn, 
H.ittening our lloeks with the flesh dews of night, 
Oft till the star that rose at evening, bright. 
Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering 

wheel. 
Meanwhile the riinil ditlies were not mute, 
Ti'iii]iered to the oaten llilte ; 

Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel 
From the glad sound would not be absent long; 
And old Danifptas loved to hear our song. 

lint, oil the heavy change, now thou art gone. 
Now thou art gone and never must return! 
Tliec', Shepherd, thee the woods ami desert eaves. 
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrowu. 
And all their echoes nionrn : • 

The willows and tlie li.izil eop.ses green 
Shall now no more be seen 
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 
As killing as tint canker to the rose. 
Or faint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, 
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear. 
When first the white-thorn blows; 
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear. 

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless 
deep 
Closed o'er the head of your loved I-ycidas f 
For neither were ye playing on the steep, 
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, 
Nor on the shaggy top of M<ni;i high. 
Nor yet where Deva sprejids her wizard stream : 
Ay me ! I fondly dream ! 

Had ye been there — for what could that have donct 
What coiiUl the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AKD AMERICAN POETBT. 



The Muse herself, for her eucliaiiting sou, 
Whom universal Nature did lament, 
When by the rout that made the hideous roar 
His gory visage down the stream was sent, 
Dowu the swift Hebrus, to the Lesbian shore ? 

Alas ! \Yliat boots it with incessant caro 
To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade. 
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? 
Were it not better doue, as others use, 
To sport with Amaryllis iu the shade, 
Or with the tangles of Nesera's bair? 
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise — 
That last infirmity of noble mind — 
To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; 
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
And think to burst out into sudden blaze. 
Comes the blind Fnry with the abhorrdd shears, 
Aud slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise," 
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears ; 
"Fame is uo plant that grows on mortal soil. 
Nor in the glistering foil 

Set-off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies ; 
But lives, and spreads aloft by those iiure eyes, 
Aud perfect witness of all-judging Jove; 
As he jirouounces lastly on each deed. 
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." 

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honored flood. 
Smooth-sliding Jlincins, crowned with vocal reeds. 
That strain I heard was of a higher mood ; 
But now my oat iiroceeds, 
Aud listens to the herald of the sea 
That came iu Neptune's plea. 
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds. 
What h.ard mishap hath doomed this gentle swaiu ; 
Aud questioned every gust of rugged wings 
That blows from off each beaked promoutoi-y : 
They knew not of his story; 
And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 
That not a blast was fi-om his dungeon strayed ; 
The air was calm, and on the level brine 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. 
It was that fatal and perfidious bark. 
Built iu the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark. 
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow. 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge. 
Inwrought with figures dim, aud ou the edge 
Like to that sanguine llowcr inscribed with woe. 
"Ah, who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?" 
Last came, and last did go, 
The iiilot of the Galilean lake ; 
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain); 



He shook his mitred locks, aud stern bespake : 
" How well could I have spared for thee, young 

swaiu. 
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake 
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! 
Of other care they little reckoning make 
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, 
And shove away the worthy bidden guest. 
Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how 

to hold 
A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least 
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs ! 
What recks it them ? What need they ? They are 

sped ; 
Aud, when they list, their lean and flashy songs 
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw : 
The hungry sheep look uj), aud are not fed. 
But, swoln with wind aud the rank mist they draw. 
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; 
Beside what the grim wolf with privy jjaw 
Daily devours apace, and nothing said : 
But that two-handed engine at the door 
Stands ready to smite once, aud smite no more." 

Return, Alpheus! the dread voice is past 
That shrunk thy streams. Return, Sicilian Muse, 
And call the vales, aud bid them hither cast 
Their bells aud flowerets of a thousand hues. 
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
Of shades, aud wanton winds, and gushing brooks, 
Ou whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks, 
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled ej-es. 
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers. 
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 
The tufted crow-toe and pale jessamine, 
The white pink and the pansy freaked with jet, 
The glowing violet. 

The musk-rose and the well-attired woodbine. 
With cowslips wan that hang the jiensive head, 
And every flower that sad embroidery wears : 
Bid Amarantliua all his beauty shed. 
And dalfadillies fill their cups wilh tears. 
To strew the laureate herse where Lycid lies. 
For, so to interpose a little ease, 
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise ; 
Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 
Wash, far away, where'er thy bones are hurled. 
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
Where thou, perhajis, under the whelming tide, 
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; 
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 
Where the great vision of the guarded mount 



JOBN MILTOX. 



95 



Looks towavil Namaucos aud Bayoua's hold ; 
Look homeward, augel, now, aud melt with ruth : 
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 

Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep uo more ; 
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, 
Sunk though ho ho beneath the watery lloor : 
So siuks the day-star iu the oceau bed. 
And yet auou repairs his drooping head. 
And tricks his beams, and with uew-spaugled oro 
Klanies in the forehead of the morning sky : 
So Lyeidas sunk low, but mounted high. 
Through the dear might of Ilini that walked the 

■waves. 
Where, other groves aud other streams along. 
With nectar pure his oozy locks ho laves. 
And hears the niiexpressivo nnjitial song, 
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy aud love. 
Tliere entirtain him all the saints above 
In solemn troops and sweet societies, 
rii.it sing, and, singing, iu their glory niovo, 
Ami wipe the te.irs forever from bis eyes. 
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep uo more ; 
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore. 
In thy largo recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander iu that perilous flood. 

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks aud 
rills, 
While still the Morn went out with .sandals gray; 
lie touched the tender stops of various quills, 
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: 
.\iid now the sun had stretched out all the hills, 
And now was dropt into the western bay; 
.\t last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue ; 
To-morrow to fresh woods and j)astiires new. 



Tin: MESSEXGER'S ACCOL'XT OF SAM.SOX. 
From "Samson Acomstes." 

(Iccasious drew mo early to this city; 
And as the gates I entered with sunrise. 
The morning truiui>ets festival proclaimed 
Throngh each high street: little I had despatched 
When all abroad was rumored that this day 
Sams(m should he brought forth to show the people 
Proof of his mighty strength iu feats and games: 
I sorrowed at his captive state, but minded 
Not to be .absent at that spectacle. 
The building w.xs a spacious theatre, 
lialf-ronnd, on two main pillars vaulted high. 
With seats, where all the lords and each dcgieo 
l)f sort might sit iu order to behold : 



The other side was open, where the throng 

On banks and scafl'oId.s under sky might stand ; 

I among these aloof obscurely stood. 

The feast aud iu)0u grow high, and sacrifice 

Had tilled their hearts with mirth, high cheer, and 

wine. 
When to their sports they turned. Immediately 
Was Sauison as a public servant brought. 
In their state livery clad : before him pipes 
And timbrels; on each side went armed guards, 
Both horse and foot: before him and behind, 
Arelieis ami .slingers, cataphracts :uid spears. 
At sight of him the i)eople with a shout 
Rifted the air, clamoring their god with praise. 
Who had made their dreadful enemy their thrall. 
He, patient but undaunted, where they led him. 
Came to the jdaco ; and what was set before 

him. 
Which without help of eye might bo assayed. 
To heave, pull, draw, or break, ho still perfornu'd 
All with incredible, stupendous force. 
None daring to a|>pear antagcuiist. 
At length, for intermission' sake, they led liini 
Between the pillars; he his guide requested 
(For BO from such as nearer stood we heard). 
As over-tired, to let liim lean awhile 
With both his arms on tlio.se two massy pillars 
That to the arched roof gave main sujiport. 
He, unsuspicious, led him ; which when .Samson 
Felt in his arms, with head awhile inclined, 
And eyes fast fixed, ho stood as one who prayed. 
Or some great matter iu his mind rev(dved. 
At last, with head erect, thus cried aloud: — 
Hitherto, lords, what your commands imposed 
I have perforuHMl, as reason was, obeying. 
Not without woiuler or delight beheld : 
Now of my own accord such other trial 
I mean to show you of my strength, yet greater. 
As with amaze shall strike all who behold. 
This uttered, straining all his nerves, he bowed: 
As with the force of winds and waters i)eut, 
WInui mountains tremble, those two massy pillars 
With horrible convulsion to and fro 
He tugged, he shook, till down they came, and drew 
Tiu! whole roof after them, with burst of thuuder, 
I'poii the heads of all who sat beneath. 
Lords, ladies, captains, counsellors, or priests, 
Their choice nobility aud flower, not only 
Of this, but each Philistiau city round, 
Met from nil )iarts to scdemnizo this feast. 
Samson, with these immixed, inevitably 
I'idled ilown tin; s.ime destrnction on himself; 
The vulgar only 'scaped, who stood williont. 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH JXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



SCEXE FROM "COMUS." 

Comns. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould 
Breatbe such diviue, euchanting ravishment ? 
Sure, souiethiug holy lodges iu that bi-east, 
Aud with these raptures moves the vocal air 
To testify his hidden residence. 
How sweetly did they float upon the wiugs 
Of silence through the empty-vaulted night, 
At every fall smoothing the raven-down 
Of darliucss till it smiled ! I have oft heard 
My mother Circe, with the Syrens three, 
Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades, 
Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs ; 
Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned soul 
And lap it in Elysium : Scylla wept, 
And chid lier barking waves into attention. 
And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause ; 
Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the seuse, 
And in sweet madness robbed it of itself: 
But such a sacred and home-felt delight, 
Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 
I never heard till now. I'll speak to her. 
And she shall bo my queen. Hail, foreign wonder! 
Whom certain these rough shades did never breed, 
Unless the goddess that, in rural shrine, 
Dnell'st here with Pan or Sylvan ; by blessed song 
Forbidding every bleak, unkindly fog 
To touch the prospenms growth of this tall wood. 

Laiii). Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that iiraise 
That IS addressed to unattending ears : 
Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift 
How to regain my severed company. 
Compelled me to awake the courteous Echo, 
To give me answer from her mossy couch. 

Coin. What chance, good Lady, hath bereft you 
thus ? 

Lttd. Dim darkness and this leafy labyrinth. 

Com. Could that divide you from near-ushering 
guides ? 

Lnd. They left me weary on a grassy turf. 

Com. By falsehood, or discourtesy, or why ? 
■ Lull. To seek i' the valley some cool friendly 
spring. 

Com. And left your fair side all unguarded. Lady? 

Lad. They were but twain, and purposed quick 
return. 

Com. Perhaps forestalling night prevented them. 

Lad. How easy my misfortune is to hit ! 

Com. Imports their loss beside the present need ? 

Lad. No less than if I should my brothers lose. 

Com. Were they of manly prime, or j'outhful 
bloom ? 



Lad. As smooth as Hebe's their unrazored lips. 

Com. Two such I saw what time the labored ox 
In his loose traces from the furrow came. 
And the swiuked hedger at his supper sat. 
I saw them under a green mantling vine 
That crawls along the side of yon small hill. 
Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots. 
Their port was more than human as they stood : 
I took it for a faery vision 
Of some gay creatures of the element. 
That in the colors of the rainbow live, 
Aud play i' the plighted clouds. I was awe-struck, 
And, as I passed, I worshipped : if those you seek. 
It were a journey like the path to heaven 
To help you tiud them. 

Lad. Gentle villager. 

What I'eadiest way would bring me to that xilace ? 

Com. Due west it rises from this shrubby point. 

Lad. To liLul out that, good shepherd, I suppose. 
In such a scant allo\'s'auce of starlight. 
Would overtask the best laud-pilot's art 
Without the sure guess of well-practised feet. 

Com. I know each lane, and every alley green, 
Dingle, or bushy dell of this wild wood. 
And every bosky bourn from side to side. 
My daily walks and ancient neighborhood ; 
And if your stray attendance be yet lodged. 
Or shroud within these limits, I shall know 
Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark 
From her thatched jiallet rouse ; if otherwise, 
I can conduct yon. Lady, to a low 
But loyal cottage, where you may be safe 
Till farther quest. 

Lad. Shepherd, I take thy word, 

And trust thy honest offered courtesy. 
Which oft is sooner found in lowly shed 
With smoky rafters than in tapestry halls 
In courts of princes, where it first was named. 
And yet is most pretended : iu a place 
Less warranted than this, or less secure, 
I cannot be, that I should fear to change it. — 
Eye me, blessed Providence, and square my trial 
To my prcqiortioned strength. — Shepherd, lead on ! 



SATAN'S ENCOUNTER WITH DEATH. 

From " Paradise Lost," Hook II. 

The other shape. 
If shape it might he called that shape had none 
Distiugnishable in member, joint, or limb ; 
Or substance might be called that shadow seemed, 



./07/.Y MlLTO.y. 



97 



For each seoined eitlicr ; black it stood as iiigbt, 
I'icirt' as ten fiiiics, teiiililc as hell. 
And shook a drea<lt'nl ilait; what seemed his bead 
The likoncss of a kin<;ly crown had on. 
Satan was now at hand, and from his seat 
Tlio monster moving onward canio as last 
Witli lionid strides; hell trenihled as he strode. 
The undaunted lieml what this might bo admired — 
.Vdniired, not feared ; God and bis Son exeeiit, 
Created thing' iiangbt valued ho, nor sbunncd ; 
And with disdainful look thus first began : 

■■Whence and what art tlion, I'Xecrablo shape, 
That ilarest, though grim and terrible, advance 
I'hy miscreated front athwart my way 
To yonder gates? Through them I mean to pass, 
That bo assured, without leave asked of thee : 
Retire, or tasto tby folly, and learn by proof, 
llell-born, not to contend with spirits of be.'ivon." 

To wlunn the golilin, full of wrath, replied: 
"Art thou that traitor-angel, art thou he, 
AVho first broke peace in lieaven, and faith, till then 
I'nbroken, and in proud rebellious arms 
llrew after him the third part of heaven's sons 
Coiijured against the Highest ; for whieb both tlion 
.Vnd they, outcast from liod, are here condemned 
To waste eternal days in woe and pain ? 
.\iid reckon'st thou thyself with spirits of heaven. 
Hell-doomed, and breatli'st deliancc here and scorn, 
Where I reign king, and, to enrage thee more. 
Thy king and lord .' liack to thy punishment, 
l"alst> fugitive, and to thy speed add wiug.s, 
Lest with a whip of scorpions 1 punsiiu 
Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart 
Strange bornu- seize thee, and jjaiigs niifelt before." 

.So spake the grisly Terror, ami in shape, 
So speaking and so threatening, grew tenfold 
More dreadful anil deform. On the other side, 
lucouscd with indignation, Satan stood, 
rnterrified, and like a comet burned. 
That lires the length i>{ Ophinchns- huge 
III the arctic .sky, and from bis horrid hair 
.Shakes pestilence and war. Kaeh at the head 
Levelled his deadly aim ; their fatal bands 
Xo second stroke intend ; and snch a frown 
Each cast at the other as when two black clonds. 
With heaven's artillery fianght. come rattling on 
Over the Caspian, then stand front to front, 
Hovi'i iug a Nii.aee, till winds the signal blow 
To join their dark eucoiinter in mid-uir: 



' ■■r.c:iii'il lliini;." Tills upccies of ernmmalicnl, or, mtber, 
loRicnl, i-rnir iircnm niiirc than mice hi .Mill. in. 

' Or, Sfriicnmrhin, ilic !er|iciu-bcarcr, a cuiitpicaona couetel- 
Intiuii hi llic iiortbern hcmiejihcn!. 



So frowned tho mighty combatants that bell 
Grew darker at their frown : so matched they stood. 
For never but once more was either like 
To meet so great a foe :' and now great deeds 
Had been achieved whereof all hell had rung, 
Had not the snaky sorceress that sat 
Fast by hell-gate, and kept tho fatal key, 
Uisen, and with hideons outcry rushed between. 



ADAM .>lSD eves MORNING HYMN. 

Fitou ■■rARADisE Lost," Book V. 

These are thy glorious works. Parent of good, 
Almighty! thine this nniver.sal frame, 
Thus wondrous fair: thyself how wondrous theiil 
Unspeakable! who sitfst above these heavens. 
To us invisible, or dimly seen 
In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare 
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, 
Angels ! for ye behold him, and with songs 
And choral symphonies day without night 
Circle his throne, rejoicing : ye, in heaven ; 
On earth, join, all ye creatines, to extol 
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end! 
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night. 
If better thou belong not to the dawn. 
Sure pledge of day, that crowii'st the smiling morn 
With thy bright circlet ! praise him in thy spliere. 
While day arises, that sweet honr of prime. 
Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul. 
Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praiso 
In tby eternal course, both when thou climb'st. 
And when high noon hast gained, anil when thou 

fall'st. 
Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st. 
With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb, that files ; 
And ye five other wandering fires, that move 
In mystic dance, not without song, resound 
His praise who out of darkness called up light. 
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth 
Of nature's womb, that iu quaternion run 
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix 
And nourish all things: let your ce.a.seless change 
Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 
Vc mists and exhalations, that now rise 
From hill or steaming lake, dusky, or gray. 
Till tho sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, — 
In honor to the world's great Author rise ; 
Whether to deck with clonds tho uucolored sky, 

> Tlie Mc!»lnh. 



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CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, 

Rising or falling, still advance his praise. 

His praise, ye winds, that from four qnarters blow, 

Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, 

With every plant, in sign of worship wave. 

Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow, 

Melodious mnrniurs, warbling, tune his praise. 

Join voices, all yo living souls: ye birds, 

That, singing, up to heavcu-gate ascend. 

Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. 

Ye that iu waters glide, and yo that walk 

The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep, 

Wituess if I be silent, morn or even. 

To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade. 

Made vocal by my song, and taught his jiraise. 

Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous still 

To give us only good ; and if the night 

Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed. 

Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark! 



ONE FIRST MATTER ALL. 

FftoM " Paradise Lost," Book V. 

To whom the winged Hicrareli rei)lied: 
O Adam, one Almighty is, from whom 
All things proceed, aud up to him retnru, 
If not depraved from good ; created all 
Such to perfection, one first matter all, 
Endned with various forms, various degrees 
Of substance, and, iu things that live, of life; 
Bnt more refiued, more spirituous, aud pure. 
As nearer to him placed, or nearer tending 
Each in their several active spheres assigned, 
Till body ui) to spirit work, iu bounds 
Proportioned to each kind. So from the root 
Springs lighter the green stalk; from thence the 

leaves 
More aery; last the bright consnnnnate flower 
Spirits odorons breathes: flowers and tlieir liiiit, 
Man's nonrishment, by gradual scale sublinird, 
To vital spirits aspire, to animal, 
To intellectual; give both life and sense, 
Fancy and understanding: whence the soul 
Reason receives, aud reason is her being. 
Discursive or intuitive: discourse 
Is oftest yours ; the latter most is ours. 
Differing but in degree, of kind the same. 
Wonder not, then, what God for you saw good 
If I refuse not, but convert, as you. 
To jiroper substance. Time may come when men 
With angels may participate, and tiud 
No inconvenient diet, nor too light fare; 



Aud from these corporeal nutriments, perhaps, 
Yonr bodies may at last turn all to spirit, 
Improved by tract of time, and, winged, ascend 
Ethereal, as we ; or may, at choice. 
Here or in heavenly Paradises dwell ; 
If ye be found obedient, and retain 
Unalterably firm his love entire 
Whose progeny you are. Meanwhile enjoy 
Yonr fill what happiness this happy state 
Can comprehend, incapable of more. 



WHAT IS GLORY? 

Christ's Reply to the Tempter, "Paradise Regained," Book HI. 

To whom, our Saviour calmly thus replied : 
Thou neither dost persuade .me to seek wealth 
For empire's sake, nor empire to affect 
For glory's sake, by all thy argnment. 
For what is glory but the blaze of fame. 
The people's praise, if always praise unmixed ? 
And what the people but a herd confused, 
A miscellaneous rabble, who extol 
Things vnlgar, aud, well weighed, scarce worth tin- 
praise ? 
They praise and they admire they know not what. 
And know not whom, but as one leads the other : 
Aud what delight to be by such extolled. 
To live upon their tongues, aud be their talk. 
Of whom to be dispraised were no small jiraiso — 
His lot who dares be singularly good ? 
The intelligent among them, and the wise. 
Are few, aud glory scarce of few is raised. 

tr -y^ * ^ ^ ■* 

They err who count it glorious to subdue 

By conquest far and wide, to overrun 

Large countries, and in field great battles win, 

Great cities by assault. What do these worthies 

But rob and spoil, burn, slaughter, and enslave 

Peaceable nations, ueighboriug or remote. 

Made captive, yet deserving freedom more 

Than those their conquerors, who leave behind 

Nothing but ruin wdieresoe'er they rove, 

And all the flourishing works of peace destroy. 

Then swell with pride, aud must be titled gods. 

Great benefactors of mankind, deliverers, 

Worshipped witli temple, priest, and sacrifice? 

One is the son of Jove, of Mars the other. 

Till conqueror Death discover them scarce men, 

Rolling iu brutish vices, and deformed, 

Violent or shameful death their due reward. 

Bnt if there be in glory aught of good, 

It may by means far different be attained, 



JOHN MILTOK. 



911 



Witliout aiiibitiou, war, or violence — 

liy deeds of peace, l)y wisdom eiiiineut, 

Ity ])atieiice, lempcraiico. I men I ion still 

Ilim whom tby wrongs, with saintly [latienco borne, 

Made faiiions in a land and times obsenro : 

Who names not now with honor patient .loli ? 

I'oor Socrates (wlio next more niemorahlo ?), 

I!y what lie tanght and snil'ered for so doing, 

I'or truth's sake snffering death unjust, lives now 

l'.(]ual in fame to jiroudest conquerors. 

Vi't if for fame and glory aught be done, 

Aiiglit sullered ; if young Afrieano for fame 

His wasted country freed from IMuiie rage, 

The deed becomes nnpraised — the man, at least — 

And loses, though but verbal, his reward. 

Shall I seek glory, then, as vain men seek, 

lift not deserved f I seek not mine, but His 

Who sent me, and thereby witness whence I am. 



AN" Kl'lTATH OX Till: AD.MIKAl'.Li; liKA.MATIC 
POET, WII.I.IAM SHAKSPEAKE. 

What iu>eds my ShaUspearo for his honcued bones 

The labor of an age in piled stones ? 

Or that his hallowed relinnes should be hid 

Tnder a slar-y pointing pyramid f 

Hear son of Memmy, great heir of I'anie, 

What nei'd'st thou sneli weak witness of thy 

name ? 
Ihou in our wonder and astonishment 
Hast built thyself a livo-long mouument ; 
Tor whil.st, to the shamo of slow-endeavoring art, 
Tliy easy numbers (low, and that each heart 
llatli from the leaves of thy unvalued book 
i'liosc Delphic lines with deep impression took, — 
llicn thou, our fancy of itself bereaving. 
Dost make us nuirblo with too much conceiving. 
And so pei)Mlehreil, in such pomp dost lie 
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. 



i)N Hl.s ItEINO ARKIVED TO THE AGE Ol' 
TWENTY-THREE. 

How soon lialli Time, the subtle thief of youth, 
Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! 
My hasting days lly on with fnll career, 
lint my late spring no bud or blo.s.som sIiow"tli. 
Perhaps my scniblaneo might deceive the truth 
I'liat I to manhood am arrived so near, 
\nd inwaid ripeness doth much less appear 
rijat Mime more timely-liappy spirits endu'th. 



Yet, bo it less or more, or soon or slow, 
It shall be still in strictest measure even 
To that sauK! lot, however nu'an or high, 
Toward which Time leads nii', and the will of 

Heaven ; 
.VIl is. if I have grace to use it so, 
As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye. 



TO THE LORD-GEXERAL CROMWELL. 

WlilTTliN .\BOfT MAY, ICVi. 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud, 
Not of war only, but detractions rnde. 
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude. 
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed. 
And on the neck of crown(?d Fortune proud 
Hast reared God's trophies, and his work piusncd : 
While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrncd. 
And Dunbar field resonnds thy praises loud. 
And Worcester's laureate wreath. Vet nincli re- 
mains 
To conquer still; Peace hath Ikt victories, 
No less renowned than War : new foes arise. 
Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. 
Help us to save free couscienco from the paw 
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. 



TO SIR HKNKY VANE THE YOUNGER. 

Vane, young in years, but in sago counsel old, 

Thau whom a better senator ue'er held 

The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repelled 

The tierce Epirot and the African bold ; 

Whether to settle peace, or to tinfold 

The drift of hollow states hard to bo spelled ; 

Then to ailviso how War may, best upheld, 

Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold. 

In all her equipage ; besides to know 

ISoth spiritual power and civil — what each means. 

What severs each — thou hast learned, which few 

have done : 
The bounds of either sword to theo we owe 
Therefore on thy firm haml Religion leans 
In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son. 



ON Ills BLINDNESS. 

When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my ilays, in this dark world aii<l wide. 

Anil lliul one talent which is death (■! Inilo 



100 



CXCLOPJiDIA OF BIHTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Lodgeil ^vitll me useless, thougli my soul more 

bout 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true aceouut, lest he, returning, chicle ; 
"Doth Gotl c^act day-labor, light denied?" 
I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need 
Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; liis 

state 
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed. 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest: 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 



TO JIR. LAWEENCE. 

Lawrence, of virtuous fatlicr virtuous son, 

Now that the liclds are dank and ways are mire. 

Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the lire 

Help waste a, sullen day, what may be won 

From tlie hard season gaining? Time will run 

On smoother till Favonius reiuspire 

The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire 

The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun. 

What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, 

Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we maj' rise 

To he.ar the lute well touched, or artful voice 

Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air? 

He who of those delights can judge, and spare 

To interpose them oft, is not unwise. 



TO CYKIAC SKINNER. 

Cyriac, this three -j-ears-day the.se eyes, though 
clear. 
To outward view, of blemish or of spot. 
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot; 
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight a|>pcar 
Of sun, or moon, or star, thronghoul the year. 
Or num, or woman. Yet 1 argue not 
Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate .a jot 
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer 
Right onward. What supports i\\v, dost thou 
ask? 
The eonscieuce, friend, to have lost them over- 
plied 
In liberty's defence, my noble task. 
Of which all Eurojie I'iugs from side to side. 
This thought might lead me through the world's 

vain mask 
Content, though blind, had I no better guide. 



ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATH- 
ERINE THOMSON, MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND, 
DECEASED DECEMBER 16th, 1(>46. 

When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never, 
Had ripeued thy just soul to dwell with God, 
Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load 
Of death, called life, which us from life doth sever. 
Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavor 
Stayed not behind, nor iu the grave were trod; 
But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod. 
Followed thee up to joy and bli.ss forever. 
Love led tliein on, and Faith, who knew them best. 
Thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beams 
And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, 
And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes 
Before the Judge, who thenceforth bid thee rest. 
And drink thy lill of pure immortal streams. 



SONG: ON MAY MORNING. 

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger. 
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her 
The llowcry May, who from her green lap throws 
The yellow cow.sli|i and the pale primrose. 
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire 
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ! 
Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
Thus we salnte thee with our early song. 
And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 



FROM THE SPIRIT'S EPILOGUE IN " COMUS." 

To the ocean now I flj'. 

And those happ,y climes that lie 

Where da,y never shuts his eye, 

Up iu the broad fields of the sky. 

There I suck the lifjuid air. 

All amidst the gardens fair 

Of Hesperus and his daughters three, 

That sing about the golden tree: 

Along the erispdd shades and bowers 

Revels the spruce and jocniul Spring : 

The Graces and the rosy-bosomed Hours 

Thither all their bounties bring ; 

There eternal Summer dwells, 

Ami west-winds, with musky wing, 

About the eedarn alleys fling 

Nard and cassia's balmy smells. 



mCHARD CRASH AW. 



101 



But now my tusk is euiootlily done, 
I oaii tly or I can niii 
Quickly to tlio grccu ciiitli's eiiil, 
Wlioro tbo bowed welkin slow dntli bend, 
And from tUouce can soar as soon 
To the corners of tlio uioon. 

Mortals, that would follow uic, 
Love Virtue ; she alone is free ; 
Slio can teach you how to climb 
Higher than the sphery chime ; 
Or, if Virtue feeble were, 
Heaven itself would stoop to her. 



Uul)arii Cvasljatv. 

Crasliaw (about lfilO-lfr>Oi was educated at Cambridge, 
and took holy orders. In France he became a Roman 
C'alliolic. His religious poetry and liis translations from 
Latin and Italian are of a liigli order, though marred by 
tlie aflVctations fashionable in his day. In the same 
year that he graduated he published a volume of poems, 
ehiofly religious, in Latin. Tliey contain one memorable 
line. Referring to Christ's miracle of turning water into 
wine, bo wrote : 

"Nymphft pndlcn Deam vidit, et erubaU."' 
(The modest w.iler saw its God, and bhislied.) 



IN PRAISE OF LESSIUS'S' EULE OF HEALTH. 

. * • • » » 

Tliat wliicb makes ns have no need 
Of physic, that's physic indeed. 

Hark, hither, reader! wonld'st thou SCO 
Nature her own phy.sician be f 
Wouhl'st SCO a man all his own wealtli, 
His own physic, his own hcallli? 
A man whose sober soul cau tell 
How to wear her garments well — 
Her garments, tliat upon her sit. 
As garments should do, close and fit ; 
A well-ilolhed soul, that's ni)t oppressed, 
Nor choked with what she should bo dressed; 
A soul sheathed in a crystal shrine, 
Tliroiigh whieli nil bcr bright features sbinc ; 
As when n piece of wanton lawn, 
.\ thin ni'rial veil, is drawn 
O'er Ilenuly's face, Heeming to hide. 
More sweetly shows the blushing bride; 

> Lcon.inl Loxins wan not n iihysiclnn, lial a fumona Jeanlt. 
He w.nn l»>rn nmir Anlwprp In l.'JM, InU'_-lii pliiloiio|iliy uiid Ihe- 
olotry nt Loiivuln, niul died in 1C2-1. Anions liiH works was oiio 
un the True lEiiln of llcnlih, In whicti ho rccoinincuds by;;ieulc 
remedies, nod dl«appruvea uf drug«. 



A soul whose intellectual beams 

No mists do maslv, no lazy steams f 

.\ happy soul, that all tho way 

To heaven hath a summer's day ? 

Wonld'st see a man whose well-warmeil blood 

Bathes him iu a genuine flood ? 

A man whose tnn(5d humors bo 

A seat of rarest harmony ? 

Wotild'st see blithe looks, fresli cheeks boguilo 

Age ? Wouhl'st see December sniih? ? 

Wonld'st see a nest of roses grow 

In a bed of reverend snow T 

Warm thoughts, free spirits, tlattering 

Winter's self into a spring? 

In sura, wonld'st see a man that cau 

Live to be old, and still a man ? 

Whoso latest and nuist leaden hours 

Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers; 

And, when lifi^'s sweet fable ends, 

Sonl and body part like friends: — 

No quarrels, murmurs, uo delay ; 

A kiss, a sigh, and so away ? 

This rare one, reader, wonld'st thou sec T 

Hark, hither! and — thyself be he! 



FROM "WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MIS- 
TRESS." 

Whoe'er she be. 

That not impossible she. 

Thai shuU command my heart and me : 

Where'er she lie. 

Locked up from mortal eye. 

In shady leaves of destiny : 

Till that ripe birth 

Of studied fato stand forth, 

.\nd teach her fair steps to our earth : 

Till that divine 

Idea take a shrine 

Of crystal flesh, through ■which to shiuo : 

Meet you her, my Wishes, 

Bespeak her to my blis.ses. 

And be yo called my absent kisses. 

I wish her beauty, 

That owes not all its duty 

To gaudy tire or glistering ahoc-tio ; — 



102 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



SouietUing more tlian 
Tuftata or tissue can, 
Or rampaut feather, or rich fau : 

More than the spoil 

Of sbop, or silkworm's toil, 

Or a bought blush, or a set smile : 

A face that's best 

By its own beauty tlressed, 

Aud can alone commaud the rest : 

A face made up 

Out of no other shop 

Thau what Nature's white hand sets ope : 

A cheek where grows 
More than a nioruing rose, 
Which to uo box his beiug owes. 

* * * » *r # 

Eyes that displace 

The neighbor diamoud, and outface 

That suusliiuo by their own sweet grace. 

Tresses that wear 
Jewels, bnt to declare 
How much themselves more precious are. 
* i* # i* * * 

Days that need borrow 
No part of their good morrow 
From a fore-speut uight of sorrow : 

Days that, in .spite 

Of darkuess, by the light 

Of a clear mind are daj- all night ; 

Life, that dares send 

A challenge to his eud, 

Aud when it comes, say. Welcome, friend ! 

Sidneian' showers 

Of sweet discourse, wliose powers 

Can crown old Wiuter's head with flowers: 

Soft silken hours. 

Open suns, shady bowers, 

'Bove all — nothing witliiu tliat lowers: 

Whate'er delight 

Can make day's forehead bright. 

Or give down to the wings of night. 

> Either iu allusion to the conversiitious iu the *'Arcadia," 
or to Sic- Phiiip .Sidney himself, as a moilel of gentleness in 
spirit aufl dcnicanor. 



I wish her store 

Of worth may leave her poor 

Of wishes; aud I wish — no more. 

Now, if Time knows 

That lier, whose radiant brows 

Weave them a garlaud of my vows ; 

Her, whose just bays 

My future hopes cau raise 

A trophy to her present praise ; 

Her, that dares be 

What these lines wi.sli to see: 

I seek no further, it is she. ■ 

'Tis she, and here, 

Lo, I unclothe and clear 

My Wisli's cloudy character. 

May she enjoy it. 

Whose merit dare apply it, 

But modesty dares still deny it. 

Such worth as this is 
Shall fix my flying wishes, 
And determine them to kisses. 

Let her full glorj'. 

My Fancies, fly l)efore ye. 

Be ye my fictions, but — her story. 



TWO WENT UP TO THE TEMPLE TO PRAY. 

Two went to pray ? Oli, rather say, 
One went to brag, the other to i)ray. 

One stands up close, and treads on liigh. 
Where the other dares not lend his eye. 

One nearer to God's altar trod. 
The other to the altar's God. 



fUari]uis of Hloutrosc. 

James Graham, Marquis of Montrose (1013-16.50), de- 
scended from an ancient Scotcli familj', was a famous 
royalist under Charles I. He won a series of Ijiilliant 
victories as commander of the royal forces. Under a 
coinraissiou from Charles II., then in exile, ho lauded in 



M.IHQriS or MOXTllOSE.—SIR JOHN SrCKUXG.—SII} JOnX DEXHAM. 



103 



Scotlnnd, but liis little invudinv army was routed, and 
lie was seized, conveyed to Edinbur|rli, and there liuni; 
and quartered. May 21st, 1050, after the barbarous fasli- 
iou of the times. Of the followiu!^ spirited poem there 
arc several eorrupt vei-sions. 



I'LL NKVKU LOVi: TIlKi; MOKE. 

My ilenr and only love, I pray 

That littlo world of tlieo 
Be governed by no other sway 

But purest monarchy : 
For if confn.>iioii have a part, 

Which virtuous souls alihor. 
And bold a synod in thy lieart, 

ril never love thee more. 

As Alexander I will reiiju, 

And I will reign alone; 
My tlionght.s did evermore disdain 

A riv.ll on luy throne. 
He either fears bis fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small, 
Who dares not put it to the touch 

To gain or lose it all. 

But I will reign and govern still, 

And always give the law, 
And have each subject at my will, 

And all to stand in awe : 
But 'gainst my batteries if I find 

Thou storm, or vex me sore, 
As if thou set me as a blind, 

I'll never love thee more. 

And in (lie empire of thy heart. 

Where I should solely be. 
If others do pretend a part. 

Or dare to share with me, — 
Or committees if thou erect, 

Or go on such a score, 
I'll Kuiiling mock at thy neglect. 

And never love tbee more. 

But if no faitlilcHS .iction stain 

Thy love and constant word, 
I'll make thee famous by my pin, 

And glorion.s by my sword : 
I'll serve thee in such noble ways 

As ne'er was known before ; 
I'll deck and crown thy bead with bjiys. 

And love thee more and more. 



Gil" i?oljti Suckiiiici. 

Suckling (1(K)'.)-1(U1) was born at Witljani, In Middle- 
sex. His I'atlier was Secretary of State to James I. The 
young poet went abroad, and served under (iustavus 
Adolplius of Sweden. Returning to England, be at- 
tempted with others to deliver StiafTord from the Tow- 
er; for this he was ordered to appear at the bar of the 
House of Conmions, whereupon he sot out for France. 
While stopping at an inu, he was robbed by a servant, 
who, to prevent pursuit, stuck the blade of a penknife 
inside bis master's boot, and when Sueklinir, in haste, 
tried to draw it on, he received a wound, of which he 
died. 



WHY SO TALE AND WAN? 

Why so pale aud wau, loud lover ? 

I'rythee, why so pale ? 
Will, when looking well can't move her, 

Looking ill prevail ? 

I'rylliee. why so pale f 

Why so dull aud mute, young sinner ? 

I'rytliee, w by so mute f 
Will, when speaking well cau't win her, 

Saying nothing do't ? 

Prytlice, why so mute ? 

Quit, quit for shame, this will not move, 

This cannot take her ; 
If of herself she will not love. 

Nothing can make her: 

The devil take her! 



5ir i?ol)u Dculiaiii. 

Dcnham (IGl.j-lGOS), son of llic Chief- baron of E\- 
chequer in Ireland, was born at Dublin. Ho was made 
Governor of Farnham Castle by Charles I., who told 
him, on seeing one of his poems, "that when men arc 
young, and have little else to do, they may vcul the over- 
flowings of their fancy in that way ; but when they arc 
thought fit for more serious employments, if they still 
persisted in that course, it looked as if they minded not 
the way to any better." The poet stood corrected, .nnd 
his Muse was dumb for a time. His marriage was an 
unhappy one, aud his closing ycara were darkened by in- 
sanity, from whieli, however, he recovered. His princi- 
pal poem is "Cooper's Hill," which was highly praised 
for a few generations, but would hardly have escaped 
oblivion if produced in these days ; but Drydeu said of 
it : " For the majesty of the style it is, and ever will be, 
the exact standard of good writing;'' aud Pope extolled 
It. We quote the well-known passage deserl|itive of 
the Thames : il is far above anything else in the poem. 



104 



CYCLOPMDIA OF BlilTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



DESCRIPTION OF THE THAMES. 

Tiioji " Cooper's Hill." 

My eye, clesceiiiUng from the hill, surveys 

Where Thiiines amoug the wanton valleys strays : 

Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sous 

By his old sire, to his embraces runs ; 

Hasting to jiay his tribute to the sea, 

Like mortal life to meet eternity. 

Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, 

Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold ; 

His gennine and less guilty -wealth t' explore, 

Search not his bottom, but survey his shore. 

O'er which he kindly si)reads liis spacious wing. 

And hatclics i)lcuty for th' ensuing spring; 

Nor tlu'ii destroys it with too fond a stay, 

Like mothers which their infants overlay ; 

Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave, 

Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. 

No nncxpectcd inundations spoil 

The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil ; 

But godlike his unwearied honnty flows; 

First loves to do, then loves the good ho does. 

Nor are his blessings to his banks confuied, 

But free and common as the sea or wind, — 

When he, to boast or to disperse his stores, 

Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, 

Visits the world, and in bis flying tours 

Brings homo to us, and makes both Indies ours ; 

Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants. 

Cities in deserts, woods in cities, plants. 

So that to us no thing, no place, is strange. 

While his fair bosom is the world's Exchange. 

Oh, could I flow like thee! and make thy stream 

My great example, as it is my theme ! 

Though deep, yet clear ; though gentle, yet not 

dull ; 
Strong, without rage; without o'erflowing, full ! 



Gaimul Butler. 

The sou of a Worcestcrsliire iiU'nier, Samuel Butler 
(1612-1080) is not known to have had a university eiUi- 
catiou. H;iving lost his wife's fortune through bad in- 
vestments, he became an author, and pnblislicd in 16i;3 
the flrst part of his "Hudihras," a satire huuichcd at the 
Puritan party. It is imtclUcd for much of its celebrity 
to public sympathy with its partisan hits. It had a lin-ge 
success, and has been praised as " the best burlesque 
poem in tlic Englisli language" — which is not saying 
much for it. It now has few readers. But it contains 
several epigrammatic expressions whicli liavc become 
proverbial, and it is rich in wit and wisdom. Butler 



died obscurely in his sixty-eighth year, having suffered 
deeply from tliat hope deferred whicli maketh tlie lieart . 
sick. 



THE LEARNING OF HUDIBKAS. 

He was in logic a great critic, 
Profoundly skilled in analytic. 
He could distinguish and divide 
A hair 'twixt south and south-west side : 
On either which he could dispute. 
Confute, cliange bauds, and still confute. 
He'd undertake to prove, by force 
Of argument, — a man's no horse ; 
He'd inove a buzzard is no fowl. 
And that a lord may be an owl ; 
A calf an alderman ; a goose a justice ; 
And rooks committee-men and trustees. 
He'd run in debt by disputation, 
And pay with ratiocination : 
All this by syllogism, true 
In mood and figure, he would do. 

For rhetoric — he could not ope 
His mouth but out there flew a trope. 
And when he happened to break off 
1' the middle of his speech, or cough, 
He'd hard words ready to show why. 
And tell what rules he did it by ; 
Else, when with greatest art he spoke. 
You'd think ho talked like other folk ; 
For all a rhetorician's rules 
Teach nothing but to name his tools. 

But, when he pleased to show't, his speech, 
In loftiness of sound was rich ; 
A Babylonish dialect. 
Which learudd pedants much aft'ect. 
It was a jiarty-colored dress 
Of patched and piebald languages. 
'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, 
Like fustian heretofore on satiu. 
It had an odd promiscuous tone. 
As if he'd talked three parts in one. 
Which made some think when he did gabble 
They'd heard three laborers of Babel, 
Or Cerberus himself iironounce 
A leash of languages at once. 



FROM "MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS." 

Far greater numbers have been lost by hopes 
Than all the magazines of daggers, ropes. 
And other annnunitions of despair, 
Were ever able to despatch by fear. 



JEREilY TAYLOIi.—HEXnr MOKE. 



105 



In Koine no U'liiplo was so low 
As that of Honor, bnilt to show 
I low lininlilc honor onjjht to bo, 
Thonsh tluie 'twas all anthority. 

.Sonio jji'oplc's lortnucs, like a -weft or stray, 
Arc only -^aiiuMl by losing of their way. 

I'lio trncst charai-tcrs of ignorance 

Are vanity anil pride and arrogance. 

As blind men use to bear their noses higher 

Than those that have their eyes and sight entire. 

All sniatterers are more brisk and pert 
Than those that understand an art ; 
.\» little 8i)arkles sliino more bright 
Than glowing coals that give them light. 

r,ovc is too great a hai>piness 

Tor wretched mortals to pos.scss ; 

I'or conld it hold inviolate 

Against those cruelties of Fato 

Which all felicities below 

I!y rigid laws are snb.jcct to, 

It would become .1 bliss too high 

For perishing niort.'ility. 

Translate to earth the joys above; 

For nothing goes to heaven but love. 



iJcrcmn ^laiilor. 

Known chlelly as a theologian, Taylor (1C13-16C7) was 
also in the highest sense a poet, as his devotional writ- 
ings, thoiigli in prose, aljundiintly sliow. He was a na- 
tive of t'anibiidgc, ami having taken his degree at Caius 
College, was lulniitted to holy orders wlicn he was little 
more than twenty. His wife was said to have been a 
natural daughter of Charles I. Taylor attached himself 
to the royal cause, and after encountering many vicissi- 
tudes of fortune, incident to civil wars, was made a bish- 
op by Charles H. in Kitil. He seems to have been thor- 
oughly estimable as a man, and faithful in the discharge 
of his clerical duties. 



THV KINtiDO.M COME. 

Lord ! come away ! 
Why dost thon stay f 
Thy ro.iil is ready; ami thy paths, made straight, 

With longing expectation wait 
The consecration of thy beauteous feet ! 
Kido on triumphantly! Behold, we lay 
Our lusts and proud wills in thy way! 



Hosanii;! ! Welconie to our hearts ! Lord, here 
Thou hast a templi: loo; and full as dear 
As that of Sion, and as full of sin : 
Nothing but thieves and robbers dwell therein : 
Knter, and chase them forth, and cleanse the tloor! 
Crucify them, that they may never more 
Profane that holy place 

Where thou ha.st chose to set thy face! 

And then, if our stilf tongues shall bo 
Mute in the praises of thy Deity, 

The stones out of the tcin]de wall 
Shall cry aloud, and call 
Hosauna ! and thy glorious footsteps greet ! Amen ! 



Cjcnvy iUovc. 



Henry More (1614-1G8T), who published in 1642 a "Pla- 
tonieal Song of the Soul," in four booU.s, was six years 
younger than Milton. He lived a hermit- life at Cam- 
bridge, was a great admirer of Plato, a correspondent of 
Descartes, and a friend of Cudwortli. He wrote various 
prose Avorks, and in his "Immortality of the Soul" 
showed that he was a full believer in apparitions and 
various psychical phenomena. He fully sympathized 
with Ghmvil in his belief that there was a substantial 
basis of spiritual agency in witclu-raft ; and he believed 
that he himself had had superhuman conimunications. 
He seems to have adopted. the Platonic notion of the 
soul's prc-existcucc. 

Tin: PEE-EXISTEXCY OF THE SOUL. 

Rise, then, .Xristo's son, assist my Muse! 

Let that high sprite which did c'urich thy brains 

With choice conceits, some worthy thoughts infuse 

Worthy thy title and the reader's pains. 

And thou, O Lyciau sago ! whose pen contains 

Treasures of heavenly light with gentle fire, 

(jiive leave awhile to warm me at thy llames, 

That I may also kindle sweet desire 

In holy minds that unto highest things aspire. 

For I would sing the pre-existency 
Of human souls, and live once o'er again, 
liy recollection and quick nieniory. 
All that is past since lirst wo all began ; 
But all too shallow be my wits to scan 
So deep a point, and mind too dull to dear 
So dark a mailer. Hut thou, nutre than nnin, 
Aread, thon sacreil soul of I'loliu dear; 
Tell itu: what morlals are — tell what of old they 
wen-. 

Show lilly how the pie-cxistcut soul 
Enacts, aud enters bodies here below. 



lOG 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEItlCAX POETRY. 



And tbeu, entire unhurt, can leave this nioul. 
And tlience her airy vebicle can dravs-, 
In ■svliicU by sense and motion tliey may liuow 
Better tliau we wliat tilings transacted be 
Upon tlie earth, and, when they list, may show 
Themselves to friend or foe — their jihantasie 
Moulding their airy orb to gross consistency. 

Wherefore the sonl, possessed of matter meet. 
If she hath power to operate thereon. 
Can eath trausform this vehicle to sight, 
Diglit with dne color figuration ; 
Can speajv, can walk, and then dispear anon, 
Spreading herself in the dispersed air ; 
Then, if slie ple.ase, recall again what's gone : 
Tliose the unconth mysteries of fancy arc. 
Than thnnder far more strong, more qnick than 
liglituing far. 



FROM "THE PHILOSOPHER'S DEVOTION.' 

Sing aloud ! His praise rehearse 
Who hath made the universe. 



God is good, is wise, is strong — 
Witness all tlie creature-throng 1 
Is confessed by every tongue — 
All return from whence they sprung. 
As the thankfnl rivers pay 
What they borrowed of the sea. 

Now myself I do resign : 
Take me whole, I all am thine. 

Save me, God, from self-desire. 
Death's dark pit, hell's raging tire, 
Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire ! 
Let not Inst my sonl bemire ! 

Qnit from these, tliy praise I'll sing, 
Londly sweep the trembling string. 
Bear a part, O wisdom's sous. 
Freed from vain religious ! 
* * *^ * i' if 

Rise at once — let's sacrifice ! 
Odors sweet perfume the skies ! 
See how heavenly lightning fires 
Hearts inflamed with high aspires: 
All the substance of our souls 
Up in clouds of incense rolls! 
Leave we nothing to ourselves 
Save a voice — what need wo else ? — 
Or a hand to wear and tire 
On the thankfnl lute or lyre. 

Sing aloud ! His iiraise reliearse 
Wlio hath made the universe ! 



Hicljaib Sai'tcr. 



Born at Rowdon, in Sliropshirc, Baxter (1C15-1(!01), af- 
ter some desultory work at scliool, and a course of pri- 
vate theological study, passed into the ministry of llie 
Church of England. But when the Act of Uiiirorniity 
was passed in 1CB3, he left that Church and spent several 
years in active literary work. His "Saints' Everlasting 
Rest" and his "Call to the Unconverted" had vast suc- 
cess. His published writings (1830) fill twenty -three 
volumes. He believed in intercommunication with the 
spirit-world, and relates what he regarded as well au- 
thenticated instances of supcrseusual power. He suf- 
fered much for his non-conforniist principles, and was 
brought (1084) before the notorious Jeffreys on a frivo- 
lous charge of seditious utterances in his Notes on the 
New Testament. The brutal judge, on Baxter's at- 
tempting to speak, roared out: "Richard, Richard, dosl 
thou think we will let thee poison the court? Richard, 
thou art an old fellow, an old knave ; thou hast written 
books enough to load a cart. Hadst thou been whipt out 
of thy writing trade forty years ago, it had been happy." 

A poem of 168 lines, by Baxter, entitled "The Valedic- 
tion," ajipears in several collections: but it is inferior 
to the hymn we publish ; and of which eight only of the 
eleven four-line stauzas are here given. 



THY WILL BE DONE. 

Now it belongs not to my care 

Whether I die or live ; 
To love and ser\e Thee is my share, 

Aud this Tliy grace must give. 

If deatli shall bruise the springing seed 

Before it come to fruit, 
Tlie will with Thee goes for the deed, 

Thy life was in the root. 
# * -^ ^ * * 

Would I long hear my iieavy load, 

And keep my sorrows long? 
Would I long sin against my God, 

Aud bis dear mercy wrong ? 

How much is sinful tlesh my foe, 

That doth my sonl pervert 
To linger here in sin and woe. 

And steals from God my heart! 

Christ leads me through no darker rooms 

Tlian he went through before ; 
He that unto God's kingdom comes 

Must enter by this door. 

Come, Lord, when grace liath made me meet 
Thy blessed face to see; 



BEXHr TAVGHAX. 



107 



For if tliy work on earth bo sweot, 
What will thy glory be f 

Then I shall end my sail coiiiiilaiiifs, 

Ami weary siiil'iil days, 
Ami join with tlio triiim|ihant saints 

That sing Jehovah's praise. 

My Icnowledgo of that life is small; 

The eye of faith is dim ; 
I?nt it's enough that Christ knows all, 

And I shall be with Him. 



C)cnnj llangliaii. 



A native of Wales, Vanglian ( 1614-1 C95) studied at 
Oxford, tirst became a lawyer, then a physician ; but in 
neither profession was he successful in earning a com- 
petency. Poverty seems to have dogged his steps. In 
the latter part of liis life he became devout. Amidst the 
obscurities of his verse there arc beauties that bespeak 
the genuine poet. Campbell, who had little partiality 
for pious poets, compares these beauties to "wild flow- 
ers on a barren lieatli." In his own "Kainbow," lie 
has, perhaps, unwittingly borrowed a "wild flower" or 
two from poor Vauglian. 



THE KKTKEAT. 

Happy those early days, when I 
Shiued in my augel infancy! 
Before I understood this place 
Appointed for my second race. 
Or taught my soul to fancy aught 
Hnt a white, celestial thought; 
When yet I had not walked above 
A mile or two from my fir.st love, 
And looking back at that short space, 
Could see a glim))se of his bright face; 
When on some gilded cloud or flower 
My gazing sonl would dwell an hour, 
And in those weaker glories spy 
Some shadows of eternity; 
lieforc I taught my tongue to wound 
My consciem-o with a sinful sound, 
Or liad the black art to dispense 
A several sin to every sense, 
lint felt through all this fleshly dress 
liright shoots of everlastinguc.ss. 
Oh, how I long to travel back 
And (read again that ancient track! 
That I might once more reach lli.it plain, 
Where lirst I left my glorious train : 



From whence the enlightcneil spirit sees 
That shady City of Palm-trees. 
But ah! my soul with too much stay 
Is drunk, and staggers in the way! 
Some men a forward nmtion love. 
Hut I by backward steps would move; 
And, when this dust falls to the urn, 
In that state I canu', return. 



THE KAINBOW. 

Still young and line! but what is still in view 
We slight iis old and soiled, though fresh and new. 
How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring eye 
Thy burnished, flaming arch did fust descry! 
When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abrani, Lot, 
The youthful world's gray fathers, in one knot 
Did with intentive looks watch every hour 
For thy new light, and trembled at each shower! 
When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and 

fair. 
Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air; 
Kain geutly spends his honey-drops, and pours 
Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. 
Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure tie 
Of thy Lord's hand, the object of his eye! 
When I behold thee, though my light bo dim, 
Distant and low, I can in thine .see him 
Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne. 
And minds the covenant 'twixt all and One. 



THEY AEE ALL GONE! 

They are all gone into the world of light! 

And 1 alone sit lingering here! 
Their very memory is fair and bright, 

And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast 
Like stars upon some gloomy grove. 

Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest 
After the sun's remove. 

I see them walking in an air of glory. 
Whoso light doth trample on my days, — 

My days which arc at best but dull and hoary. 
Mere glimmering and decays. 

O holy hope! and high humility! 
High as the heavens above! 



108 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AilEHICAN POETRY. 



These are your walks, auil you have sliowetl tbem 

ine 
To Idmllc my cold love. 

Dear, beauteous death; the jewel of tlie just! 

Shiuiug nowhere but in the dark; 
What mysteries do lie heyoud thy dust, 

Could mail outlook that mark ! 

He that hath fouud some fledged bird's-uest may 
kuow 

At first sight if the bird be flowu ; 
But what fair dell or grove he sings iu now, 

That is to him uukuowu. 

And yet as angels in some brighter dreams 
Call to the soul when man doth sleep, 

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted 
themes. 
And into glory peep. 

If a star were eonliued into a tomb, 

Her captive flames must needs burn there ; 

But when the hand that locked her up gives room. 
She'll shiuo through all the sphere. 

O Father of eternal life, and all 

Created glories under thee! 
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall 

Into trno liberty ! 

Either disperse these mists, which blot and All 
My perspective still as they pass, — 

Or else remove mo hence unto that hill, 
Where I shall need no glass. 



THE REQUEST. 

Thou who didst deny to me 
This world's adored felicity, 
And every big imperious lust, 
Which fools admire iu sinful dust; 
With those fine subtle twists that tie 
Their bundles of foul gallantry; — 
Keep still my weak eyes from the shine 
Of those gay things which are not Thine! 
And shut my ears agqiust the noise 
Of wicked, though applauded, joys! 
For Thou in any land hast store 
Of shades and coverts for Thy poor; 
Where from the busy dnst and heat, 
As well as storms, they may retreat. 



A rock, a bush are downy beds, 

When Thou art there, crowning their heads 

With secret blessings, or a tiro 

Made of the Comforter's live lire. 

And, when Thy goodness, in the dress 

Of anger, will not seem to bless, 

Yet dost thon give them that rich rain 

Which as it drops clears all again. 

O what kind visits daily pass 
'Twixt Thy great self and such poor grass! 
With what sweet looks doth Thy love shine 
On these low violets of Thine, 
While the t.all tulip is accurst. 
And crowns imperial die with thirst! 
O give me still those secret meals, 
Those rare repasts which Thy love deals! 
Give me that joy which none can grieve, 
And which in all griefs doth relieve. 
This is the portion thy child begs; 
Not that of rust, and rags, and dregs. 



LIKE AS A NURSE. 

Even as a nurse, whose child's imperfect pace 
Can hardly lead his foot from place to place, 
Leaves her fond kissing, sets him down to go, 
Nor does uphold him for a step or two; 
But when she finds that he begins to fall, 
She holds him up and kisses him withal : 
So God from man sometimes withdraws his hand 
Awhile to teach his infant faith to stand: 
But when he sees his feeble strength begin 
To fail, he gently takes him up again. 



IVicljavli £ooclacc. 



Lovelace (1618-1058), bora in a knightly mansion, was 
educated at Oxford. Of remarkable physical beauty, lie 
was the most unhappy of the Cavalier poets. For his 
gallant struggles in the royal cause he suttered imprison- 
ment, during which he published his "Odes and Songs." 
He spent his fortune in the service of the King and in 
aid of poorer friends. Tlie Lucasta ( Lm casta, pure light ) 
of his verse was Lady Sachcverell, wliom he loved, but 
who married another, after false reports that Lovelace 
had been killed at Dunkirk. Under Cromwell he was 
set free, but lived in extreme poverty, and died of con- 
sumption, iu great distress, in an alley in Shoe Lane. 
Much of his poetry is of little value, and disfigured with 
the obscurities and afiectations which were the fashion 
of the day. Two at least of his poems are likely to 
last as long as the English language. They breathe the 
knightly spirit of a true nobility. 



i:i( HARD LOVELACE.— ABRAHAM COTTLET. 



109 



TO ALTHE.V (FKOM PRISON). 

Wlu'ii Love with vincoiifiiK'd wiugs 

Hovers within my gates, 
Anil my divine Altlica brings 

To wliisper at the grates ; 
Wlii'U I lir tansli'il in licr liair, 

And frttcred to hfV i\vc, 
Tlie birds tbat wanton in tbc air 

Know no sncli liberty. 

When llowing enj)S run swiflly ronnd 

With no allaying Tlianies, 
Our careless heads with roses bound, 

Our hearts with h)yal flames; 
When thirsty grief in wino we steep, 

AVhen healths and draughts go free, 
I'islies that tipple in the deep 

Know no sueh liberty. 

When, like committed linnets, I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, merey, nnijesty. 

And glories of my King; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

Ho is, how great should be, 
Enlarg<!d winds that curl the flood 

Kiuiw no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make. 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and <|nict take 

That for an hermitage: 
If I have freedom in my love, 

Ami in my soul am free. 
Angels aloni' (hat soar above 

Enjoy siuh liberty. 



TO LUCA.STA (ON GOINti TO THE WARS). 

Tell mo not, sweet, I am unkind, 

That from the nuuucry 
Of tliy chaste breast ami quiet miml 

To war ami arms I lly. 

True, a new mistress now I chase, 

The tirst foe in the Held ; 
And with a stronger faitli enibraco 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this ineonst.iney is sueh 
As you too shall adore ; 



I could not love thee, dear, so much, 

Loved I not honor nnire. 



vlliral)ixm d'oivlrij. 

In the period of his reputation, Cowley (1618-1C67) 
precedes Milton ; be died in tlie ycnr of the publication 
of "Paradise Lost." He was the posthumous sou of a 
London stsitioncr ; entered Cumbridgc University, and 
at the age of tifleen puljlished a volume of poems, show- 
ing marvellous precocity. During the Civil War he w.is 
ejected fioni Caniliridge, and went to Oxford. In 1(V4G 
lie went with llic Queen to Paris, and was active in niiin- 
aiiing tlie cipher concspondenee between King Charles 
and his wile. In 1047 appeared Cowley's love poems, 
under the title of "The Mistress." They are pure 
works of imagination. He never married ; and it is said 
that altliougli he was once, and only once, in love, he 
was too shy to tell his passion. He had "the modesty 
of a man of genius and the humility of a Christian." In 
his style he belongs to the metaphysical school, of which 
Douue was the founder : its chief characteristic being 
the afTcctatiou of remote and uncommon imagery and 
obscure conceits, often drawn from scientilie sources, 
and attenuated to exhaustion. His praisu of Brutus in 
one of his odes lost him the favor of Charles II. His 
"Davideis" is an unfinished epic in four books, writ- 
ten while he was at Cambridge. He died in bis forty- 
ninth year, and was interred with great pomp in West- 
minster Abbey, between Chaucer and Spenser. No poet 
of his day was more jjopular than Cowley, though he 
is now but little read. 



MY ri( TIRE. 

Here, take my likeness with yon, whilst 'tis so; 

For whiMi from hence yon go. 

The next sun's rising will behold 

Mc pale, and lean, and old. 

The man who did this picture draw 

Will swear next ilay my face he never saw. 

I really believe, within a while, 

If yon upon this shadow smile. 

Your presence will such vigor give 

(Your presence which makes all things live!) 

And absence so much alter me. 

This will the substance. I the slnnlow be. 

When from yonr well-wrought cabinet yon take it, 

And your bright looks awako it. 

Ah, be not frighted if ,von see 

The new-,souled ])ieture gaze on thee. 

And hear it briNithe a sigh or two; 

For those are tin' first things that it will do. 



110 



CTCLOP^DIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



My rival-image will be then thought blest, 

And laugh at me as dispossest ; 

lint thou, who (if I kuow thee right) 

I'th' substauco dost not much delight. 

Wilt rather send again for me, 

Who thou shall but my picture's picture be. 



TENTANDA EST VIA. 

Wliat sliall I do to be I'orever known, 

And make the age to come my own ? 
I shall, like beasts or common people, die. 

Unless you write my elegy ; 
Whilst others great, by being boru, are grown ; 

Their mothers' labor, not their own. 
lu this scale gold, iu th' other fame does lie, 

The weight of that mounts this so higli. 
These meu are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright; 

Brought forth with their own fire and light : 
If I, her vulgar stone, for cither look, 

Out of myself it must be strook. 
Yet I must on. What sound is't strikes mine ear? 

Sure I Fame's trumpet hear ; 
It sounds like the last trumpet ; for it can 

Eaise up the buried man. 
Unpast Alps stop me ; but I'll cut them all, 

And march, the Muses' Hannibal. 
Hence, all the flattering vauities that lay 

Nets of roses iu the way ! 
Hence, the desire of lionors or estate. 

And all that is not above Fate ! 
Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my d;iys, 

Which intercepts my coming praise. 
Come, my best friends, my books, and le^d nic on ; 

'Tis time that I were gone. 
Welcome, great Stagyrite !' .and teach me now- 
All I was born to know ; 
Thy scholar's victories thou dost far outdo ; 

He conquered th' earth, the whole world yon. 
Welcome, learn'd Cicero ! who.se blest tongue and 
wit 

Preserves Rome's greatness yet : 
Tlion art the first of orators ; only he 

Who best can praise thee next must be. 
Welcome the Mantnan swan, Virgil the wise ! 

Whose verse walks highest, but not flies ; 
Who brought green Poesy to her perfect age, 

And made that art which was a rage. 



' Aristotle was born at Stngyrn, iu JLicedoni.i, near the 
monih of the Strymou. lie was the iustructor of Alexander 
the Gre.1t. 



Tell me, ye mighty Three ! what shall I do 

To be like one of yon ? 
But yon have climbed the mountain's top, there .sit 

On the calm flourishing head of it, 
And, whilst with wearied steps we upwards go, 

See us, and clouds, below. 



A HAPPY LIFE. 

Parapiirase from Martial, Book X. 

Since, dearest friend, 'tis your desire to see 
A true receipt of happiness from ine, 
Those are the chief ingredients, if not all : 
Take an estate neither too great nor small, 
Which quantum siifficit the doctors call ; 
Let this estate from parents' care descend, 
The getting it too much of life does speud. 
Take such a ground, whose gratitude may be 
A fair encouragement for industry ; 
Let constant fires the winter's fury tame. 
And let thy kitchen's be a vestal flame : 
Thee to the town let never suit at law. 
And rarely, verj' rarely, business draw ; 
Thy active mind in ennal temper keep, 
In nndistnrbiSd peace, yet not iu sleep : 
Let exercise a vigorous -health maintain, 
Without which all the composition's vain. 
Iu the same weight prudence .and iunocence take. 
And of each does the just mixture make. 
But a few friendships wear, and let them bo 
By nature and by fortune fit for thee; 
Instead of art and luxury in food, 
Let mirth and freedom make thy table good. 
If any cares into thy daytime creep. 
At night, without wine's opium, let them sleep ; 
Let rest, which Nature does to darkness wed. 
And not lust, recommend to thee thy bed. 
Be satisfied, and pleased with wluat thou art, 
Act cbecrfuUy and well th' allotted part, 
Enjoy the present hour, be thankfid for the past, 
And neither fear, nor wish, the approaches of the 
last. 



MARK THAT SWIFT ARROW. 

Mark that swift arrow, how it cuts the air. 

How it outruns thy following eye ! 

Use all persuasions now, and try 
If thou canst call it back or stay it there, 

That w-ay it went; but thou shall find 

No track is left behind. 



ABRAHAM ton LEY.— ANDREW MARVELL. 



Ill 



Fool ! 'tis thy life, anil tlio fiuul arclier thou ; 

Of all llie tiin<> tlioii 'st shot iiway, 

I'll bi<l tlieu fetch but yesterday, 
Aud it shall bo too hard a task to do. 

Besides reiieiitauce, what canst liiid 

That it hath left behind f 

Our lifo is carried with too strong a tide; 

A donbtfiil cluiid niir giibstaiice bears, 

And is tlic horse of all onr years : 
Each day doth on a ■ning^'d whirlwind ride. 

We and onr glass rnn ont, and ninst 

Uotli render np our dust. 

Bnt his past lite who wiilnnit giicf can sec, 
Who never thinks his end too near, 
I$tit .says to Tame, thou art mine heir, — 

That man exten<ls life's natural brevity 

To outlive Nestor in a dav. 



ON TlIK DKATII OF CK.V.-^HAW. 

I'oet anil .Saint ! to thee alone are given 
The t wo most sacred names of earth and Iicavcn ; 
The hard and rarest union which can be. 
Next that of Godhead with humanity. 
Long did the Muses, l>anislied slaves, abide, 
.\nd linilt vain pyramids to mortal pride; 
Like Moses thou (tUo' spells ami charms with- 
stand) 
Hast bronglit them nobly home, back to their 

Holy Land. 
All, wretched we! poets of earth! but thou 
Wert living tlie same jioet which tlnni'rt lunv, 
Wliilst angels sing to thee their airs divine, 
And joy in an ajiplanse so great as thine, 
Kipial society with tliem to hold, 
llion need'st not make lu-w songs, bnt say the old: 
Anil they (kind spirits!) shall all rejoice to seo 
How little less than tliev exalted man mav be. 



I'ROM ■TIIF, W1.-;H.'' 

This only grant nw, that my means may lie 
Too low for envy, for contempt too high. 

.'<"me honor I would have, 
Not frinu great deeds, but good alone ; 
I'lie imknowu are better than ill known ; 

IJumor can ope the grave. 
Aciiuaintanei' I wnuhl have, but when 't depends 
Not on the number, but the choice, of friends. 



Books should, not business, cutertain the light, 
Aud slee|i, as undisturbed as death, the night. 

My house a cottage more 
Thau palace ; and should iitting bo 
For all my use, no luxury. 

My garden painted o'er 
With Nature's hand, not Art's ; and pleasures yield, 
Horace might envy in his .Sabine lield. 

Thus would I double my life's fading space ; 
For ho that runs it well twice runs his race. 

Ami in this true delight, 
These unbought sports, this happy state, 
I would not fear, nor wish, my fate ; 

But boldly say, each night, 
To-nu)rn>w let my sun his beams display. 
Or in clouds hide them ; I have lived to-dav. 



^iiLirciii lUanu'll. 

The friend of Milton, aud his assistant in tlie Latin 
SecretarysUip, Marvell (1020-1078) wiis born in Lincoln- 
shire, and educated at Cimbridgc. Ills education was 
superior. He wrote both poetry nnd pi'osc, and was 
Member of Parliament for Hull. A man of inflexible iu- 
tegiity, he was a strenuous foe of the Roman Catholic 
religion, and as a political pamphleteer took a high rank. 
Repeatedly threatened with assassination, he died su<l- 
dcnly — from the effects of poison, it was believed. There 
is a vein of elegance and pathos in his poems, and they 
reveal the genuine, high-hearted thinker. His Latin 
poems are his best. The familiar poem, "The Spacious 
Kirmamcnt on High," is contidently attributed by many 
to Marvell. Tliat he was equal to it is evident; bnt llic 
proofs are insuflleient to nulborize us to take from Ad- 
dison what has so long been ascribed to him. The sim- 
plicity and directness of the style arc Addisonian rather 
than Marvellian. The piece first appeared anonymously 
in the Spectator^ edited by Addison. The S^KcUitov was 
begun in 1711, and Marvell died in 107S. If the piece 
was from his pen, wlu\t good reason was there, after his 
death, for withholding his name ? It was in no sjiirit of 
boasting that, in a letter to one of his coirespondcnts, 
Marvell wrote: 

" Discc, piier, virtulem ex nic, vernmquc laborcm ; 
Fortauam ex .iliis." 



SONG OF THE EMIGR.VNTS IX BF.RMrHA. 

Where the i-emote Bcrmmlas ride 
lu the ocean's bosom nnesiiied. 



' Kmigrnnts finppo!>cil to be driven to expatriate themselves 
by Uic jrovcrumcnt of Charles I. 



112 



CrCLOPJEDlA OF BKITISII AND AilERlCAN POEIET. 



From a small boat tbat rowed along 
The listening winds received tbis song : 
" What should we do but sing Lis piuise 
That led us through the water}' maze 
Unto an isle so long unknown, 
Aud yet far kinder than our own ? 
Where lie the huge sea-monsters wracks 
That lift the deep upcm tlieir backs, 
Ho lands us ou a grassy stage 
Safe from the storms and prelate's rage. 
He gave us this eternal spring 
Which liere enamels everything, 
Aud sends the fowls to us in care 
Ou daily visits through the air. 
He hangs in shades the orange bright, 
Like golden lamps iu a greeu uight, 
Aud does iix llie pomegranates close 
Jewels more rich than Ornins shows. 
He makes the figs our moutlis to meet, 
Aud throws the melons at our feet, 
But .apples plants of such a price 
No tree could ever bear them twice. 
With cedars chosen by his hand 
From Lebanon, he stores the land, 
Aud makes tlie hollow seas that roar 
Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 
He cast (of which we rather boast) 
Tlu' Gospel's pearl upon our coast, 
Aud in tliese rocks for us did frame 
A temple where to sound his name. 
Oh, let our voice his praise exalt 
'Til it arrive at lieaven's vault. 
Which, then, perhaps, rebounding, may 
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay." 

Thus sung they, in the English boat, 
A holy and a cheerful note. 
And all the way, to guide their chime. 
With falling oars they kept the time. 



COURAGE, MY SOUL! 

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE RESOLVED SOUL AND 
CREATED PLEASURE. 

Courage, my soul ! now learn to wield 
The weight of thine immortal shield ; 
Close on thy Lead thy helmet bright ; 
Balance thy sword against the fight ; 
See where an army, strong as fair, 
With silken banners spread the air! 
Now, if tliou be'st that thing divine. 
In this day's combat let it shine. 



And show that nature wants an art 
To conquer one resolved heart. 
ricasurc. Welcome, the creation's guest. 

Lord of earth, and heaven's heir! 
Lay aside that warlike crest, 
And of nature's banquet share, 
Where the souls of fruits and dowers 
Stand prepared to heighten yours. 
Soul. I sup above, aud caunot stay 

To bait so long upon the way. 
Pkasitrc. On these downy pillows lie. 

Whose soft plumes will thither fly ; 
On these roses, strewed so plain 
Lest one leaf thy side should strain. 
Sonl. My gentler rest is on a thought. 
Conscious of doing what 1 ought. 
ricasurc. If thou be'st with perfumes plca.sed 
Such as oft the gods rppcased, 
Thon iu fragrant clouds sbalt show 
Like another god below. 
Soul. A soul tbat knows not to presume 

Is Heaven's and its own perfnme. 
Pleasure. Everything does seem to vie 

Which should first attract thine eye ; 
But since none deserves that grace, 
In tbis crystal view thy face. 
Soul. When the Creator's skill is prized. 
The rest is all but earth disguised. 
Pleasure. Hark how music then prepares 

For thy stay these charming airs, 
Which the posting winds recall, 
And suspend the river's fall. 
Soul. Had I but any time to lose, 

Ou this I would it all dispose. 

Cease, tempter ! None can chain a mind. 

Whom this sweet cordage cannot bind. 

CHORUS. 

Earth cannot show so 1)ravo a sight, 
As when a single soul does fence 
The battery of alluring Sense, 
And Heaven views it with delight- 
Then persevere ! for still new charges sound : 
And if thou overcom'st thou shalt be crowned ! 

Pleasure. All that's costly fiiir aud sweet 
Which scatteriugly doth shine, 
Sh.all within one beauty meet, 
Aud she be only thine. 
Soul. If things of sight such heavens he. 

What heavens are those we cannot see ! 
Plensure. Wheresoe'er thy foot shall go 
The minted gold shall lie. 



AyiniEW MAllVELL. 



113 



Till tlioii piircliaso all below, 
Aiul want new worlils to buy. 
Soul. WiTc't not for prico wlioM valuo gold? 

Ami tliat'.s woi'lli nanj^lit that can bo soUl. 
I'lcasure. Wilt thou all the glory havo 

That war or peace conuuend f 
Half tbo world shall bo thy slave, 
The other half thy friend. 
Soul. What fiieiids, if to niy.seU" nutrne ? 

What slaves, unless I captive you ? 
Pleasure. Thou shalt know each hidden cause 
And see the future time. 
Try what depth the centre draws. 

And then to heaven climb. 
None thither mounts by the degree 
Of knowledge, but humility. 

cnonvs. 

Triumph, triumph, victorious .soul! 

The world has not one pleasure more : 
The rest doth lie beyond tlio pole. 

And is thine everlastins store. 



Soul. 



A DROP OF DEW. 

Translated frou the Latin op Marvell. 

See how the orient dew, 

.Shed from tbo bosom of the morn 

Into the blowing roses, 
(Yet careless of its mansion new. 
For the clear region where 'twas born). 

Round in itself incloses; 
And in its little globe's extent 
Frames as it can, its native element. 

How it the purple flower does slight. 
Scarce touching where it lies; 
But, gazing back upon the skies, 

Shines with a mournful light. 
Like its own tear. 

Because so long divided from the spliere. 
Restless it rolls and iinsecure, 
Trendjliiig, lest it grow impure ; 
Till the warm sun pities its pain. 
And to the skies exhales it back again. 
So the soul, that drop, that ray, 
Of the clear fountain of eternal day, 

Could it witliiu the human (lower bo seen, 
Remt-mbering still its former height, 

Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms greeu ; 
And, recidlecting its own light. 
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express 
The greater heaven in a licaven less. 
8 



In how coy a figure wound, 
Every way it turns away ; 

So the world excluding round. 
Yet receiving in the day; 

Dark beneath, but bright above; 

Here disdaining, there in love. 
How loose aud easy lience to go ; 

How girt and ready to ascend ; 
Moving but on a point below, 

It all about docs vipwards bend. 
Such did the manna's sacred dew distil. 
White and entire, although congealed and chill ; 
Congealed on earth; but does, dissolving, run 
Into the glories of the almighty sun. 



THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN'.' 

How vainly men themselves am;ize. 
To win the palm, f lie oak, or bays ; 
And their incessant labors see 
Crowned from single herb, or tree, 
W'lioso short aud narrow-verg<Sd shade 
Does prudently their toils upbraid; 
AVhile all the flowers aud trees do close. 
To weave the garlands of reiiose. 

Fair Quiet, have I found thee liere, 
And Innocence, thy sister dear t 
Mistaken long, I sought you then 
lu busy companies of men : 
Y'our sacred plants, if hero below. 
Only among the plants will grow : 
Society is all but rude 
To this delicious solitude. 

Xo white nor red w.as ever seen 

So amorous as this lovely green. 

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, 

Cut in these trees their mistress' name. 

I/itfle, alas! tliey know or heed. 

How far the.se beauties her exceed ! 

Fair trees ! where'er your b.arks I wound. 

Xo name shall but your own bo found. 



* Thifl poem is printed as a tr.inelntfon in M.ir^-cH's works; 
but the original Liilin is obviously Iii^ own. Here is a spcci- 
mea of it: 

"Alma Qaics, tcnco tcl ot tc nermann Quiotis 
SiinplicitaH ! vos CTffO din per tornpln, per urbcs 
Qilnjsivi, rej^nm pcrqne alia paliitia friiflra: 
Sed vos horlorum per opaca silcntia, InnRe 
Celanint plantte viridcs, ct coDcolur umbra." 



114 



CrCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Wlien wo have run imr jiassiou's lieat 
Love liithcr makes liis best retreat: 
The gods who mortal beauty chase, 
Still ill a tree did end their race: 
Apollo hunted Daphne so 
Ouly that she might laurel grow : 
Ami Pan did after Syrinx speed 
Not as a nymph, bnt for a reed. 

What wondrous life is this I lead! 
Eipe apples drop about my head ; 
The luscious clusters of the vine 
Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; 
The nectarine, and curious peach, 
Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
Stumbling ou melons, as I pass, 
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, 

Withdraws into its happiness : 

The mind, that ocean where each kind 

Does straight its own resemblance find ; 

Yet it creates, transcending these, 

Far otlier worlds and other seas; 

Annihilating all tliat's made 

To a green thought in a green shade. 

Here at the fountain's sliding foot. 
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root. 
Casting the body's vest aside. 
My soul into the boughs does glide : 
There, like a bird, it sits and sings. 
Then whets and claps its silver wings. 
And, till prepared for longer flight. 
Waves in its plumes the various light. 

Such was that happy garden-state. 
While man there walked without a mate ; 
After a place so j)ure and sweet. 
What other help could yet be meet ! 
Bnt 'twas beyond a mortal's share 
To wander solitary there : 
Two paradises are in one, 
To live in paradise alone. 

How well the skilful gardener drew. 
Of flowers and herbs this dial new! 
Where, from above, the milder sun 
Does through a fragrant zodiac run : 
And, as it works, the industrious bee 
Computes its time as well as we. 
How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers ! 



<tl)oiiias Staulcji. 



Stanley (103.5-1678) edited .-EschyUis, wrote a credita- 
ble "History of Philosophy," and, in 1651, published a. 
volume of verse. He was educated at Oxford, and spent 
part of his youth in travelling. His poems, though de- 
formed by the conceits fushionable at the time, give 
signs of a rich and genuine poetical vein. 



THE DEPOSITION. 

Though when I loved thee thou wert fair 

Thou art no longer so ; 
Those glories, all the pride they wear, 

Unto opinion owe : 
Beauties, like stars, in borrowed lustre shine. 
And 'twas ray love that gave thee thine. 

The flames tliat dwelt within thine eye 

Do now with mine expire ; 
Thy brightest graces fade and die 

At once with my desire. 
Love's fires thus mutual iulluence return ; 
Thine cease to shine when mine to burn. 

Then, proud Celinda, hope no more 

To be implored or wooed ; 
Since by thy scorn thou dost restore 

The wealth my love bestowed ; 
And tliy despised disdain too late shall find 
That none are fair but who are kind. 



(Tljtxvlcs Cotton. 



The friend of good old Izaak Walton, Cotton (1630- 
1687) was a cheerful, witty, and accomplished man, but 
improvident in worldly matters. His father, Sir George, 
left him the encumbered estate of Ashbourne, in Derby- 
shire, near the river Dove. Cotton was thenceforth al- 
ways in money difficulties, and died insolvent. To get 
money, he translated several works from the French and 
Italian, and amoug them Montaigne's Essays. He made 
a discreditable travesty of Virgil, remarkable only for its 
obscenity. But some of his verses show a genuine vein. 



NO ILLS BUT WHAT WE MAKE. 

[ " CONTENTATION : DIRECTED TO MT DEAR FaTIIER AND MOST 

WORTHY Friend, Mr. Izaak Walton." 

There are no ills bnt what we make 
I5y giving shapes ami names to things ; 

Which is the dangerous mistake 
That cau.ses all our sutterings. 



joux mil VEX. 



115 



O friiilfiil grief, the world's (Use.iso! 
And vainer man, to ninko it so, 

Who {jivos his miseries iiierease, 
liy cultivating liis own woe! 

Wo call that sickness which is health, 

That perscention which is grace, 
That poverty which is true wealth, 

And tliat dishonor which is praise. 
Alas! our time is hero so sliort, 

That iu what state soe'or 'tis spent. 
Of .joy or w^oe, docs not import, 

Provided it be innocent. 

But we may make it pleasant too. 

If we will take our measures rijjht, 
Ami not what Heaven has done undo 

I$y an nnridy ai)i)elite. 
The world is full of heaten roads, 

Hut yet 80 slippery withal, 
That where one walks secure 'tis odds 

A hundred and a liiiiidrid I'all. 

Tntrodden paths are then the licst, 

Where the fre(|Uented are unsure; 
And he comes soiMu\st to his rest 

Whose Journey has bi'eii most secure. 
It is content alone that makes 

Our pilgrimage a pleasure here ; 
And who buys sorrow cheapest takes 

An ill commodity too dear. 



iJoljii Prniicii. 



One of tlic most celebrated of English poets, Drydcn 
(1631-1700) was born in Norlliainplonsliirc, of Puritan 
parents. He received his school ecluculion at Westmin- 
ster, under Dr. Busby, of birchen memory ; bis college 
ilucation, iit Canibriiiire. When Cromwell died, be wrote 
laudatory stanzas to his memory; but tins did not pro- 
vent bis greeting Charles II., at his restoration, with a 
salutatory poem, entitled "Astrrea Redux." Urydcn's 
veerings in relij^ion, jiolitics, ciitieism, and taste exhibit 
a uiinil xutder the dominion of impulse. His marriage, 
wliii'li took place in 1(>I«, was not a bujipy one, though 
be seems to have been warudy susceptilib' of domestic 
alfeclion. In IOCS be succeeded Sir William Davenant 
as poet- laureate. For many years he had supported 
hiniseir by writinR for the stage. He wrote some twen- 
ty -eit;lit ]ilays. Ills tragedies are stilted and inelfectivc; 
while bis comedies are cxccnildy impure and licentious, 
and not to be palliated even by the laxity of that cor- 
rupt and sbatneless ai;c. He lacked s<une of the great- 
est elements of noetic genius, and in moral earnestness 
was sadly dellcicnl. His "Annus .Mirabilis" is a poem 



on the great fire. His "Absalom and Achitopbel " Is re- 
garded as one of the most powerful of modern satires. 
His "Religio Laiei" exhibits the poet convulsed with 
religious doubts. 

After the death of Charles II. Drydcn became a Roman 
Catholic, had bis children brought uj) in that faith, and 
lived and died in it. Macaulay calls him an " illustrious 
renegade." Scott takes a less uncharitable view of his 
motives. When William and Mary ascended tljc throne 
Drydcn lost his laureateship, and thenceforth became a 
bookseller's hack. For trauslaliu!; Virgil into English 
verse he received £l-'0O; for bis "Fables," about i'2.">0. 
After a life of literary toil, productive of many splendid 
works, but dishonored by some which it were well for 
his memory if they could be annibilaled, Drydcn let fall 
his pen. He died at sixty-eight, and his body was buried 
in Westminster Abbey. In terms of extreme exaggera- 
tion, Johnson says of him that "he found the English 
language brick, and left it marble.'' 

Drydcn was sixty-six years old when he wrote his 
"Alexander's Feast," one of the finest lyrics in all lit- 
erature. "I am glad," he wrote to his publisher, "to 
hear from all bands that my Ode is esteemed the best 
of all my i)oetry by all the town. I thought so myself 
when I writ il; but being old, I mistrusted my own 
jud<;mcnt." Let it be added in Dryden's behalf that he 
had the grace to submit with meekness to Collier's se- 
vere criticism of the moral defects of his plays. Un- 
doubtedly, the recollection of them caused him many 
bitter regrets. His prose style is excellent. " In his 
satire," says Scott, "his arrow is always drawn to the 
head, and flies directly aud mercilessly to his object.'* 



ALKXAXDEirS FEA.ST. 

AN ODE IX IIOSOU OF ST. CECILIA'S UAY. 

St. Cecilin, a Roman lady boru about A.n. S95, and bred in the 
Christiau failli, was married to a Pa-jau nobleman, ValeriaiuiH. 
She told her husband that she was vi.^ited nightly by nn angel, 
whom he wn.s iiHowed to see after his own conversion. They 
both suffered martyrdom. The angel by whom Cecilia was 
visited is referred to in the closing lines of Dryden's "Ode," 
conpled with a lraditii)n that he had been drawn down to her 
from heaven by her melodies. In the earllesl traditions of 
Cecilia there is no mention of skill in mnsic. The great Italian 
painters fixed her position as its patron saint by representing 
her always with symbols of harmony— a harp or organ-pipes. 
Then came the suggestion adopted in Dryden's "Ode," that 
the organ was invented l»y St. Cecilia. The practice of holding 
Musical Festivals on Cecilia's Day (the 2'2d of Novemlicr) be- 
gan to prevail in Euglaud at the close of the ITth ccutury. 

I. 

'Twas at tho royal feast for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike sou ; 
Aloft in awful state 
The godlike hero sato 

On his imperial throne: 
His valiant peers were placed arniiiid ; 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound, 
(.So should desert in anus be crowiieil): 



116 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD JMERICAX POETRY. 



The lovely Thais, by his side, 
Sate, lilce a blooiiiiug Eastern bride, 
III flower of youth and beauty's jiride. 
Happy, happy, happy iiair ! 

Noue but the brave, 
None but tlie brave, 
Noue but the bravo deserves the fair. 

CHORUS. 

Happy, happy, happy pair! 

None but the brave. 

None but the brave. 

None but the brave deserves the fair. 



Timotheus, placed on high 
Amid the tuueful (juire, 
With flying fingers touched the lyre : 
Tlie trembling notes ascend the shy. 

And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove, 
Who left his blissful seats above, 
Such is the power of mighty love. 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god, 
Sublime on radiant spires he rode, 
When he to fair Olynipia jjressed, 
And vrhile he sought her snowy breast : 
Then ronud her slender waist he curled. 
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of 

the world. 
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound ; 
"A present deity!" they shout around: 
"A present deity!" the vaulted roofs rebound. 
With ravished ears 
The monarch hears ; 
Assumes the god. 
Affects to nod. 
And seems to shake the spheres. 

cnoiiDs. 

With r.avished ears 
The nuinarch hears ; 
Assumes the god, 
Affects to uod. 
And seems to shake the spheres. 



The praise of Bacchus then the sweet Musician 
snug. 
Of Bacillus ever fair and ever yonng: 
Thi^ .joll.V god in triumph comes; 
Sound the trumpets; beat the drums! 



Flushed with a imrple grace 
He shows his honest face. 
Now give the hautboys breath : he comes, he comes ! 
Bacchus, ever fair and young. 

Drinking joys did first ordaiu : 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: 
Rich the treasure, 
Sweet the pleasure, 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

CHORUS. 

Bacchus' blessiugs are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 

Rich the treasure, 

Sweet the jtleasnre, 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 



Soothed with the sound the king grew vain; 
Fought all his battles o'er again : 
And tlirice he routed all his foes, aud thrice he 
slew the slain. 
The Master saw the madness rise ; 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
And, while he heaven and earth defied, 
Changed his hand and checked his pride. 
He chose a nmuruful muse 
Soft pity to infuse : 
He sung Darius great and good. 

By too severe a fate 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen. 
Fallen from his high estate, 

Aud weltering iu his blood ; 
Deserted, at his utmost need, 
By those his former bounty fed, 
On the bare earth exposed he Ilea, 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 
Revolving in his altered sonl 

The various turns of chance below; 
Aud now and then a sigh he stole. 
And tears began to flow. 

CHORUS. 

Revolving in his altered soul ' 

The various turns of chance below ; 

Aud now and then a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 



The mighty Slastor smiled to see 
That love was in the next degree : 



.lollX VHYUEX. 



117 



Twas but a kindred sound to niovo, 
For pity melts tlio niiiul to lovi'. 
Softly sweet, in I.vdiiin nieasnies, 
Soon lio soothed liis soul to {ilcasnrcs. 
War, ho snii<;, is toil and trouble; 
]Ionor but an empty bubble; 

Never ending, still beginning, 
Fighting still, and still destroying; 

If the world bo worth thy winning, 
Think, oh think it worth enjoying: 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 
Take tho good the gods provide thee. 
The many rend the skies with loud applause; 
So Lovo w.as crowned: but Music won tho cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his i)aiM, 
Gazed on the fair 
AVho caused liis care. 
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again : 
At length, with lovo and wino at once oppressed, 
The vaniinished victor sunk upon her breast. 



The ]uince, unable to ciniceal his pain, 
(jazed on the fair 
Who caused his care, 
.\nd sigheil and looked, sighed and looked. 
Sighed anil looked, ami sighed again: 
At length, with love and wino at ouco oppressed, 
The vaminished victor sunk upon her breast. 



Now strike tho golden lyre again: 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
Break his b.iuds of sleep asunder, 
And rouse him, like a rattling p<'al of thunder. 
Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
lias raised up his head: 
As awaked from the dead. 
And amazed, ho stares around. 
■'Rcvengo! revenge!"' Timotheus cries : 
See the Finies .arise ; 
Seo the snakes that they rear, 
How they hiss in their hair. 
And the sparkles that Ihish from their eyes ! 
Ik-hold a ghastly band. 
Each a torcli in his hand: 
Those are Grecian ghosts that in battle were 
slain. 

And unburied remain 
Inglorious on tho plain: 
Givo the vongeanco duo 
To tho valiaut crew. 



Behold, how they toss their torches on high ! 

How they x>oinf; to tho Persian abodes, 
And glittering temples of their hostile gods! 
The princes applaud with a furious joy; 
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 
Thais led the way. 
To light him to his prey, 
And, like another Helen, lin^d another Troy. 

CltOlilS. 

Aud the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 

Thais led tho Avay, 

To light him to his prey. 
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 

VII. 

Thus long ago. 
Ere heaving hellows learned to blow. 
While organs yet were nnite ; 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute. 
And sounding lyre. 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
At last diviuo Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn souiuls. 
With luiture's mother-wit, .and arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 

Or both divide tho crown : 
Ho raised a mortal to tho skies ; 
She drew an augel down. 

GRANT) CIIORfS. 

At last divine Cecilia came, 

Inventress of the vocal frame; 
Tho sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 

Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 

And added length to solemn sounds, 
With nature's mother-wit,and arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown : 
He raised a mortal to the skies ; 

She drew au angel down. 



VENI CKEATOR. 

Creator Spirit, by whose aid 
Tho world's foundations first were laid. 
Come, visit every pious mind ; 
Come, pour thy joys on humankind; 



118 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF JiHITISn AXD AMEIUCAX VOETEY. 



From sill aucl sorrow set us free, 
Autl make tby temples worthy tbce. 

O source of uncreated ligbt, 
The Father's promised Paraclete I 
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire, 
Our hearts ivith heavenly love inspire ; 
Come, and thy sacred unction hring, 
To sanctify us while we siug. 

rienteous of grace, descend from high, 
Rich in thy sevenfold energy! 
Thou strength of his Almighty hand. 
Whose power does heaveu and earth command; 
Proceeding Spirit, our defence. 
Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense. 
And crown'st thy gifts with eloquence ! 

Kefiue and purge our earthly parts ; 
But, oh inflame and fire our hearts ! 
Our frailties help, our vice control. 
Submit the senses to the soul ; 
And when rebellious tliey are grown, 
Then lay thine hand, and hold them down. 

Chase from our minds the infernal foe, 
And iieace, the fruit of love, bestow ; 
And, lest our feet should step astray, 
Protect and guide us in the way. 

Make us eternal truths receive, 
And practise all that we believe : 
Give t\s thyself, that we may see 
The Father, and the Sou, by thee. 

Immortal houor, endless fame, 
Attend the Almighty Father's name ! 
The Saviour Son be glorified, 
AVho for lost man's redemption died! 
And equal adoration be, 
Eternal Paraclete, to thee ! 



SHAFTESBURY DELINEATED AS ACHITO- 
PHEL. 

' From "Absalom and Achitophel." 

Of these the false Achitophel was first — ■ 
A name to all succeeding ages curst : 
For close designs and crooked counsels fit. 
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit; 
Restless, unfixed in principles and place ; 
In power uupleased, impatient of disgrace ; 
A fiery soul which, working out its way, 
Fretted the pigmy body to decay. 
And o'er informed its tenement of clay : 
A daring pilot in extremity. 

Pleased with the danger, when the waves weut 
high, 



He sought the storms; but, for a calm unfit. 
Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit. 
Great wits are sui'e to madness near allied, 
And thin partitions do their bounds divide : 
Else, why should he, with wealth and honors blest, 
Refuse his age tlie needful hours of rest? 
Punish a body which he could not please, 
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease ? 
And all to leave what with liis toil he won 
To that unfeathered, two-legged thing, a son! 



BUCKINGHAM DELINEATED AS ZIMRl. 

Fkom "Absalom and Achitophel. " 

Some of their chiefs were princes of the land: 

In the first rank of these did Zimri stand, 

A man so various that he seemed to be 

Not one, but all mankind's epitome; 

Stitf in opinions, always in the wrong, 

Was everything by starts, and uothiug long; 

But, in the course of one revolving moon, 

Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buflbou ; 

Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking. 

Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. 

Blest madman ! who could every hour employ 

With something new to wish or to enjoy. 

Railiug and praising were his usual themes, 

And both, to show his judgment, iu extremes ; 

So over-violent or over-civil. 

That every man with him was god or devil. 

In squandering wealth was his peculiar art, — 

Nothing weut unrewarded but desert ; 

Beggared by fools whom still ho found too late. 

He had his jest, and they had his estate. 

He laughed himself from court, then sought relief 

By forming parties, but conld ne'er be chief; 

For, spite of him, the weight of business fell 

On Absalom and wise Achitophel: — 

Thus, wicked but in will, of means bereft, 

He left not faction, but of that was left. 



ENJOY THE PRESENT. 

TAnAPBRASE FROM HORACE, BooK I,, OdE XXIX. 

Enjoy the present smiling hour, 
And put it out of Fortune's power: 
The tide of business, like the running stream, 
Is sometimes high, and sometimes low. 

And .always in extreme. 
Now with a noiseless, gentle course 



JOUS DRYDE^.—KATHARISE PHILLIPS. 



lit* 



It kcpps williin tliu iiiitliUo bed ; 
Aiiuii it lil'is iiluft the licnd, 
Au<l bears down all before it with impetuous force ; 
And trunks of trees come rolling down ; 
Slioop and their folds together drown ; 
Both house and homestead into seas are borne ; 
And rocks are from their old foundations torn ; 
And woods, made tliiu with winds, their scattered 
honors inonru. 

Happy the man, and hai>py he alone, 

Ho who can call to-day his own ; 

Ho who, secure within, can say. 
To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have lived to-day ! 

Be fair or fonl, or rain or shine ; 
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine ! 

Not heaven itself upon the i>ast has power; 
But what has been, has been, and I have had my 
hour. 

Fortune, that with malicious .joy 

Does man, her slave, oppress, 
Proud of lier ofHce to destroy, 

Is seldom jdeased to bless ; 
■Still various, and inconstant still, 
But with an inclination to bo ill. 

Promotes, degrades, delights in strife. 

And makes a lottery of life. 
I can enjoy lu'r while she's kind ; 
Hut when she dances in the wind. 

And shakes the wings, and will not stay, 

I puff the prostitute aw.ay ! 
The little or tlie much she gave is quietly resigned: 

Content with poverty, my soul I arm: 

And virtue, though in rags, will keep mo warm. 

AVhat is't to me, 
Wlio never sail in her unfaithful sea. 

If storms arise, and clouds grow black. 
If the mast sjdit and threaten wreck? 
Then let the greedy merchant fear 

For his ill-gotten gain. 
And pray to gods that will not hear. 
While the debating winds ,aud billows bear 

His wealth into the main. 
For me, secure from Fortune's blows, 
.Secure of what I cannot lose, 
In my small pinnace I can sail, 

Contenuiing all the blustering roar; 
Ami. running with a merry gale, 
AVith friendly stars my safety seek 
Withni some little winding creek. 

And SCO the storm ashore. 



Katljariiic pijillipj. 

Daughter of Mr. John Fowler, a London merchant, 
Kiitharinc Phillips (1631-1004) showed genuine poetical 
taste and ability. She was a friend of Jeremy Taylor, 
who aililressed to her a "Discourse on Friendship." 
She wrote under the name of Orinda, was praised hy 
Roscommon and Cowley, and had the friendship of many 
of the cniincut authors of lier day. Slic tr.inslated two 
of the tragedies of Corneille, and left a volume of letters, 
wliich was published after her death. Her poems were 
very popular in her lifetime, but their fame has been 
cvansceut. 



TO MES. M. A., AT PARTING. 

I liave examined, and do find. 

Of all that favor me. 
There's none I grieve to leave behind 

But only, only thee ! 
To part with thee I needs must die. 
Could parting separate for aye. 

Our changed and mingled souls are grown 

To such acquaintance now. 
That if each would resume her own, 

(Alas! we know not how!) 
Wo have each other so engrossed 
That each is in the union lost. 

By my own temper I shall guess 

At thy felicity. 
And only like my happiness 

Because it pleaseth thee : 
Our hearts at any time will tell 
If thou or I be sick or well. 

Thy lieger soul in mo shall lie. 

And all my thoughts reveal ; 
Then Ijack again with mine shall fly. 

And thence to me shall steal, — 
Thus still to one another fend : 
Such is the sacred tie of friend ! 



OX CONTROVERSIES IN RELIGION. 

Religion which true policy befriends. 
Designed bj- God to serve man's holiest ends. 
Is by tlio old Deceiver's subtle play 
Made the chief party in its own decay. 
And meets that eagle's destiny who.so breast 
Felt the same shaft which his own feathers drest. 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



(Pavl of Uoscommon. 

AVcntworUi Dillon, Earl of Roscommon (1634-16S5), 
was the nephew of the great Earl of Stratford, after 
whose fall ou the scaffold he was sent to Caen to pursue 
his studies. While there he succeeded to the title of 
Roscommon. Aubrey tells a story that the youth had a 
presentiment of his father's death, and exclaimed, "My 
father is dead!" one day while he was engaged with 
some boys at play, at least a fortnight before the intelli- 
geuce arrived from Ireland. Roscommon's chief work is 
called "An Essay on Translated Verse;" he also trans- 
lated Iloraee's " Art of Poetry," and wrote minor poems. 
Just before he died he uttered two lines of his own para- 
phrase of Thomas de Celano's " Dies Iroe ;" 

"My GiKl, my Father, and my Friend, 
Do not forsake me in my eud !" 

His mortal remains were interred with great pomp in 
Westminster Aljbey. To his honor let it be said that he 
well deserved this tribute from Pope: 

"Unhappy Drytlen '. In all Charles's diiys, 
Roscommon only boasts unspotted lays." 

Living in the foul times of the second Charles, he re- 
fnsed to soil his pages with the ribaldry and grossness 
which the popular taste seemed theu to demand. He 
wrote this couplet: 

"Immodest words admit of no defence, 
For want of decency is want of sense." 

Benjamin Franklin, in no hypercritical spirit, suggested 
not a bad ameudtuent of the couplet, thus : 

"Immodest words admit but this defence: 
Tliat want of decency is want of sense." 



rOETIC INSPIRATION. 

I pity, from my soul, unhappy men 
Compelled l)y want to prostitute their pen ; 
Who mnst, like lawyers, either starve or plead, 
And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead. 

# ff jfr ^ * # 

No poet any pa.ssiou can excite 

But what they feel tran.sport tlieui when they write. 

Have you been led through the Ciima;au cave, 

And heard th' imp.atient maid divinely rave? 

I hear her now; I see her rolling eyes; 

And, panting, "Lo, the god, the god !'' she cries: 

With words not hers, and more than human sound, 

Slie nmkes th' oljedient ghosts peep, trembling, 

through the ground. 
But though we must obey when Heaven commands, 
And man in vain the sacred call withstands, 
Beware what spirit rages in your breast ; 
For ten inspired ten thousand are po.ssest. 



Thus make the proper use of each extreme, 
And write with fury, but correct with phlegm. 
As when the cheerful hours too freely pass, 
And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting glass, 
Your pulse advises, and begins to beat 
Through every swelling vein a loud retreat : 
So when a Muse propitionsly invites. 
Improve her favors, and indulge her llights; 
But when you find that vigorous heat abate, 
Leave ofl", and for another summons wait. 
Before the radiant sun a glimmering lamp, 
Adult'rato metals to the sterling stamp, 
Appear not meaner than mere human lines 
Compared with those whose inspiration shines: 
These nervous, bold ; those languid and remiss ; 
There cold salutes, but hero a lover's kiss. 
Thus have I seen a rapid, headlong tide 
With foaming waves the passive Saono divide. 
Whoso lazy waters without motion lay. 
While he with eager force urged his impetuous way. 



(II)omai5 Hen. 



Ken (1637-1711) was educated at Oxford, became chap- 
lain to Charles II., and was one of the seven bishops sent 
to the Tower for resisting the tyranny of James II. A 
meeker and a braver man than Ken never lived. His 
hymns are still deservedly esteemed. He published an 
epic poem entitled "Edmund," and was the author of 
several approved devotional works. 



FROM THE "EVENING HYMN." 

All praise to thee, my Goil, this night, 
For all the blessiugs of the light! 
Keep me, oh keep me, King of kings. 
Beneath thy own almighty wings ! 

When in the night I sleepless lie. 
My soul with heavenly thoughts supply; 
Let no ill dreams disturb my rest. 
No powers of darkness me molest. 

Dull sleep ! of sense me to deprive ! 
I am bnt half my time alive ; 
Thy faithful lovers, Lord, are grieved' 
To lie so long of thee bereaved. 

Bnt though sleep o'er my frailty reigns, 
Let it not hold me long in chains ; 
And now and then let loose my heart, 
Till it a Hallelujah dart. 



TUOMAS OTIf.ir. 



vn 



Tlio faster sleep the senses liiiids, 
The moio unfettered are onr minds. 
Oil, may my soul, from matter free, 
Tliy loveliness unclouded see ! 

Oil. may my Guardian,' while I sleep, 
Close to my bed his vigils keep ; 
His lovo angelical instil, 
Stop all tlio avenues of ill. 

May be celestial joys rehearse. 
And thought to thought wiili me. converse; 
Or, iu my stead, all tlio night long. 
Sing to my God a grateful song. 

Praise (Jod, from whom all blessings How; 
Praise him all creatures here below ; 
Praise him above, ye heavenly host ; 
Praise Father, Son, and Holy (iliost! 



(11)01111X5 (Dtiuay. 



Tlic son of a clergyman, Otway ll().51-lG8.'j) was born 
in Sussex. Leaving Oxford without a degree, be ap- 
peared on the stage in 10?i as an actor, but failed. He 
then got a eoinniission in the army in Flanders, but was 
cashiered. He wrote for tlie stage, and several of Ids 
pieces were quite successful; but be was continually in 
tlic direst poverty, and lie is alleged by some to have 
died of voraciously eating a piece of bread after a long 
compulsory fast. His fame rests cliielly on bis "Ven- 
ice Preserved," in wliicli there are passages of great dra- 
matic power. He wrote some miscellaneous poems, but 
tlieir merit is very humble. 



FROM "VICNK i; 1'I;FSERVED." 
Act IV., Scene II. 

Picric. What whining nionli art thou ? what holy 
cheat, 
That wonldst encroach upon my credulous cars, 
-Vnd cant'st thus vilely? Hence! I know thco not! 
•luff. Not know mc, Pierre ! 
I'icrrc. No, know tbee not ! What art thou T 
Jaff. .laflicr, thy friend, thy once loved, valued 
friend ! 
Tho' now deservedly scorned and used most hardly. 
I'icnc. Thon Jafher ! thou my once loved, valued 
friend ! 
Ity heavens, thou licst ! The man so called my 
friend 

' Thnl Is, my Qnnrdinu Angel. 



Was generous, honest, faithful, just, and valiant ; 
Noble in mind, and in his person lovely; 
Dear to my eyes, and tender to my heart : 
But thon, a wretehed, ba.se, fal.se, worthless coward, 
Poor even in soul, and loathsome in thy aspect ! 
All eyes must shnu thee, and all hearts detest thee. 
Prithee, avoid, no longer cling thus round me. 
Like something baucfiil, that my nature's chilled at. 

Jaff. I have not wronged thee ; by these tears, 
I have not. 

Pierre. Hast thou not wronged mc f Dar'st tbou 
call thyself Jadier, 
That once loved, valued friend of mine. 
And swear thou hast not wronged nic .' Whence 

these chains f 
Whence the vile death which I may meet this 

moment ? 
Whenco this dishonor hut from lliei', thou false one f 

Jaff. All's true ; yet grant one thing, and I've 
done a.sking. 

Pierre. What's that ? 

Jaff. To take thy life on such conditions 
Tho council have proposed : thou and thy friends 
May yet live long, aud to he better treate<l. 

Pierre. Life! ask my life ! confess! record myself 
A villain for the privilege to breathe, 
And carry up and down this cnrsi?d city 
A discontented and repining spirit. 
Burdensome to itself, a few years hmger; 
To lose it, maybe, at last, in a lewd quarrel 
For some new ftiend, treacherous and false as thou 

art ! 
No, this vile world and I havi^ b)ng been jniigliiig, 
And cannot part on better terms than now, 
When only men like thee are fit to live in't. 

Jaff. By all that's just— 

Pierre. Swear by some other power. 
For thou hast broke that sacred oath already. 

Jaff. Then by that hell I merit, Fll not leave thee 
Till to thyself at least tbon'rt reconciled, 
However thy resentments deal with me. 

I'ierre. Not leave me ! 

Jaff. No; then sbalt not force mo from thee. 
Use me reproachfully and like a slave ; 
Tread on me, biift'et me, heap wrongs on wrongs 
On my poor head: I'll bear it all with patience; 
Shall weary out thy most unfriendly cruelty; 
Lie at thy feet, and kiss them, though they spurn 

mc ; 
Till, wounded by my sufl'erings, thou relent. 
And raise me to thy arms with dear forgiveness. 

Pierre. Art thou not — 

Jaff. Whatf 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Pierre. A traitor? 
Jaff. Yes. 
Pierre. A villaiu ? 
Jaff. Graulcd. 

Pierre. A coward, a most scauilalous coward; 
Spiritless, void of lioiior ; oue who bas sold 
Tby everlasting lauio for shameless life? 

Jaff. All, all, and more, niucU more ; my faults 

are nnniberless. 
Pierre. And wouldst tliou have me live on terms 
like thine ? 
Base as thoii'rt false — 

Jaff. No. 'Tis to me that's granted ; 
The safety of thy life was all I aimed at, 
lu recompense for faith and trust so broUeu. 

Pierre. I seoru it more because preserved by thee ; 
And, as when first my foolish heart took pity 
On thy misfortnno, sought thee in thy miseries, 
Relieved thy wants, and raised tliee from the state 
Of wretchedness in whicli thy fate bad pluuged 

thee. 
To rank thee in my list of noble friends, 
All I received, in surety for thy truth. 
Were unregarded oaths, and this, this dagger, 
Given with a worthless pledge thou since hast 

stolen ; 
So I restore it back to thee again. 
Swearing by all those powers which thou hast vio- 
lated 
Never, from this cursed hour, to hold communion, 
Friendship, or interest with thee, though our years 
Were to exceed those limited the world. 
Take it — farewell — for now I owe thee nothing. 
Jaff. Say thou wilt live, theu. 
Pierre. For my life, dispose it 
Just as thou wilt ; because 'tis what I'm tired with. 
Jaff. O Pierre I 
Pierre. No more. 

Jaff. My eyes won't lose the sight of thee. 
But languish after thine, and ache with gazing. 
Pierre. Leave me : — nay, then, thus I throw thee 
from me ; 
And curses great as is thy falsehood catch thee ! 



became rector of Bemerton, near Salisbury. Ilallam pro- 
nounces lilm "a writer of fine genius, and of a noble ele- 
vation of moral sentiments." 



THE ASPIRATION. 

How long, great God, low long must I 

Immured iu this dark prison lie, 
Where at the gates and avenues of sense 
My soul must watch to have intelligence ; 
Where but faint gleams of thee salute my sight, 
Like doubtful moonshine in a cloudy night ? 

When shall I leave this magic sphere, 

And be all mind, all eye, all ear ? 

How cold this clime ! and yet my sense 
Perceives even here thy influence. 
Even here thy strong magnetic charms I feel. 
And pant and tremble like the amorous steel, — • 
To lower good and beauties less divine 
Sometimes my erroneous needle does decline ; 
But yet (so strong the sympathy) 
It turns, and points again to thee. 

I long to see this excellence, 

Which at such distance strikes my sense. 
My imitatient soul struggles to di.sengage 
Her wings from the coufinement of her cage. 
Wouldst thou, great Love, this prisoner once set free, 
How would she hasten to be linked with thee ! 

She'd for no angel's conduct stay. 

But fly, and love on all the way. 



loljii Morris. 



A learned metaphysician and divine, Norris (16.57-1711) 
was a Platonist, and pynjpatliized with tlie views of Hen- 
ry More. He published a " Philosophical Discourse con- 
cerniug the Natural Immortality of the Soul;" an "Es- 
say toward the Theory of the Ideal or Unintelligible 
World;" "Miscellanies, consisting of Poems, Essays, 
Discourses, and Letters;" and other productions, lie 



SUPERSTITION. 

I care not though it be 

By the preciser sort thought popery; 

We poets can a license show 

For everything we do : 
Hear, then, my little saint, I'll pray to thee. 

If now thy happy mind 

Amid its v.arions joys cau leisure find 

To .attend to anything so low 

As what I say or do, 
Regard, and be what thou wast ever — kind. 

Let not the blessed above 

Engross thee quite, bnt sometimes hither rove. 

Faiu would I thy sweet image see. 

And sit and talk with thee ; 
Nor is it curiosity, but love. 



MATTiiEn rjuun. 



I'jj 



All! wliat (Icli'^Iit 'twould bo 

Wonlilat tliou soinctiiiics by stcillli coiivcisc! with 
me ! 

How kIkiuM I lliiiir swci't ciiniiiiiiiie piizc, 

And (illiii- jipys <li'.>>l>isc ! 
Come, tlioii; 1 in'Vr was yet denied by tlieo. 

I would not long detain 

Thy sonl from bliss, nor koi'p lln'd bore in pain; 

Nor slinnld tliy fi'Ilow-saiiits e'er know 

Of tby escajie below: 
Before tlioii'rt missed tbon slionldst retnrn again. 

Sure, heaven must needs thy love 
As well as other cjualities improve; 

Come, then, and recreate my sight 

With rays of thy ])nre light : 
Twill elieer my eyes more than the lamps above. 

Itnt if fate's so severe 

As to eonline tliee to thy blissful sphere 

(.\nd by tby absence I shall know 

Whether thy stati- be so), 
Live happy, but be mindful of me there. 



illaltljciu {hm. 



Of obscure parentage. Prior (1G04-1721) owed his ad- 
vancement hi life to the friendsliip of the Earl of Dorset, 
througli which he rose to be ambassador to the Court of 
Versailles. Ills best-known poems are his light lyrical 
pieces of the artillelal school. Thackeray says, with some 
exaggeration, that they "are among the easiest, the 
richest, the most charmingly humorous in the English 
language;" but Prior's poetical lame, considerable in 
his day, has waned, and not uiuloservedly. His longest 
work is the serious poem of "Solomon," highly com- 
mended by Wesley and Ilaimah More, but now having 
few readers. His "Henry and Emma," called by Cow- 
per "an enchanting piece," is a paraphrase of "The 
Nut-brown Maidc," and a formidable specimen of "verse 
bewigged" to suit the fidse taste of the day. Compared 
with the original it is like tinsel to rich gold in the ore. 
Like many men of letters of his day, Prior never vent- 
ured on matrimony. 



A SIMILE. 

Di'ar Thomas, didst thou never pop 
Thy head into a tinman's shop 7 
There, Thomas, didst thou never see 
('Tis but by way of simile) 
A squirrel spend Ills little rage, 
In jumping ruuud a rolling cage; 



The cage, as either side turned up, 
Striking a ring of bells at top? — 

Moved in the orb, i)lea.sed with the elinnes. 
The foolish creature thinks lie climbs: 
Hut, here or there, turn wood or wire, 
Ho never gets two inches higher. 

So fares it with those merry blades, 
That frisk it niider I'indns' shades. 
In noble song and lofty odes. 
They tread on stars, and talk with gods; 
Si ill dancing in an airy roiinil, 
Still pleased with their own verses' sound; 
Brought back, how fast soe'er they go. 
Always aspiring, always low. 



TO A CHILD OF (^U'ALITY ITVE YEARS OLD 
(1704), THE AITlKiK TIIKX FdlMV, 

Lords, knights, and srinires, the nnmerons band 
That wear the fair Mi.ss JIary's fetters. 

Were summoned by her high eommand 
To show their passions by their letters. 

My pen among the rest I took. 

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read 

Should dart their kindling lires, and look 
The power they have to be obeyed. 

Nor quality, nor reputation. 

Forbid me yet my flame to tell ; 
Dear five-years-old befriends my passion. 

And I may write till she can spell. 

For while she makes her silk-worms' beds 
With all the tender things I swear, — 

Whilst all the house my pa.ssion reads 
In papers round her baby's hair, — 

She may receive and own my tiame ; 

For, thongb the strictest prndes should know it, 
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, 

And I for an unhappy poet. 

Then, too, alas ! when she shall tear 
The lines some younger rival scuds, 

She'll give mo leave to write, I fear, 
And wo shall still continue friends. 

For, as our different ages move, 

'TIs so ordained (would Fati^ but mend it!) 
That I shall be past making love 

When she begins to comprehend it. 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



3onatl]an 0ttnft. 



Swift's is one of the great names in English litera- 
tiii'e (1607-1745). A Dublin man by birth, his parents 
and his ancestors were English. He was educated at 
Kilkenny School and Trinity College, but did not dis- 
tinguish himself as a student. For some years he lived 
with Sir William Temple, with whom his mother was 
slightly connected. Here he ate the bitter bread of de- 
pendence, and became restive and soured. Having grad- 
uated as M.A. at O.xford, he entered into holy orders, 
and became prebend of Kilroot, in Ireland, at £100 a 
year. Returning to the house of Sir William Temple, 
he became involved in the mysterious love-affair with 
Hester Johnson, daughter of Sir William's house-keeper 
(and believed to be his child), better known by Swift's 
pet name of Stella. Having become Vicar of Laracor, 
Swift settled there, but with the feelings of an exile. 
Miss Johnson resided in tlie neighborhood, and in the 
parsonage during his absence. He is said to have ful- 
tiUcd his clerical offlce in an exemplary manner. 

From 1700 till about 1710 Swift acted witli the AVhig 
party. Dissatisfied with some of their measures, he then 
became an active Tory, and exercised prodigious influ- 
ence as a political pamphleteer. From his new patrons 
he received the deanery of St. Patriclc's, in Dublin. The 
coarseness of his "Tale of a Tub" had cut him off from 
a bishopric. "Swift now, much against his will," says 
Johnson, "commenced Irishman for life." He soon be- 
came an immense favorite with the Irish people. Few 
men have ever exercised over them so formidable a per- 
sonal influence. In 172B he visited England for the pub- 
lication of his "Travels of Gulliver." Here he had en- 
joyed the society of Pope (who was twenty years his 
junior). Gay, Addison, Arbuthnot, and Bolingbroke. He 
returned to Ireland to lay the mortal remains of Stella 
in the grave : she is believed to have been his real though 
unacknowledged wife. Excuse for his conduct is found 
in his anticipations of the insanity which clouded his 
last days. After two years passed in lethargic and hope- 
less idiocy, he died in 1745. His death was mourned by 
an enthusiastic people as a national loss. His fortune 
was bequeathed to found a lunatic asylum in Dublin. 

Swift's fame rests on his clear and powerful prose. 
He is a satirical versifier, but not in the proper accepta- 
tion of the term a poet. Dryden, whose aunt was the 
sister of Swift's grandfather, said to him, " Cousin Swift, 
you will never be a poet." And the prophecy proved 
true, though Swift resented it by a rancorous criticism 
on his illustrious relative. Swift's verses, however, 
made their mark in his day, and they are still interesting 
for the intellcetual vigor, pungency, and wit by whicli 
they are distinguished. 



FROM "THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT."' 

As Roelieroucault liis maxims drew 
From nature, I believe tbera trne : 

' Tliis eiiiirnlnr pncni was proTn])ted by the following masnn 
of UocliefiuirmiU: "D:ins I'ailversile de uos ineillenrs amis, 
nous trouvons tniijnurs qtielcjiie chose que ue nous dc-plait pas." 



They argne uo corrupted mind 
In him: tbe fault is in mankind. 

This maxim more than all the rest 
Is thought too base for bnman breast : 
"In all distresses of our friends, 
W^e first consult our private ends ; 
While nature, kiudly bent to ease us. 
Points out some eirciimstauce to please us." 

If this perhaps your patience move, 
Let reason and experience prove. 

We all behold with envious eyes 
Our equals raised above our size : 
Wlio would not at a crowded show. 
Stand higb bimself, keep others low 1 
I love luy friend as well as you : 
But why should he obstruct my view ? 
Then let me have the higher post ; 
Suppose it but an inch at most. 
If in a battle you should find 
One, whom you love of all mankind. 
Had some heroic action done, 
A champion killed, or trophy won ; 
Rather than thus bo ovcrtopt. 
Would you not wish his laurels croptt 
Dear honest Ned is in the gout, 
Lies racked with pain, and you without : 
How iJatiently you hear him groan ! 
How glad the case is not your own ! 
Wlmt poet would not grieve to see 
His brother write as well as he ? 
But, rather than they should excel, 
Would wish his rivals all in hell? 
Her end, when emulation misses, 
She turns to envy, stings, and hisses: 
The strongest friendship yields to pride, 
Unless the odds be on our side. 
Vain human-kind! fantastic race! 
Thy various follies who can trace ? 

Self-love, ambition, envy, pride. 

Their empire in onr heart divide. 

Give others riches, power, and station, 

'Tis all to mo an usuriiatiou ! 

I have no title to aspire. 

Yet, when yon sink, I seem the higher. 

In Pope I cannot read a line, 

But with a sigh I wish it mine: — 

When be can in one couplet fix 

More sense than I can do in six, 

It gives me such a jealous fit, 

I cry, "Pox take him and his wit!" 

I grieve to be outdone by Gay 

In my own humorous, biting way. 

Arbuthnot is no more my friend. 

Who dares to irony pretend, 



.JoyATHAN SWIFT. 



125 



Wliirh I was born to iiitrodncc, 

Relincil at first, aiul slunvcil its usfe. 

St. Jolin, as well as Piiltciiey, Icnnws 

That I Iiad some ri'imto for prose ; 

And, till tliey drove iiic out of date, 

Could iiianl a minister of state. 

If they have inortitied my pride, 

And made me throw my pen aside, — 

If with SMch talents Heaven liath blessed 'em. 

Have I not rea.son to detest 'em f 

Ti> all my foes, dear Fortune, send 
Thy gifts; but never to my friend: 
I tamely can endure the first ; 
lint this ivith envy ui.ikes me burst. 

Thus much may servo by way of proem ; 
Proceed we therefore witli our poem. 

The time is not remote when I 
Must by the course of nature die ; 
When, I foresee, ray special friends 
AVill try to find their private ends: 
And, though 'tis h:ir(lly understood 
\Vhieh way my death e;iu do them good. 
Vet thus, metliinlis, I hear them speak: 
" See how the Dean begins to break ! 
Poor gentleman, he droops apace! 
You )>laiuly find it in his face. 
That old vertigo in his ]ie:id 
Will never leave him till he's dead. 
Besides, his memory decays : 
He recollects not what ho says; 
He cannot call his friends to mind : 
Forgets the place wliero last lie dined ; 
Plies you with stories o'er and o'er; 
He told them lifly times before. 
Ifow docs he fancy wo can sit 
To hear his out-of-fashion witf 
Hut lie takes up with younger folks. 
Who for his wine will bear his Jokes. 
Faith! ho must make his stories shmter. 
Or change his eonirades once a <iiiarler ; 
In half the time he talks them nuiMd. 
There must another set be found. 

'' For poetry he's past his luiine ; 
He takes an hour to liiid a rhyme: 
His (ire is out, his wit decayed, 
His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. 
Fd Iiavo him throw away his pen ; 
lint there's no talking to some men !" 

Ami then their tenderness apfwars 
I!y iidding largely to my years: 
"He's older than lie would be reckoned. 
And well ivmembers Charles the Second. 
He harilly drinks a pint of wine: 
And that, I doubt, is no good sign. 



His stomach, too, begins to f:iil ; 

Last ye.ar we thought him strong and hale ; 

But now he's quite another thing : 

I wish ho may hold out till spring !" 

They hug themselves, and reason thus : 
"It is not yet so bad with us!" 

In such a case they talk in tropes, 
And by their fears express their hopes. 
Some great misfortune to portend, 
Xo enemy can match a friend. ' 

With all the kindness tlii'y profess. 
The merit of a. lucky guess 
(When daily how-d'ye's come of course ; 
And servants answer, " Worse and worse !") 
Would please them better than to tell 
Tli:it, "God be praised, the Dean is well." 
Then he who prophesied the best, 
Approves his foresight to the rest : 
"You know I always feared the worst, 
And often told you so at first." 
He'd rather choose that I should die 
Thau his predictions prove a lie. 
Not one foretells I shall recover ; 
But all agree to give me over. 

Yet should some neighbor feel .a pain 
Jnst in the parts where I complain, — 
How many a message would he send! 
What hearty prayers that I should mend ! 
Inquire what regimen I kept ; 
What gave me ease, and how I slept f 
And more lament, when I was dead, 
Than all the snivellers round my bed. 

Jly good companions, never fear ; 
For, though you may mistake a year. 
Though your prognostics run too fast, 
Tliev must bo verified at last! 



STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1720. 

All travellers at first incline 

Where'er they see the fairest sign ; 

Will call again, and recommend 

The Angel Inn to every friend. 

What though tho painting grows decayed, 

The house will never lose its trade ; 

Nay, though the treacherous ta])sli'r Tlioni.is 

Hangs a new Angel two doors from us, 

As fine as daubers' hands can make it. 

In hopes that strangers may mistake it, 

We think it both n shamo and sin 

To quit the true old Angel lull. 



126 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Now this is Stella's case in fact, 

An angel's face a little cracked 

(Could poets or could painters fix 

How angels look at thirty-six) : 

This drew us in at first to find 

In such a form an angel's luiud ; 

And every virtue now supplies 

The fainting rays of Stella's eyes. 

See at her levee crowdiug swains, 

Whom Stella freely eutertaius 

With breediug, humor, wit, and seuse, 

And puts them to but small expense ; 

Their miud so plentifully fills. 

And makes such reasonable bills. 

So little gets for ■what she gives. 

We really -wouder how she lives ; 

And, had her stock been less, no doubt 

She must have loug ago ruu out. 

Then who 'can thiuk -we'll quit the place. 

When Doll hangs out a newer face ? 
Or .stop aud light at Chloe's head. 

With scraps aud leavings to be fed? 

Then, Chloe, still go ou to prate 
Of thirty-six and thirty-eight ; 
Pursue your trade of scaudal-pickiug. 
Your hiuts that Stella is no chicken ; 
Your inuueudoes, when you tell us 
That Stella loves to talk with fellows ; 
Aud let me warn you to believe 
A truth, for which your soul should grieve ; 
That, should yon live to see the day 
When Stella's locks must all be gray, 
When age must print a furrowed trace 
Ou every feature of her face ; 
Though you, aud all your senseless tribe, 
Could art, or time, or nature bribe. 
To nuiko you look like Beauty's Queen, 
Aud hold forever at fifteen ; 
No bloom of youth can ever blind 
The cracks aud wrinkles of your miud: 
All nieu of sense will pass your door. 
And crowd to Stella's at fourscore. 



torals" as the finest in the language. Philips won some 
little success as a dramatic writer; but as he advancuil 
in life he seems to have forsalcen the Muses : he became 
a Member of Parliament, and died at the ripe age of sev- 
enty-eight; surpassing, in longevity at least, most con- 
temporary poets. 



Ambrose }JI)ilifis. 



The word namhy-pambtj was introduced into the lan- 
guage through its liaving been first applied to Ambrose 
Philips (lOTl-1749) by Harry Carey, autlior of "Sally in 
our Alley," etc. Pope snatched at the nickname as 
suitL'rt to Philips's "eminence in the infantile style ;" so 
little (lid he appreciate the simplicity and grace of such 
lines as those " To Miss Georgiana Carteret." But Pope 
had been annoyed by Tiekell's praise of Philips's "Pas- 



A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO. 

Blest as the immortal gods is he. 
The j'outh who fondly sits by thee, 
Aud hears aud sees thee all the while 
Softly speak, and sweetly smile. 

'Twas tills deprived mj- soul of rest, 
Aud raised such tumults in my breast; 
For while I gazed, in transport tossed. 
My breath was gone, my voice was lost. 

My bosom glowed ; the subtle flame 
Ran quick through all ray vital frame ; 
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung, 
My ears with hollow murmurs rung. 

In dewy damps my limbs were chilled, 
My blood with gentle horrors tUrilled ; 
My feehle pulse forgot to play, 
I fainted, sunk, aud died away. 



TO MISS GEORGIANA CARTERET. 

Little charm of placid mien, 
Miniature of Beauty's Queen, 
Numbering years, a scanty nine, 
Stealing hearts without design. 
Young inveigler, foud in wiles, 
Prone to mirth, profuse in smiles, 
Yet a novice in disdaiu. 
Pleasure giving without pain. 
Still caressing, still caressed. 
Thou and all thy lovers blessed. 
Never teased, and never teasing, 
Oh forever pleased aud pleasing! 
Hither, British Muse of luiue, 
Hither, all the Grecian Nine, 
With the lovely Graces Three, 
Aud your prounsed nursling see! 
Figure on her waxen mind 
Images of life refined ; 
Make it as a garden gay. 
Every bud of thought display. 
Till, improving year by ye.ar. 
The whole culture shall appear, 



COLLET CIBBER.^rOSEPH ADDISON. 



1-27 



Voice, and spcccli, ami action, rising, 
All to buman sense surprising. 

Is the silken web so tliiu 
As tlio tcxtnro of her skiu ? 
Can tlic lily anil the rose 
Such unsullieil hue disclose f 
Are the violets so l>lne 
As her veins exposed to view f 
Do the stars iu wintry sky 
Twinkle hriglitor than her eye? 
Has the morning lark a throat 
Sounding sweeter than her note? 
Whoe'er knew the like before thee f — 
Tbey who kuew the nymph that boro thee ! 



Collcii cCibb 



cv. 



Thongh rcmeuibeicd as a poet by only one simple lit- 
tle piece, Cibbcr (1071-1757) was made poet-Iaiiroatc in 
1730. He bad considi-Table success both as nn actor and 
a writer of plays, and was severely satirized by Pope iu 
"The Dunclad." C'ibber's "Apology for bis Life" is 
one of tbc most entertaining autobiographies in the lan- 
guage. 



THE BLIND BOY. 

Oh, say, what is that thing called light, 

Which I must ue'er enjoy f 
What are the blessings of the sight f 

Oh, tell your poor blind boy! 

Yon talk of wondrous things you see; 

Y^ou say the sun shines bright ; 
I feel him warm, but how can he, 

Or make it day or night? 

My day or night myself I make, 

Whene'er I sleep or jday ; 
And could I ever keep awake 

With mo 'twere always day. 

With heavy sighs I often hear 
Y'ou mourn my hapless woe ; 

But sure with patience I can bear 
A loss I ue'er can know. 

Then let not what I cannot have 

My cheer of mind destroy : 
Whilst thus I sing, 1 am a king. 

Allbougli a poor blind boy. 



i?05Cpl) CIlllLlisOll. 



Addison (1073-1719), one of tliu most beloved charac- 
ters ill English literature, was the son of a clergyman, 
and was born in Wiltshire. His success at the Universi- 
ty of Oxford, the friendships he bad formed, his geuial 
disposition and general culture, brought him early into 
the sphere of fortunate patronage. In reward for some 
eomplimcntaiy verses on King William, be got, at the age 
of twenty-three, a pension of .£300 a year. This enabled 
him to travel. His epistle from Italy to Lord Halifax 
belongs to the artificial school. The publication of the 
Taller, and its successoi-s, the Spcdalof and the Guardi- 
an, brought out Addison as one of the most graceful of 
English prose writers. He and Steele contributed the 
greater portion of the papers. In 1713, Addison pro- 
duced bis tragedy of "Cato," and added lariicly thereby 
to his literary reputation. In 1710, lie married the Count- 
ess Dowager of Warwick. It was not a happy union. 
In 1717, be was made Secretary of State; but he broke 
down as a public speaker, and the next year retired on 
a pension of £1500 a year. He did not live long to enjoy 
it. The room in which he died at Holland House has a 
large bay-window overlooking the Park in the direction 
of Xotting Hill. He died at the age of forty-eight, leav- 
ing an only child, a daughter, by the countess. Born 
in 171S, this daughter died in 1797. 

The biographer of Andrew Marvell has made it appear 
probable that the well-known lines, "The Spacious Fir- 
mament on High," also "The Lord my pasture shall 
prepare," were by Marvell. In the notice of that poet 
will be found the reasons for crediting them to Addison. 
The internal evidences are decidedly in favor of bis au- 
thorship. They were both inserted in the SiKctalor, with- 
out the name of the author, and have accordingly always 
passed as Addisou'G. 



H Y M X . 



When all thy mercies, O my. God, 

My rising soul surveys. 
Transported with the view I'm lost 

In wonder, love, and jiraise. 

Oh, how sliall words with eipial warmth 

The gratitude declare. 
That glows within my ravished heart ! 

But thou canst read it there. 

Thy providence my life sn.staiued, 
And all my wants redressed. 

When in the silent womb I hiy, 
And hung upon the breast. 

To all my weak complaints and cries. 

Thy mercy lent an ear, 
Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt 

To form themselves in prayer. 



128 



CXCLOP^DIA OF BRITISH AXD AMEBICAN POETBT. 



Uniinmberetl comforts to my soul 

Tliy teuder care bestowed ; 
Before my infant heart couceived 

From whence these comforts Uowed. 

When in the slippery jiatlis of youth, 

With heedless steps I ran, 
Thine arm, unseen, conveyed me safe, 

And led me up to man. 

Through hidden dangers, toils, and death. 

It gently cleared my way. 
And through the pleasing snares of vice, 

More to ho feared than they. 

When worn with sickness, oft hast thou 
With health renewed my face ; 

And wlieu in sins and sorrows sunk, 
Kevived my soul with grace. 

Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss 
Hath made my cup run o'er ; 

And in a kind and faithful friend 
Hath doubled all my store. 

Ten thousand thousand precious gifts 

My daily thanks employ ; 
Nor is the least a cheerful heart, 

That tastes those gifts with joy. 

Through every period of my life 

Thy goodness I'll pursue ; 
And after death, in distant worlds. 

The glorious theme renew. 

When nature fails, and day and night 

Divide thy works no more, 
My over-grateful heart, O Lord, 

Thy mercy shall adore. 

Through all eternity, to thee 

A joyful song I'll raise ; 
For, oh, eternity's too short 

To utter all thy iiraise ! 



ODE FROM THE NINETEENTH PSALM. 

The spacious firmament on high, 
With all the bine ethereal sky. 
And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
Their great Original proclaim. 



The unwearied sun from day to day 
Does his Creat(U''s power display. 
And publishes to every land 
Tile work of an almighty liand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail. 
The moon takes up the wondrous talc. 
And, nightly, to the listening earth 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 
Whilst all the stars that round her burn, 
And all the planets in their turn 
Confirm the tidings as they roll. 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ? 
What though no real voice nor sound 
Amid their radiant orbs be found? 
Ill reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice. 
Forever singing, as they shine, 
'■ The hand that made us is divine." 



PARAPHRASE ON PSALM XXIII. 

The Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
And feed me with a shepherd's care; 
His presence shall my wants supply, 
And guard me with a watchful eye ; 
My noonday walks he shall attend, 
And all my midnight hours defend. 

When in the sultry glebe I faint. 
Or on the thirsty mountains pant, 
To fertile vales and dewy meads. 
My weary wandering steps he leads, 
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, 
Amid the verdant landscape flow. 

Though in the paths of death I tread 
With gloomy horrors overspread. 
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill. 
For thou, O God, art with me still : 
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, 
And guide me through the dreadful shade. 

Though in a bare and rngged way, 
Through devious lonely wilds I stray, 
Thy bounty shall my pains beguile ; 
The bari'en wilderness shall smile, 
With sudden greens and herbage crowned. 
And streams shall murmur all around. 



JOSEPH ADDISOX.— ISAAC JfATTS, D.D. 



121) 



CATO'S SOLILOQiri' OX THE IMMORTALITY 

or Till-; sort. 

It iiiiist lio SI) — riato. tlum ivasoii'st well; 
Else wli('iu(! this jiloasiiig hope, tliis fond ilosii'O, 
Tliis longing al'tor inunortality f 
Or wlionco this secret dread and inward liorror 
Of falling into naught t Why shrinks the soul 
Back on herself and startles at destruction f 
— 'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us, 
'Tis heaven itself that points ont an hereafter, 
And intimates Eternity to man. 
Eternity! — thou pleasing — dreadful thought I 
Through ■what variety of untried being — 
Through what new scenes and changes must we 

pass ! 
The widi', til' nnliounded prospect lies before me; 
Hut shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 
Here will I hold: — If there's a Power above us 
(And that there is all nature cries aloud 
Through all her works), he must delight in Virtue; 
And that which be delights in must be happy : 
Hut — when f — or where f — This world was made for 

C'a-sar. 
I'm weary of conjectures : — This must end them. 

[Laying Ui» hand on hin sword. 
Thus I am doubly armed; my death and life. 
My bane and antidote are both before nie. 
This in a moment brings mo to an end, 
Hut this informs me 1 shall never die. 
The soul, secured in bcr existence, smiles 
\t the drawn dagger and defies its point. 
Tlic stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim wilh age, and nature sink in years; 
Hut thou shall llourish in immortal yonlh, 
ruhurt amid the wars of elements. 
The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds. 



ODE. 



How are thy servants blest, O Lord ! 

How sure is their defence ! 
Eternal wisdom is their guide. 

Their help (Ininipolence. 

In foreign realms, and lands remote, 

.Supported by thy care, 
Tlirougli burning climes I pas.sed unhurt. 

And breathed in tainted air. 

Thy mercy sweetened every toil, 
Made every region please ; 
U 



The hoary Alpine bills it warmed. 
And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas. 

Tliink, oh my .soul, devoutly lliiiik. 

How, with ali'riglited eyes, 
Thou saw'st the wide extended deep 

In all its horrors rise. 

Confusion dwelt in every face, 

And fear in every heart ; 
When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs 

O'ercamo the pilot's art. 

Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord. 

Thy mercy set me free, 
Whilst in the confidence of prayer, 

Jly faith took hold on thee. 

For, though in dreadful whirls wo hung 

High on the broken wave, 
I knew thou wert not slow to li<'ar, 

Xor impotent to save. 

The storm was laid, the winds retired 

Obedient to thy will ; 
The sea, that roared at thy command. 

At thy command was still. 

In midst of dangers, fears, and death. 

Thy goodness I'll adore, 
And praise thee for thy mercies past, 

And humbly hope for uKU'e. 

My life, if thou proserv'st my life. 

Thy sacrifice shall be; 
And death, if death must be my doom, 

Shall join my soul to thee. 



3sciai lUattc, D.D. 

This eminent writir (Iii74-17+S) wns born at Sonlli- 
anipton. His parents were Protestant dissenters, wlio 
liad ButTered severely for their faith during the arhitrnry 
times of Charles IL Watts read Latin at live years of 
age. He was well instructed, and became nu Indepen- 
dent minister; but weak health prevented his devoting 
himself actively to his profession. The lust thirty-six 
years of his long life were spent in Uie house of his 
friend, Sir Thomas Abney. Watts wrote " Divine Songs, 
Attempted in Easy Language for the Use of t'liiUli-tn ;" 
but in his later years he is said to have almndontd the 
e.\trenic Calvinistic views expressed in those onrepopn- 
Inr productions, and to have leimcd almost to Vniversnl- 
ism. His " Logic," and his work on " The Improvcmcut 



130 



CYCLOPMDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



of the Mind," show that he could write Euglish prose 
with clearness and force. He was the author of some 
eight hundred hymns, most of them of little account in 
a literary respect, though in some he manifests genuine 
jjoetic feeling. Many of them still retain their high 
place among devotional effusions. The character of 
Watts was amiable and beautiful to the last. His poem 
of "True Riches" is alone sufficient to justify his claim 
to be ranked among true poets. 



TRUE RICHES. 

I am not concerned to know 
What to-morrow fate will do ; 
'Tis enongh that I can say 
I've possessed myself to-day : 
Then, if, Laply, midnight death 
Seize my flesh, and stop my breath, 
Yet to-morrow I shall he 
Heir of the best part of me. 

Glittering stones and golden things, 
Wealth and honors, that have wings. 
Ever fluttering to be gone, 
I conld never call my own. 
Riches that the world bestows, 
She can take and I can lose ; 
But the treasures that are mine 
Lie afar beyond her line. 
When I view my spacious soul. 
And survey myself a whole. 
And enjoy myself alone, 
I'm a kingdom of my own. 

I've a mighty part within 
That the world hath never seen. 
Rich as Eden's happy ground, 
And with choicer plenty crowned. 
Here on all the shining boughs 
Knowledge fair and useless' grows ; 
On the same young flowery tree 
All the seasons yon may see : 
Notions in the bloom of light 
Just disclosing to the sight ; 
Here are thoughts of larger growth 
Ripening into solid truth; 
Fruits refined of noble taste, — 
Seraphs feed on such repast. 
Here, in green and shady grove. 
Streams of pleasure mix with love ; 
There, beneath the smiling skies, 
Hills of contemplation rise ; 
Now upon some shining top 
Angels light, and call mo np : 

' Apparently implying not to be used in this world. 



I rejoice to raise my feet ; 

Both rejoice when there we meet. 

There are endless beauties more 
Earth hath no resemblance for; 
Nothing like them round the pole; 
Nothing can describe the soul : 
'Tis a region half unknown, 
That has treasures of its own. 
More remote from public view 
Than the bowels of Peru ; 
Broader 'tis and brighter far 
Than the golden Indies are : 
Ships that trace the watery stage 
Cannot coast it in an age ; 
Harts or horses, strong and fleet. 
Had they wings to help their feet, 
Conld not run it half-way o'er 
In ten thousand days and more. 

Yet the silly wandering mind. 
Loath to bo too much confined. 
Roves and takes her daily tours, 
Coasting round the narrow shores — 
Narrow shores of flesh and sense. 
Picking shells and pebbles thence : 
Or she sits at Fancy's door, 
Calliug shapes and shadows to her ; 
Foreign visits still receiving, 
And to herself a stranger living. 
Never, never would she buy 
Indian dust or Tyrian dye, 
Never trade abroad for more, 
If she saw her native shore ; 
If her inward worth were known, 
She might over live alone. 



EARTH AND HEAVEN. 

Hast thou not seen, impatient boy? 

Hast thou not read the solemn truth, 
That gray experience writes for giddy youth 
On every mortal joy, — 
Pleasure must be dashed with pain ? 
And yet with heedless haste 
The thirsty boy repeats the taste. 
Nor hearkens to despair, but tries the bowl again. 
The rills of pleasure never run sincere ; 
Earth has no unpolluted spring: 
From the cursed soil some dangerous taint they boar ; 
So roses grow on thorns, and honey wears a sting. 

In vain we seek a heaven below the sky ; 
The world has false but flattering charms ; 



ISAAC JTATTS, D.D.—JOHX PHILIPS. 



131 



lis distant joys show big in our esteem, 
But lessen still as tbcy draw near tlio eye : 

In our embrace tbo visions die ; 

And wbcn we grasp the airy forms, 
Wo lose tbo pleasing dream. 

Earth, with her scenes of gay delight. 

Is bnt a landscape rndely drawn, 

With glaring colors and false light: 

Distance commends it to the sight, 
For fools to gaze upon ; 

Hut bring tlie nauseous daubing nigh, 
Coarse and confused the hideous figures lie, 
Dissolve the pleasure, and olfcud the eye. 

Look up. my soul, pant tow'rds the eternal 
hills ; 
Those heavens are fairer than they seem : 
There pleasures all sincere glide on in cryst.il 
rills ; 
There not a dreg of guilt defiles, 
Xor grief disturbs the stream : 
That Canaan knows uo noxious thing, 
Xo cur-sM soil, no tainted spring, 
Nor roses grow on thorns, uor honey bears a sting. 



FROM ALL THAT DWICLL. 

From all that dwell beneath the skies 
Lot the Creator's praise arise ; 
Let the Redeemer's name be sung 
Through every land, by every tongue ! 

F.tern.il are thy mercies. Lord ; 

Klernal truth attends thy word; 

Thy praise shall sound from shore to shore, 

Till suns shall rise and set no more. 



.JOY TO THE AVORLD. 

.Toy to the world I the Lord is come! 

Let earth receive her King! 
Let every heart jireparc him room, 

And Heaven and Nature siug. 

.Joy to tlio cartU! the Saviour reigns! 

Let men their songs cmjiloy I 
While lields and woods, rocks, hills, and plains. 

Repeat the sounding joy. 



No more let sins and sorrows grow. 
Nor thorns infest the ground : 

Ho comes to make his blessings How 
Far as the curso is found. 

He rules the world with truth and grace, 
And makes tbo nations prove 

The glories of Lis righteousness 
And ■wonders of his love. 



5ol)u jJljilips. 



Son of an .irclibisUop, John I'liilips (167fi-170S) «ns ■ 
born in Oxfordshire, and educated at Oxford, lie had 
early studied, and attempted to imitate, the style of Mil- 
ton. This led to the production, in 1703, of the bur- 
lesque poem by which he is now rcmenihcrcd — " Tlie 
Splendid Sliilling." It would not have created much 
of a sensation had it been published a century later; but 
in its day it had rare success, and is still road with pleas- 
ure. Philips also wrote a creditable poem on a most 
unpromising theme — "Cider."' He led a blameless life, 
was much esteemed, and died young. 



FROM "THE SPLENDID SHILLING." 

Happy the man who, void of cares and strife. 
In silken or in leathern purse retains 
A splendid shilling. He nor hears with pain 
New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful .ale ; 
I$ut with his frieuds, when nightly mists arise. 
To .luniper's Magpie, or Towu-hall repair-s. 
Where, mindful of the nymph whose wanton eyt; 
Transfixed his soul aud kindled amorous llanu's. 
Chloe, or Phillis, he, each circling glass, 
Wishefh her health, aud joy, and equal love: 
Meanwhile ho smokes, aud laughs at merry tale 
Or pun ambiguous or conundrum quaint. 
But I, whom griping penury surrounds. 
And hunger, sure attendant upon want. 
With scanty offals and small acid tit)' 
(Wretched repast!) my meagre corps sustain j 
Then solitary walk, or doze at homo 
In garret vile, and with a warming i)u(r 
Regale chilled fingers, or from tube as black 
As winter-chimney or well-polished jet 
Exhale ninndungvi.s, ill-perfuming Kcent. 
Not blacker tube, nor of a .shorter size, 
.Smokes Cambro-Britou (verseil in pedigne. 
.'sprung from Cadwallador and .\rthur, kings 
Full famous in romantic tale) when ho 



132 



CYCLOPJIDIA OF BRITIfiH JXD AMERWAX POETRT. 



O'er niauy a craggy hill ami barren cliff, 

Upou a cargo of famed Cestviaii cheese 

High over-shadowing rides, ^vith a design 

To vend his wares or at tii' Arvoniau mart, 

Or Mnridniinm,' or the ancient town 

Ycli'ped Brechinia, or where Vaga's sti'eam 

Encircles Ariconium, frnitfnl soil ! 

Whence flow nectareous wines that well may vie 

With Massio, Setin, or renowned Falern. 

Tims, while my joyless minutes tedious flow, 
With looks demure and silent pace, a dnn, 
Horrible monster! hated by gods and men! 
To my aerial citadel ascends. 
With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, 
With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know 
The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. 
What slionld I do ? or whither tnrn ? Amazed, 
Confonnded, to the dark recess I fly 
Of wood-hole. Straight my bristling hairs erect 
Tlirongh sudden fear; a chilly sAveat bedews 
My sliuddering limbs; and (wonderful to tell!) 
My tongue forgets her faculty of speech. 
So horrible he seems! His faded brow 
Intrenched with many a frown, and conic beard, 
And spreading band admired by modern saints. 
Disastrous acts forebode ; in his right hand 
Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves. 
With characters and figures dire iuserilied, 
Grievous to mortal eyes: ye gods, avert 
Such plagues from righteous men! Behind him 

stalks 
Another monster, not unlike himself. 
Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called 
A Catehpole, whose polluted bands the gods 
With force incredible and magic charms 
First have endued. If ho his ample palm 
Should, haply, on ill-fated shoulder lay 
Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch 
Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont). 
To some enchanted castle is conveyed, 
Where gates impregn.able and coercive chains 
In durance strict detain him, till in form 
Of money Pallas sets the captive free. 

Beware, ye debtors, when ye walk, beware! 
Be circumspect ! Oft with insidious ken 
Tliis caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft 
Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, 
Proinj)t to enchant some inadvertent wretch 
With his unhallowed touch. 



t Maridtinuw, Cacrmarllieii ; Urechhiia, B[qc\iuqq^\ Vaga^ 
tliu Wye; Anconinm, Hereford. 



5[|)oiiici5 |Jtarucll. 



Of English descent, Parnell (1C79-1718) was born in 
Dublin. He became archdeacon of Clogher, and Swift 
got for him the appointment of vicar of Fingl.is. He 
.was tlie friend of Pope, and assisted him hi the transla- 
tion of Homer. "Tlie Hermit" is the poem for whicli 
Parnell still maintains a respectable rank among Eng- 
lish poets ; but there are other poems of considerable 
merit from his pen. Pope collected and published tliem 
all in 1731, dedicating tliem to Robert Harley, Eaii of 
Oxford, who had been Parnell's friend. In bis dedica- 
tion. Pope says : 

"Sticli were the notes thy once-loved poet smr?. 
Till de.ith tintirnely stopped ttis tnneful toii^ne. 
O jtist beheld and lost! admired and mourned! 
Willi softest manners, gentlest arts adorned ! 
I'.Iest in each science, blest in every strani I 
Dear to the Mnse, to llarley dear— in vain !" 

"The Hermit" is a modern version of a tale from the 
"Gesta Romanorum," which was the name of a medie- 
val collection of Latin tales, moralized for the use of 
preachers, each tale bavins; a religious "application" 
fitted to it. 



THE HERMIT. 

Far in a wild unknown to public view. 
From youth to ago a reverend hermit grew ; 
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell. 
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well : 
Remote from man, with God he passed the day.s. 
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. 

A life so sacred, such serene repose, 
Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose : 
That Vice should triumph, Virtue Vice obey — 
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway. 
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast. 
And all the tenor of his soul is lost : 
So when a smooth expanse receives, imprest, . 
Calm Nature's image on its watery breast, 
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, 
And skies beneath with answering colors glow; — 
But if a stone the gentle sea divide. 
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side, 
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun. 
Banks, trees, and skies in thick disorder run ! 

To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight. 
To find if books or swains report it right 
(For yet by swains alone the worlil he knew, 
Whose feet came w.andering o'er the nightly dew) 
He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore. 
And fixed the scallop in bis hat before; 
Then w ith the sun a rising journey went, 
Sedate to think, and watching each event. 



THOMAS PARXELL. 



13J 



Tlio morn was wasted iu the pathless grass, 
Ami long and lonesome was tbo wild to pass ; 
Unt wben the sonthern snn had warmed the day, 
A Yontli came posting o'er a crossing way ; 
His raiment decent, his complexion lair, 
And soft in graeelnl ringlets waved his hair. 
Then near approaching, " Father, hail !" he cried; 
And "Hail, my son!" the reverend sire replied. 
Words followed words, from question answer Uowed, 
.\nd talk of varions Icind deceived the road; 
Till each with other pleased, and loath to part. 
While iu their age they dili'er, join in heart: 
Thus stands au ag(id elm iu ivy bound, 
Thus youthful ivy clasps au elm around. 

Xow sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day 
Came onward, maulled o'er with sober gray; 
Nature iu silence bid the world repose: 
When near the road a stately palace rose. 
There by the moon thio' ranks of trees they pass, 
Whose verdure crowned their sloi)ing sides of grass. 
It chanced (be noble master of the dome 
iStill made his house the waiulering stranger's home. 
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, 
Proved the vaiu flourish of expensive cii.se. 
Tbo pair arrive ; the liveried servants wait ; 
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate. 
The table groans with costly piles of food, 
-Viid all is more than hospitably good; 
Then, led to rest, the day's long toil tbcy drown. 
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. 

At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day 
Along the wide canals tbo zejihyrs play ; 
Fresh o'er the gay ]iarterres the breezes creep. 
And shake the neighboring wood to banish sleep. 
Up ri.so the guests, obedient to the call : 
All early bampiet decked the splendid hall; 
Kicb, luscious wine a golden goblet graced. 
Which the kind master forced the guests to tiiste. 
Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch they go, 
And, but the landlotd, nolle had cause of woe: 
Mis cup was vanisheil, for in secret guise 
rUo younger guest puiloincd tbo glittering prize. 

As one who spies a serpent in his way, 
lilisteiiing and basking in the Rummer ray, 
liisordered, stops to shun the danger near, 
riiin walks witli faintness on, and looks with fear; 
So sei'ini'd the sire when, far upon tho road, 
riio shining spoil bis wily partner showed. 
Ho stojiped with silence, walked with trembling 

heart, 
And iniicli ho wished, but durst not a.sk, to part: 
Miiriiiiiring, ho lifts his eyes, and thinks it haul 
That generous actious meet a biuie reward. 



While thus they pass tho sun his glory shrouds, 
Tho changing skies hang out their sable clouds, 
A sound in air presaged approaching rain. 
And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
Warned by the signs, tho wandering pair re- 
treat, 
To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat. 
'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground, 
And strong, and large, and iiuiraprovcd around ; 
Its owner's temper, timorous and severe. 
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. 

As near the miser's heavy doors they drew. 
Fierce rising gnsts with sudden fury blew ; 
The nimble lightning, mixed with showers, began, 
And o'er their heads loud-rolling thunders ran. 
Hero long they knock, but call or knock in vain. 
Driven by the wind, and battered by the rain. 
At length some pity warmed the master's breast 
('Twas then his threshold lirst received a guest). 
Slow creaking, turns the door with jealous care. 
And half ho welcomes in the shivering p:iir. 
One frugal fagot lights the naked walls, 
And Nature's fervor thro' their limbs recalls ; 
Bread of tho coarsest sort, with eager' wine 
(Each hardly granted), served them both to dine ; 
And when tho tempest first appeared to cease, 
A ready warning bid fhem part iu peace. 

With still remark the pondering hermit viewed 
In one so rich a life so jioor and rude ; 
And why should such (within himself be cried) 
Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside T 
But what new marks of wonder soon took place. 
In every settling feature of his face, 
I When from his vest the young comiianion bore 
That cup the generous landlord owned before. 
And i)aid profusely with tho iirecious bowl 
Tho stinted kindness of this churlish soul ! 

But now the clouds in airy tumult ily ; 
The sun, emerging, opes an azure sky ; 
A fresher greeu tho smelling leaves di.splay, 
And, glittering as they tremble, cheer tho day: 
The weather courts them from tho poor retreat, 
And tho glad master bolts tho wary gate. 

While hence they walk tho pilgrim's bosom 
wrought 
With all tho travail of uncertain thought. 
His partner's acts without their cause appear; 
'Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness here : 
Detesting that, and pitying this, ho goes, 
Lost and confounded with the various shows. 



I ' French, aiV/rc, Bhnrp, add. "Willi pngcrcomponnds wconr 
, palate urge." — Siiakui-kaer, Saiiiic*. MS. 



134 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISB AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Now night's dim shades again involve tUo sky ; j 
Again tbe wanderers want a place to lie ; '• 

Again they searcli, and find a lodging nigh. ) 
The soil improved aronnd, the mansion neat, 
And neither poorly low nor idly great: 
It seemed to speak its master's tnrn of mind, 
Content, and not for praise but virtue kind. 

Hither tlie -walkers tnrn with weary feet, 
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet. 
Their greeting fair, bestowed with modest guise. 
The courteous master hears, and thus replies : 

" Without a vain, without a grudging heart. 
To Him who gives ns all I yield a part ; 
From Hiui you come, for Him accept it here, 
A frank and sober more than costly cheer." 
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread, 
Then talked of virtue till the time of bed, 
When the grave household round his hall rcjiair. 
Warned by a bell, and close the hours with prayer. 

At length the world, renewed by calm repose, 
Was strong for toil ; the dappled morn arose. 
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept 
Near the closed cradle whore an infant slept. 
And writhed his neck : the landlord's little pride 
(Oh sti'ange return !) grew black, and ga.sped, and 

died. 
Horror of horrors ! What! his only son! 
How looked our hermit when the fact was done ! 
Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part 
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his 
heart. 

Confused, and struck with silence at the deed. 
He flies, but, trembling, fails to lly with speed. 
His steps the j'outh pursues. The countrj- lay 
Perplexed with roads : a servant showed the way. 
A river crossed the path ; the passage o'er 
Was nice to find : the servant trod before. 
Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied. 
And deep the waves beneath the bending glide. 
The Youth, who seemed to watch a time to sin, 
Approached the careless guide, and thrust him in : 
Plunging he falls, and, rising, lifts his head ; 
Then, flashing, turns, and sinks among the dead. 

A¥ild, sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes ; 
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, 
" Detested wretch !" — But scarce his speech began 
When the strange partner seemed no longer man. 
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; 
His robe turned white, and flowed upou his feet ; 
Fair rounds of radiant points iuvest his hair; 
Celestial odors breathe through purpled air; 
And wings, whose colors glittered on the day, 
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. 



The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, 
And moves in all the majesty of light. 

Though loud at first the jjilgrim's passion grew. 
Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do ; 
Surjiriso iu secret chains his words susi3end.s. 
And in a calm his settling temper ends. 
But silence here the beauteous angel broke 
(The voice of music ravished as he spoke) : 

"Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice un- 
known, 
In sweet memorial rise before the Throne. 
These charms success in our bright region find. 
And force an angel down to calm thy miud ; 
For this commissioned, I forsook the sky : 
Na.y, cease to kneel — thy fellow-servant I. 

" Then know the truth of government divine. 
And let these scruples bo no longer thine. 

"The Maker justlj' claims that world he made: 
Iu this the Eight of Providence is laid ; 
Its sacred majesty through all dex)ends 
On using second means to work his ends. 
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye. 
The Power exerts his attributes on high, 
Your action uses, nor controls your will. 
And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 

" What strange events can strike with more sur- 
prise 
Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes? 
Yet, tauglit by these, confess the Almighty just, 
And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust ! 

"The great, vaiu man, who fared on costly food, 
Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; 
Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, 
And forced his guests to morning draughts of 

wiae; 
Has with the cnp the graceless custom lost, 
Aud still he welcomes, but with less of cost. 

"The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door 
Ne'er moved iu duty to the wandering poor — 
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
That Heaven can bless if mortals will be kind. 
Conscious of wanting worth, ho views tho bowl, 
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead 
With heaping coals of fire upon its head : 
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, 
Aud, loose from dross, the silver ruus below. 

" Long had our pious friend in virtue trod ; 
But now the child half-weaned his heart from God : 
Child of his age, for him he lived in pain, 
And measured back his steps to earth again. 
To what excesses h,ad his dotage run ! 
But God, to save the father, took tbe son. 



I 



EDWARD TOUXG. 



i:i.-) 



To all but tlico ill tits lio seemed to '^o, 
And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow. 
Tlie poor, fond parent, humbled in the dust, 
Now owns in tears the pnnishment was just. 

"lint how had all his fortnno felt a wrack, 
Had that false servant sjied in safety back! 
This night his treasnred heaps ho meant to steal, 
And what a fund of charily would fail ! 

"Thus Heaven instructs thy mind. This trial 
o'er, 
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." 

On sounding pinions hero the youth withdrew; 
The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew. 
Thus looked Elisha vrheu to mount on high 
His master took the chariot of the sky: 
file (iery pomp, asceinling, left the view; 
The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too. 

The bending hermit hero a prayer begun — 
" Lord ! as in heaven, on earth thy will be done !'' 
Then, gladly turning, .sought his ancient place, 
Aud passed a life of piety and peace. 



Cbiuarii L'oung. 

The author of the " Night Thoughts " (1C.S4-17C5) was 
educated at Oxford, and on finisliing liis education be- 
came, after the example of other poets of the time, an 
assiduous aspirant to court favor. But neither Queen 
Anne nor George I. rewarded liis zeal. The patronage 
of the " notorious Wliarton," n friend of Young's father, 
did the son no honor. He accompanied AVharton to 
Ireland in ITIG. It was during this visit that Young 
took a walk with Dean Swift, wlien the dean, looking 
at tlic witliered upper branches of an elm, remarked, "I 
shall be like that tree ; I shall die at the lop." Personal 
aoquaintanco does not seem to liavc warded off the sat- 
ire of Swilt; for alter Young was appointed a king's 
chaplain in 1727, Swift described the poet as compelled 

to 

"Torture his iiivcnlion 
To flatter knaves, or lose bis pension." 

But it docs not appear that there was any other reward 
than the ehaplaiiK y. When filly ycai-s old. Young mar- 
ried Lady Elizaljelli Lee, a widow. By her he had a son. 
She had two children by her former marriage, and to 
these Young became warndy attached. Both died; and 
when tlie mother also followed, Young composed his 
"Night Thoughts," a work of unquestionable power, 
exhibiting rare skill in giving condensed force to lan- 
guage, and, amidst all Us gloom, occasionally lit up with 
Hashes of genuine poetical feelinir. Sixty years had ele- 
vated and enriched Young's genius, and augmented even 
the brillianey of his fancy. The extremity of age could 
not arrest his indomitable mental activity. He died 
In the midst of his literary employments, at the age of 
eighty-four. 



The fouudatiou of his great poem was family misfort- 
une, colored and exaggerated for cfTeet : — 

" Insatiate archer ! couUl not one safllce ? 
Thy shafts (lew thrice, aud thrice my peace was slain; 
And tlirice, ere thrice yon moon had flllcd her horn." 

This rapid succession of bereavements was a poetical 
license; for in one of the cases there was an iulerval of 
four years, and in another of seven months. 

In spite of the arlilicial, antithetical, and epigrammatic 
style of parts of the great poem — in spite of what llaz- 
lilt calls "its glitter and lolty pretensions" — it still 
leaves for our admiration many noble passages, where 
the poet spe;iks, as from inspiration, of life, death, aud 
immortality. The more carefully it is studied the more 
extraordinary aud weighty with thought will it appear. 
But there is uo plot or progressive interest in the poem. 
Each of the nine books is indei)endent of tlie other. 
Ilazlitt thinks it "has been niueh over-rated from the 
popularity of the suljjeet;" but this we do not admit. 
The wonder is in that mastery of language that could 
lloat a theme so vast and so unpromising. 

Young wrote satires under the title of the " Love of 
Fame, the Universal Passion ;" also plays, among which 
"Busiris" and "The Revenge" had considerable suc- 
cess on the stage. But his "Niglit Thoughts" is a 
work that so towers above them all, as to leave his other 
poems in merited obscurity. The lapse of time has en- 
hanced rather than detracted from the fame of this ex- 
traordinary production. Lord Lytton has left his tes- 
timony to its greatness. 

Young, who had become acquainted with Voltaire 
(thirteen years his junior) during the latter's residence 
in England (about the year 17:28). dedicated some of his 
verses to him in a poem of tifty-four lines, highly com- 
plimentary to the rising French author. 



INVOCATIOX TO THE AUTHOR OF LIGHT. 

Night I. 

Thou who did'st put to flight 

Primeval silence, when the morning stars, 

Exulting, .shouted o'er the rising vale; — 

O thou ! whoso word from solid darkness struck 

That spark, the sun, — strike wisdom from my soul ; 

My soul which Hies to thee, her trust, her treasure, 

As misers to their gold while others rest. 

Throngh this opaque of nature ami of soul. 
This double night, transmit one inlying ray. 
To lighten and to cheer. Oh, lead my mind 
(A mind that fain would wander from its woe). 
Lend it throngh various scones of life and death, 
And from each scene tlio noblest truths inspire. 
Nor less inspire my conduct than my song; 
Teach my best reason, reason ; my best will, 
Teach rectitude; and tix my lirm resolvo 
Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear : 



i:{6 



CYCLOFJLDIA OF BRITISH AKD AMEBICAN FOETRY. 



Nor let the vial of tliy vengeance, iioured 
Ou this devoted head, bo poured in vain. 

The bell strikes one. Wo take no note of time 
But from its loss: to give it theu a tongue 
Is wise iu num. As if an angel spoke, 
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, 
It is the knell of my departed hours. 
Where are they? With the years beyond the llood. 
It is the signal that demands despatch : 
How much is to he done ! My hopes and fears 
Start ni3 alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge 
Look down — ou what 1 A fatliomless abyss ; 
A dread eteruitj' ! how surely mine ! 
And can eternity belong to me, 
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour I 

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 
How complicafe, how wonderful is man ! 
How jiassing wonder He who made him such! 
Who centred in our uuike .such strange extremes! 
From ditferent natures, marvellously mixed, 
Couuectiou exquisite of distant worlds! 
Distiuguished link iu being's endless chain ! 
Midway from nothing to the Deity! 
A beam ethereal, sullied and ab.sorpt ! 
Though sullied and dishonored, still divine ! 
Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! 
An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! 
Helpless immortal ! insect intinito ! 
A worm ! a god ! — I tremble at myself, 
And in myself am lost. At home a stranger, 
Tlionght wanders up and down, surprised, aghast. 
And wondering at her own. How reason reels! 
OU ! what a miracle to man is man ! 
Triumphantly distressed! what joy! what dread! 
Alternately transported and alarmed ! 
What can preserve my life ? or what destroy ? 
An angel's arm can't suatch me from the grave ; 
Legions of angels can't conlino me there. 



THE DEPARTED LIVE. 

NlGUT I. 

E'en silent night proclaims my soul iunuortal : 
E'en silent night proclaims eternal day; 
For hinnau weal heaven husbands all events : 
Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams iu vain. 

Why theu their loss deplore that are not lost ? 
Why wanders wretched tbought their tombs around 
In infidel distress ? Are angels there ? 
Slumbers, raked up in dust, ethereal lire ? 

Tbey live, tliey greatly live — a life on earth 
Unkindled, nncouceived — and from an eye 



Of tenderness let heavenly pity fall 

On me, more justly numbered with the dead. 

This is the desert, this the solitude, 

* K i* jt * * 

The laud of apparitions, empty shades ! 
All, all on earth is shadow, all beyond 
Is substance ; the reverse is folly's creed ! 

-^ # * *f if # 

This is tlie bud of being, tlie dim dawn. 
The twilight of our day, tlio vestibule ; 

X- * *- * Jf # 

Yet man, fool man ! here buries all his thoughts, 

Inters celestial hopes without one sigh. 

Prisoner of earth, aud pent beneath the moon, 

Here pinions .all his wishes ; winged hy heaven 

To fly at infinite — aud reach it there 

Where seraphs gather immortality. 

On life's fair tree, fast by tlie throne of God. 

What golden joys ambrosial clustering glow 

In his full beam, aud ripen for the just, 

Where momentary ages are no more ! 

Where time aud pain and chance and death expire! 

And is it in the fliglit of threescore year.s, 

To push eternity from human thonglit, 

And smother souls immortal in the dust ? — 

A soul immortal, spending all her fires. 
Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness. 
Thrown into tumult, raptured or alarmed, 
At aught this scene can threaten or indulge, 
Resembles ocean into temiiest wrought. 
To waft a feather, or to drown a tly. 



HOMER, MILTON, POPE. 

Nicnx I. 

How often I repeat their rage divine, 

To hdl my griefs, and steal my heart from woe ! 

I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire: 

Dark, though not blind, like thee, MiTouides ! 

Or, Milton ! thee ; ah, could I reach your strain ! 

Or his, who made Ma'onides' our own : 

Man too he sung ; immorlal man I sing ; 

Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds of life ; 

What now but immortality can please! 

Oh, had he pressed the tlieme, pursued the track 

Which opens out of darkness into day ! 

Oh, had he, mounted on his wings of fire, 

Soared where I sink, and sung immortal m.an. 

How had it blest mankind, aud rescued me! 



1 By MiBoiikles is 1116.1111 Homer ; nni by him " who niiirte 
Mffionides cm- own " is nieiUit Pope, who wrote the " Essay ou 
Man," aiul translated Homer. 



HVnAItD TOUXG. 



\n 



WELCOME TO DEATH. 

Night III. 
Then wolcomc, Pi'iilli I lliy ilivadcd Ii;irl>iiigcr8, 
A^o ami di.scasc ; disease, tlioiigb loii^ my f;"'^"''* '• 
That iducks my nerves, those teiidei' stiiiifis of life, 
Wliieli, jdiieUeil a little more, will toll the bell, 
Tliat calls my few friends to my fiiucral ; 
Where feeble Nature drops, perhaps, a tear, 
While Reason and Religion, better taught, 
t'lingratiilato the dead, and crown his tomb 
Willi wreath triiimpbaut. Death is victory! 

Death is the crown of life : 

Were death denied, poor niau would live in vaiu ; 
Were death denied, to live would not be life; 
Were death denied, c'eu fools would wish to die. 
Heath wounds to cure: wo fall, we rise, we reign — 
Spring from onr fetters ; fasten in the skies 
Wliere bluomiug Edeu withers in our sight: 
Death gives us more thuu was in Eden lost ; — 
This king of terrors is the prince of peace. 
Wbeu shall I die to vanity, pain, death ? 
When shall I ilk- f — When shall I live forever? 



I TRUST IX THEE. 
Night IV. 

thou great Arbiter of life and dcatli I 
Nature's immortal, inmiateiial Sun ! 
Whoso all-prulilic beam late called me forth 
I'ronj darkness, teeming darkness, where I lay 
The worm's inferior, and, in rank beneath 
The dust I tread on, high to bear my brow, 
To drink the spirit of the golden day, 

.\nd triumph in existence ; ami could know 
No motive but my bliss; and hast ordained 
.\ rise in blessing! — wilU the patriarch's Joy, 
Thy call I follow to the laud unknown ; 

1 trust in thee, and know in whom I trust: 
Or life or death is e(|nal ; neither weighs: 
All weight is this— O let me live to thee! 



HUJUXITV OV ANGELS. 

NiGUT IV. 

Why doubt we, then, the glorious truth to sing. 

Though yot nnsniig, as deemeil perhaps too bold 1 

Angels are men of a sujierior kind ; 

.\ngels are men in lighter habit clad, 

High o'er celestial mountains winged in llight ; 



And men are angels loaded for an hour. 
Who wade this miry vale, and climb with pain, 
And slippery step, the bottom of the steep. 
Angels their failings, mortals have their praise; 
While here, of corps ethereal, such eiirolli'd. 
.Villi summoned to the glorious standard soon, 
Whicli flames eternal crimson through the skies. 
Xor are onr brothers thoughtless of their kin, 
Yet absent ; but not absent from their love. 
Michael ha-s fought onr battles ; Raphael sung 
Onr triumphs ; Gabriel on our err.iiids tlowii. 
Sent by the Sovereign; and are these, O man! 
Thy friends, thy warm allies ? and thou (shaiue 

burn 
Thy cheek to cinder!) rival to the brute T 



NO ATOM LO.ST. 
NiciiT ^'I. 

The world of matter, with its various forms, 
.\11 dies into new life. Life born from death 
Rolls the vast mass, and shall forever roll. 
No single atom, once iu being, lost, 
With change of counsel charges the Most High. 

What hence infers Lorenzo f Can it be ? 
Matter imniort.tif And shall sjiirit die? 
Above the nobler, shall less noble rise ? 
Iiniierial man be sown in barren ground. 
Less privileged than grain on whirli lie feeds? 



LMMORTALITY DECIPHERS MAN. 

NiOlIT VII. 

If man sleeps on, untaught by what ho sees, 
Can ho jirovo infidel to what he feels f 
He, whose blind thought futurity denies. 
Unconscious bears, Uellerophou, like thee. 
His own iudictnicnt ; he eoudemiis himself. 
Who reads his bosom, reads immortal life. 
Or Nature, there, imposing on her sons, 
Ha.s written fables ; man was made a lie. 

His immortality alone can solve 

The darkest of cnigni!i.«, hiiinan hope, — 

Of all thti darkest, if at death wo die! 

Since virtue's recompense is doubtful here, 
If man dies wholly, well may wo demand, — 

Why whispers Nature lies on virtue's jiart ? 
Or if blind instinct (which assumes the name 



138 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Of sacred conscience) plays the fool in man, 
Why reason made accomplice in the cheat ? 
Why are tlie wisest loudest in her praise ? 
Can man by reason's beam be led astray ? 
Or at his peril imitate his God ? 
Since virtue sometimes ruins us on earth, 
Or both are true, or man survives the grave ! 

^r Tf # * # # 

Dive to tlie bottom of liis soul, the base 
Sustaining all, — what find we? Knowledge, love. 
As light and heat essential to the sun. 
These to the soul. And why, if souls expire ? 

* # * S :f ^ 

This cannot be. To love and know, lu man 
Is boundless appetite and boundless power ; 
And these demonstrate boundless objects too. 

^ * ^ 7f Jf ^ 

'Tis immortality deciphers man, 
And opens all the mysteries of his make : 
Without it, half his instincts are a riddle : 
Without it, all his virtues are a dream. 

Still seems it strauge that thou should'st live 
forever 1 
Is it less strange that thou should'st live at all 1 
This is a miracle ; and that no more. 
Who gave beginning can exclude an end. 
Deny thou art, then doubt if thou shalt be. 
A miracle with miracles inclosed. 
Is man ; and starts his faith at what is strauge ? 
What less than wonders from the wonderful ; 
What less than miracles from God cau flow ? 
Admit a God — that mystery supreme — 
That cause iiueansed ! — all other wonders cease ; 
Nothing is marvellous for him to do : 
Deny hira — all is mystery besides : 
Millions of mysteries ! each darker far 
Than that thy wisdom would unwisely .shun. 
If weak thy faith, why choose the harder side ? 
We nothing know but what is marvellous, — 
Yet what is marvellous we can't believe ! 



EXISTENCE OF GOD. 



Night IX. 



Retire; — the world shut out; — thy thoughts call 

home ; — 
Imagination's airy wiug repress ; — 
Lock up thy senses; — let no passion stir; 
Wake all to reason ; — let her reign alone ; 
Then, in thy soul's deep silence, and the depth 
Of Nature's silence, midnight, thus inquire. 



As I have done ; and shall inquire no more. 
In Nature's channel, thus the questions run : — 
''What am I? and from whence? — I nothing 
know 
But that I am; and, since I am, conclude 
Something eternal : had there e'er been naught. 
Naught still had been ; eternal there must be. — 
But what eternal ? — Why not human race ? 
And Adam's ancestors without an end ? — 
That's hard to be conceived, since every link 
Of that long-chained succession is so frail. 
Cau every part depend, and not the whole? 
Yet grant it true ; new difficulties ri.se ; 
I'm still quite out at sea, nor see the shore. 
Wheuce Earth, aud these bright orbs ? — Eternal too ? 
Grant matter was eternal; still these orbs 
Would want some other father ; — much design 
Is seen in all their motions, all their m.akes ; 
Design implies intelligence and art ; 
That can't bo trom themselves — or nuiu : that art 
Man scarce cau comprehend, could man bestow ? 
And nothing greater yet allowed than man. — 
Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain. 
Shot through vast masses of enormous weight? 
AVho bid brute matter's restive lump assume 
Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly ? 
Has matter innate motion? then each atom. 
Asserting its indisputable right 
To dance, would form a uuiver.se of dust: 
Has matter none? Then wheuce these glorious 

forms 
And boundless flights, from shapeles.s, and reposed? 
Has matter more than motion? has it thought. 
Judgment, aud genius? is it deeply learned 
In mathematics ? Has it framed such laws, 
Which but to guess, a Newton made immortal?^ 
If so, how each sage atom laughs at me. 
Who think a clod inferior to a man! 
If art, to form ; and counsel, to conduct ; 
Aud that with greater far than human skill, 
Resides not in each block; — a Godhead reigns. 
Grant, then, invisible, etern.al Mind; 
That granted, all is solved." 



©corgc ScrK'clci). 



Altlioiigli Berkeley (1084-17.53) is known in poetical 
literature by only a single piece, yet that seems to have 
in it the elements of a persistent vitality. Born in Kil- 
kenny County, Ii-eland, he was educated at Trinity Col- 
lege, Dublin. He was intim.ite with Swift, Pope, Steele, 
and their "set," and Pope assigned to liim "every virtue 
under heaven." By these friends he seems to have been 



GEORGE BERKELEY.— ALLAN RAMSAY. 



\VJ 



sincerely beloved. In 1713, lie published his most im- 
jiorlant pliilosoiiliical work, "Tlirce Diiilogiics between 
llylas and Pliilonous," in wliieli liis system of ideality 
is developed with singular felicity of illustialion, purily 
of style, and subllely of thouf;lit. It gave him a reputa- 
tion that is still upon the increase. In 17^29, he sailed 
for Rhode Island, fixed his residence at Newport, and re- 
mained there, or on the farm of Wliitcliall in the vicini- 
ty, some two years. To the libraries of Harvard and 
Yale he made important donations of books. Returning 
to England, he was appointed, in ITIU, Bishop of Cloyne. 
lu 1752, he removed to Oxford to superintend the educa- 
tion of one of his sous, and died there very suddenly the 
next year while sitting on a eonch in the midst of his 
family, while his wife was reading to him. 



VERSES OX THE PROSPECT OF PL.\XTING 
ARTS AXD LEARNING IX AMERICA. 

Tlio muse, disgusted at an ago and clime, 

Barren of every glorions theme, 
In distant land.s now waits a better time, 

Producing subjects worthy fame. 

In happy climes, where from the genial .sun 
And virgin cartU such scenes ensue. 

The force of ai't by nature seems ontdoue, 
And fancied beauties by the true : 

In liappy climes, the scat of innocence. 
Where nature guides, and virtue rules ; 

Where men sh,all not impose for truth and sense 
The pedantry of courts and schools : 



The rise of empire aiul of arts. 
The good and great inspiring epic rage, 
The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay ; 

Such as she breil when fresh and young. 
When heavenly llani<! did animate her clay, 

liy future poets shall bo sung. 

Westward the course of empire takes its way ; 

The four first acts already past, 
A liflli shall clo.se the drama with the day; 

Time's noblest oOspring is the last. 



^llaii Uainsnij. 

Ramsay (1680-17.58) was a native of Lanarkshire, Scot- 
land. Most of his long life was passed in Edinburgh, 
where be was a wig-maker, and then a book-seller and 



keeper of a circulating library. His pastoral drama, 
"The Gentle Shepherd," first published in 173.5, and 
wriltcu in the strong, broad Doric of North liritain, is 
the finest existing specimen of its class. His songs, too, 
have endeared him to the Scottish heart. 



THE CLOCK AND DIAL. 

Ao day a Clock wad brag a Dial, 
And put his qualities to trial; 
Spake to him thus, " My neighbor, pray, 
Can'st tell me what's the time of day?" 
The Dial said, " I diuna ken."— 
"Alake! what stand ye there for, then ?" — 
"I wait here till the sun shines bright. 
For naught I ken but by his light :" 
"Wait on,"' quoth Clock, " I scorn bis help, 
Baith night and day my lane' I skelp.' 
Wind np my weights but aiies a week. 
Without him I can gang and speak ; 
Nor like an useless sumph I stand. 
But constantly wheel round my hand : 
Hark, hark, I strike just now the hour; 
And I am right, ane — twa — three — four." 

Whilst thus the Clock was bo.nsting loud. 
The bleezing sun brak throw a cloud ; 
The Dial, faithfu' to bis guide. 
Spake truth, and laid the thumper's pride. 
"Ye SCO," said he, "I've dung you fair; 
'Tis four honrs aud three-quarters inair. 
My friend," he added, " count again. 
And learn a wee to bo less vain : 
Ne'er brag of constant clavering cant, 
And that yon answers never want ; 
For you're not ayo to bo believed : 
Wha trusts to you may he deceived. 
Ho coun-scUed to behave like me ; 
For when I diniia clearly see 
I .always own I diun:i ken, 
And that's the way of wisest men." 



FAREWELL TO LOCllABER. 

Farewell to Loehaber ! and farewell, my Jean, 
Where heartsome with thee I h.a'o moiiy day 

been ! 
For Loehaber no more, Loehaber no more, 
We'll maybe return to Loehaber no more! 
These team that I shed they are :i' for iiiy dear, 
Aud no for the d.angers attending on war. 



By rnyeelf. 



' Beat 09 a clock. 



140 



CrCLOV^DIA OF BHITISH and AMERICAN POETRY. 



Though home on rough seas to a far hloody shore, 
Maybe to return to Lochabcr no more. 

Thougli hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, 
They'll ne'er make a temjiest lil<e that in my mind ; 
Though loudest of thunder ou louder ^Yave^ roar, 
That's uaethiug like leaving my love on the shore. 
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair jiaiued ; 
By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained ; 
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, 
And I must deserve it before I can crave. 

Then glory, my Jeauie, maun plead my excuse : 
Since honor commands me, how can I refuse ? 
Without it I ne'er can liave merit for thee. 
And without thy favor I'd better not be. 
I gae, then, my lass, to win honor and fame; 
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, 
I'll luiiig a heart to thee with love running o'ei', 
And then I'll leave llieo and Lochaber no more. 



^nnc, (CountcsG of llVuuljclsca. 

UaHu;hter of Sir Richard Kingsmill, and wife of Hcnc- 
an-c, Earl of Winchelsea, this lady (eirca 16C0-1720) pub- 
lished a volume of poems in 1713, and left many in man- 
uscript. Her fable of "The Atlieist and the Acorn" is 
well known, and is still often reprinted. Wordsworth 
says of her: "She is one of the very few original ob- 
servers of nature who appeared in an artificial age ;" and 
Leigh Hunt says: " Slie deserves to have been gathered 
into collections of English verse far more tlian half of 
our minor poets." She was tlie fi-iend of Pope, wlio ad- 
dressed an "Impromptu" to her, complimentary in its 
character. The following beautiful poem is not a con- 
tinuous extract, but is made up of passages, the omis- 
sions in which are not indicated by the usual marks. 



FEOM "A WI.'^IIED-FOR RETREAT." 

Give me, O indulgent Fate, 

Give me yet, before I die, 

A sweet but absolute retreat, 

'Mong paths so lost, and trees so high. 

That the world may ne'er invade. 

Through such windings aud such .shade, 

My unshaken liberty! 

No Intruders thither come 
Who visit but to be from home, — 
None who their vain moments pass. 
Only studious of their glass ! 



Be no tidings thither brought ! 
But, silent as a midnight thought. 
Where the world may ne'er invade. 
Be those windings and that shade ! 

Courteous Fate ! afford me there 
A table spread without my care 
With Avhat the neighboring fields impart. 
Whose cleanliuess be all its art. — 
Fruits, indeed (would Heaven bestow), 
All that did in Eden grow 
(All but the fovhidtlen tree). 
Would be coveted by me ; — 
Grapes, with juice so crowded up 
As breaking through their native cun; 
Figs (yet growing) candied o'er 
By the sun's attracting power ; 
Cherries, with the downy peach, — 
All within my easy reach ! 
Whilst, creeping near the humble ground. 
Should the strawberry be found. 
Springing wheresoe'cr I strayed 
Through those windings and that shade ! 

Give me there (since Heaven has shown 
It was not good to be alone), 
A partner suited to my iniud, — 
Scditary, pleased, and kind, — 
Who, partially, nniy something see, 
Preferred to all the world, in me ; 
Slighting, by my humble side. 
Fame aud splendor, wealth aud pride. 
Rage, and jealousy, and hate, — 
Transports of man's fallen state 
When by Satan's wiles betrayed, — 
Fly those windings aud that shade ! 

Let me, then, indulgent Fate, 
Let me, still in my retreat. 
From all roving thoughts be freed, 
Or aims that may contention breed ; 
Nor be my endeavors led 
By goods that perish with the dead ! 
Fitly might the life of man 
Be, indeed, esteemed a span. 
If the jiresent moment were 
Of delight his only share ; 
If no other joys he kuew 
Than ^^■hat round about him grew : — 
But, as those who stars would trace 
From a subterranean place. 
Through some engine lift their eyes 
To the outward glorious skies, — 
So tho immortal spirit may, 
When descended to our clay, 



THOMAS TICKELL.—ALEXAyDKn POPE. 



141 



From a riglitly governed frame 

View the height from whence she came ; — 

To her Paradise be canght, 

And things nniittoralilo taught! 

Give me, tlien, in that retreat, — 
Give me, O indnlgont Fate! 
For all pleasnres left behind 
Contemplations of the minth 
Let tlie fair, the gay, the vain 
Courtship and applause obtain ; 
Let the amliilious rule the earth; 
Let the giildy fool have mirth ; 
Givo the epicure his dish. 
Every ouo his several wish ; 
Whilst mij transports I employ 
On that more extensive joy, 
When all heaven shall he surveyed 
From those windings aud that shade! 



CljomaG iiulall. 



Poet anil essayist, TickcU (lOSG-1740) was born near 
Carlisle, anil educated at Oxford. Through the friend- 
ship of Addison, he became Under-secret:iry of St.itc, 
and was afterward appointed Secretary to the Lord-jus- 
tices of Ireland, lie wrote the ballad of "Colin and 
Lucy," one stanza from which is still often quoted: 
*'I hear a voice yon cannot hear. 
Which fiays 1 must not stay; 
I pec a hand yon cannot ^eo, 
Which hcckons mc away." 

lie wrote an allegorical poem, called " Kensington Gar- 
dens," besides many papers in the Spcrtntvr and the 
GuariliiiH. His lines on the death of Addison arc the 
best of his poems, (iray calls him "a poor, short-winded 
imitator of Addison." 



FKOM I.INK.S "TO THE EARL OF WAKWICK," 
ON Tin: DEATH OF .MR. AUDISON. 

If, dunil) too long, the ilmoping JInse hath stayed, 
.\nd left her debt to Addison unpaid, 
Itlamc not her Kilcncc, Warwick, but bemoan, 
.\nd judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own ! 
What mourner ever felt poetic (iresf 
Slow eonit'H the verse that real woe inspires: 
Grief nnalfected suits but ill with art, 
i>r llowiug numbers with a bleeding heart. 
Can I forget the dismal night that gave 
My soul's best part forever to the gr:ive f 
How silent did his old companions tre:id, 
l'>y midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead. 
Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, 
Through rows of warriors ami through walks of 
kings! 



What awe did the slow, solemn knell inspire ; 
The pealing organ and the pausing choir : 
The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid, 
Aud the last words that dust to dust conveyed ! 

Oft let mo range the gloomy aisles alono 
(Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown), 
Along the walls where speaking marbles show 
What worthies form the hallowed mould below ; 
Proud names, who once the reins of eni]iiro held, 
lu arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled ; 
Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood ; 
Stern jjatriots, who for sacred freedom stood ; 
Just men, by whom impartial laws were given: 
And saint.s, who taught and led the way to heaven. 
Ne'er to the.se chambers, where the mighty rest, 
Since their foundation, came a nobler guest ; 
Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed 
A fairer spirit or more welcome sh.tdc. 

In what new region to the just a.ssijjned, 
What new employments please tlie unbodied mind? 
A wingM Virtue, through the ethereal sky. 
From world to world unwearied does he fly f 
Or eurions trace the long, laborious maze 
Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze? 
Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell 
How Jliehacl battled, aud the dragon fell; 
Or. mixed with milder cherubim, to glow 
In hymns of love, not ill essayed below ? 
Or dost thou waru poor mortals left behind, 
A task well suited to thy gentle mind f 
Oh, if sometimes thy spotless form descend. 
To me thy aid, thou gnardian Genius, lend! 
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms ; 
When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, 
In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, 
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart ; 
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, 
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part ns more. 



!^lcjaiibcr yo})c. 



The only child of a London linen-draper, Fopc (1688- 
17-H) was bred a Roman Catholic : hence he was disqual- 
ilicd for entering an English univer.*ity. He spent his 
childhood on the small estate of Binlield, in Windsor 
Forest. A delicate and deformed youth, he received in- 
struction at two Catholic schools; but after twelve years 
of age became his own instructor, anil at fifteen went to 
London alone, to take lessons in Krcncli and Italian. 
He had "lisped in numbers'-' so early that he could not 
recollect the time when he did not write poetry. Before 
he was twelve, the little invalid bad written his "Ode on 



142 



CYCLOPJSDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Solitude." His father encouraged his tastes ; and Pope's 
life as an autlior dates from his sixteenth year, when he 
wrote his "Pastorals," which were praised far beyond 
their deserts. His "Essay on Criticism," published when 
he was twentj'-thrce, is in a higher strain. It has lived, 
and will continue to live, in spite of the depreciatory es- 
timates of Dc Qnincey and Ehvin. 

Otlier worlis followed in quick succession, the prin- 
cipal of which were his "Messiah," "Odes," "Windsor 
Forest," "Essay on Man," "Rape of the Lock," the 
matchless "Eloisa to Abelard," and "The Dunciad." 
His most laborious literary undertaking was his transla- 
tion of Homer. Of this the great scholar, Bentlcy, re- 
marked, in return for a presentation copy, "It is a pret- 
ty poem, Mr. Pope, but you must not call it Homer." 
By this work Pope realized above £5000, part of whicli 
he laid out in the purchase of a house witli five acres at 
Twickenham, to which he removed with his aged motli- 
er in 1T1.5. He was never married. 

Pope is a poet of the intellect rather than of nature 
and the emotions. The nineteenth century raised the 
question, contested by Bowles on the adverse side, and 
Roscoe on the other, whether Pope was a poet at all. 
Wordsworth thought poorly of him ; but Wordsworth 
had no wit, and wit is the predominant element iu Pope. 
" There can be no worse sign for the taste of the times," 
says Byron, "than the depreciation of Pope, the most 
perfect of our poets, and the purest of our moralists.* ** 
In my mind, the highest of all poetry is ethical poetry, 
as the highest of all earthly objects must be moral 
truth." 

"In spite of the influences," says Mr. John Dennis 
(1876), "at work during the earlier years of this century, 
tending to lessen the poetical fame of Pope, his rejiula- 
tion has grown, and is still growing." And Mr. John 
Ruskin, in his leetui-es on Art, after referring to Pope as 
one of the most accomplished artists in literature, adds: 
" Putting Shakspeare aside as rather the world's than 
ours, I hold Pope to tie the most perfect representative 
we have, since Chaucer, of tlie true English mind." 

The "Rape of the Lock" is a brilliant specimen of the 
mock-heroic style. The "Essay on Man" is a singular- 
ly successful effort to weave ethical philosophy into poe- 
try. The argument seems directly intended to meet the 
form of doubt prevalent at the time, and which brought 
into question not only the divine justice, but the divine 
existence. 

Jealousy of his marvellous success involved Pope in a 
literary warfare, the evidences of which are abundantly 
exhibited in Ids later writings. By some critics his 
"Dunciad" is regarded as his greatest ettbrt. Full of 
wit and power as it is, however, it is little read in our 
day. Such a war upon the dunces sliould have been be- 
neath the nature and the dignity of a true poet. Pope 
ought never to have soiled his hands with the dirt of 
Grub Street. 

A constant state of excitement, added to a life of 
ceaseless stndy and contemplation, operating on a fee- 
ble frame, completely exhausted the powers of Pope be- 
fore his fifty-seventh year. He complained of his inabil- 
ity to think; yet a short time before his death he said, 
"I am so certain of the soul's being immortal that I 
seem to feel it iu me, as it were, by intuition." Another 



of his dying remaj-ks was, " There is nothing that is mer- 
itorious but virtue and friendship ; and, indeed, friend- 
ship itself is only a part o[ virtue." 

Pope's example teaches us that the patient labor of 
the artist must supplement genius for the production 
of works of enduring fame. This is a lesson wliich some 
even of the popular poets of our day, who " say wiiat 
the}' feel without considering what is fitting to be said," 
very much need. 



ODE ON SOLITUDE. 

WRITTEN BEFORE POPE W.\S TWELVE YEARS OLD. 

Happy the man ivhose wish and care 

A few paternal acres bound, 
Content to breathe his native air 

Iu his own ground : 

Who.se herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 

Whose flocks supply him with attire ; 
Whoso trees iu summer yield him shade, 
In winter fire : 

Blest, who cliu uncoucern'dly find 

Hours, days, and years slide soft away ; 
Iu health of body, peace of niiud, 
Quiet by day: 

Sound sleep by night, stndy and ease. 

Together mixt, sweet recreation ; 
And iuuoceuce, which most does please. 
With meditation. 

Thus let me live, uu,seen, uuknowu ; 

Thus, unlamented, let me die. 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 



FROM "THE ESSAY ON CRITICISM." 

Part II. 

But most by numbers judge a poet's song; 
Aud smooth or rough with them is right or wrong. 
Iu the bright Muse though thousand charms con- 
spire, 
Her voice is all these tuueful fools admire, 
Who haunt Parnassus bnt to please their ear, 
Not mend their minds ; as some to church repair. 
Not for the doctrine, but the music there. 
These equal syllables alone require. 
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire ; 
While expletives their feeble aid do joiu, 
Aud ten low words oft creep iu ouo dull line : 



ALEXANDER POPE. 



14:; 



While they ring round tbo same unvaried chimes, 
With sure returns of still-expcctcd rhymes. 
Where'er you find tlie. "cooling western breeze," 
In thu next lino it "whispers through tlio trees;" 
If crystal streams "with ])loasing nuirmnrs creep," 
The reader's threatened (not in vain) with "sleep;" 
I'lien at the last and only couplet, fraught 
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, 
A needless Alexandrine ends the song, 
Tliat, like a wouuiled snake, drags its slow length 

alonj;. 
Leave such to tune their own dull rliymes, and 

know 
What's roundly smooth or languisliingly slow, 
And praise the easy vigor of a lino 
Where Deuhani's strength and Waller's sweetness 

.join. 
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance. 
As those move easiest Avho have learned to dance, 
"lis not enough no harshness gives oflence ; 
The sound must seem an echo to the sense : 
.Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, 
.\nd the smooth stream in smoother numl)ers flows; 
Hut when loud surges lash the .sounding shore, 
Tlio hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar : 
When Ajax strives some rock's va.st weight to throw, 
The line too labors, and the words move slow ; 
Xot so when swift Camilla scours the plain, 
Flics o'er th' unbcuding com, and skims along the 

main. 



TO 1I1:X1{Y .ST. .JOHN, LORD BOLINGBROKE. 
From " Tur ICs.sat on Man," Kpistlk I. 

.\wake, my St. Jidin ! leave all meaner things 
To low ambition ami the pride of kings. 
Let US (since life can little more supply 
riian just to look about us and to die) 
lixpatiate free o'er all this scene of man : 
.V mighty maze! but not without a plan; 
.\ wild, where weeds and llowers promiscuous shoot; 
Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. 
Together let us beat this ample field, 
■fry what the open, what thi' covert, yield ; 
The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore. 
Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; 
Kyo Nature's walks, shoot Folly as it flies, 
.\ud catch the manners living a.s they rise; 
l.aiigh whera we must, bo candid where wo can, 
lint vindicate the ways of God to man. 

.Say, tirst, of (Jod above, or man below. 
What can we rca.sou but fmin wli.it we know ? 



Of man, what see we but his station hero 
From which to reason, or to which refer f 
Through worlds unnumbered though the God be 

known, 
'Tis ours to tr.ico him only in our owtii. 
Ho who through vast immensity can pierce, 
Seo worlds on Avorkls compose one universe ; 
Oliserve how system into system runs, 
What other planets circle other suus, 
What varied being peoples every star, — 
Jlay tell why Heaven has made lis as avc are. 
But of this frame, the bearings and the ties, 
The strong connections, nice dcpendencie.s. 
Gradations just, has thy pervading soul 
Looked througli ? or can a part contain tho whole ? 
Is tho great chain that draws all to agree. 
And, drawn, supports, upheld by God or I lice ? 

Presumptuous man! the rea.son wouldst tlioii 
find 
Why formed so weak, so little, and so blind ? 
First, if thou caust, tho harder reason guess 
Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no less. 
Ask of thy mother Earth why oaks are made 
Taller and stronger than tho weeds they shade; 
Or ask of yonder argent fields abovii 
Why Jove's satellites are less than .love. 

Of systems possible, if 'tis coiiiV.st 
That Wi.sdoin Intinite must form the best, 
Where all must full, or not coherent be, 
And all that ri.ses, rise in due degree ; 
Then, iu tho scale of reasoning life, 'tis plain 
There must bo, somewhere, snch a rank as man : 
And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) 
Is only this — If (iod has placed him wrong. 

Kespecting man, whatever wrong we call 
May, must, be right, as relative to all. 
In human works, though labored on with pain, 
A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain ; 
In God's, one single can its end produce. 
Yet serves to second, too, some other use. 
So man, who here seems principal alone. 
Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown. 
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal : 
'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. 

When tho proud steed shall know why man re- 
strains 
His fiery course, or drives him o'er the, plains; 
When the dull ox, why now ho breaks the clod. 
Is now a victim, and now Egypt's god; 
Then shall man's pride and dnlness comprehend 
His actions', passions', being's, use and end ; 
Why doing, siilVering; checked, impelled; and why 
This hour a slave, the next a deity. 



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CYCLOPAEDIA OF BHITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Then say not man's imperfect, Heaven in fault ; 
Say, rather, man's as perfect as he ought ; 
His knowledge measured to his state and place, 
His time a moment, and a point his space. 

See, througl) this air, tliis ocean, and this earth, 
All matter quick, and bursting into birth. 
Above, how high progressive life may go! 
Around, how wide ! how deep exteud below ! 
Vast chain of being, which from God began, — 
Natures ethereal, human, angel, man. 
Beast, bird, fish, insect — what no ej'e can see, 
No glass can reach, — from iufiuite to thee, 
From thee to nothing ! On superior powers 
Were we to press, inferior might on ours ; 
Or in the full creation leave a void, 
Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroyed : 
From Nature's chain whatever link yon strike, 
Tenth or ten-thousandth, breaks the chain alike. 

And if each system in gradation roll, 
Alike essential to the amazing whole. 
The least confusion but in one, not all 
That system only, but tlie whole, must fall. 
Let Earth, uubahmced, from her orbit fly; 
Planets .and snus run lawless through the sky: 
Let ruling angels from their .spheres be hurled, 
Being on heiug wrecked, and world on wcnld ; 
Heaven's whole fouudations to their centre nod, 
And Nature trembles to the throne of God ! 
AH this dread order bre.ik ? For whom? for thee I 
Vile W'orm ! O madness! pride! impiety! 

AVhat if the foot, ordained the dust to tread. 
Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the head ? 
What if the head, the eye, or ear, repined 
To serve mere engines to tlie ruling mind? 
Just as absurd for any part to claim 
To be another in this general frame ; 
Just as absurd to mourn the tasks or pains 
The great directing Mind of all ordains. 

All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul ; 
That, changed through all, and yet in all the same. 
Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame ; 
Warms iu the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees; 
Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent. 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part. 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns 
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : 
To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
He fill.s, he bouuds, connects, and equals all. 



Cease, then, nor order imperfection name ; 
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
ICnow thy own point : this kind, this due degree 
Of blindness, weakness. Heaven bestows on thee. 
Submit ! — in this or any other sphere 
■Secure to be as blest as thon canst bear ; 
Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, 
Or in the natal or the mortal hour. 
All nature is but art unknown to thee ; 
All chance, direction which thou canst not see ; 
All discord, harmony not understood ; 
All partial evil, universal good : 
And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, 
One truth is clear — Whatever is, is eight. 



FROM THE " EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTIWOT." 

"Shut, shnt the door, good Jtdin," fatigued I .said; 
"Tie ni) the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead!" 
The dog-star rages ! nay, 'tis past a doubt, 
All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out : 
Fire in each eye, and papers in each baud. 
They rave, recite, and madden round the land. 
What walls can guard nie, or what shades can 

hide ? 
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they 

glide ; 
By land, by water, they renew the charge; 
They stop the chariot, and they board tlie barge. 
No place is sacred, not the church is free, 
Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me ; 
Then fi'om the Mint' walks forth the uurn of 

rhyme, 
Happy to catch me just at dinner-time. 

Is there a parson, much l)e-muse<l in beer, 
A maudlin poetess, a I'hyming peer, 
A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross. 
Who pens a stanza when he should engross? 
Is there who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls 
With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls? 
All fly to Twickenham, and in humble strain 
Apply to me to keep them mad or vain. 
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, 
Imimtes to me and my damned works the cause : 
Poor Coruus sees his frantic wife elope. 
And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. 

Friend to my life (whicli did not you prolong. 
The world had wanted many .in idle song), 

1 A place to which iusolveut debtors retired to enjoy an il- 
legal protection. 



ALEXANDER POPE. 



145 



What drop or nostrum can this plagiio remove ? 

Or wliicli must end me, a fool's wrath or love f 

A diro dilemma! eitlier way I'm sped; 

If foes, they write; if friends, tliey read me dead. 

Si'ized and tied down to jud<;e, liow wretilied 1! 

Who can't be silent, and who will not lie. 

To laugh were want of goodness and of grace, 

And to bo grave exceeds all power of face. 

I sit with sad civility, I read 

With honest anguish and an aching head. 

And drop at last, but in unwilling ears. 

This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine yeans." 

"Nino years!"' cries he, who, high in Drury Lane, 
Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, 
Khymcs ere he wakes, and prints before term ends. 
Obliged by hunger ami request of friends: 
"The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it; 
I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it."' 

Three things another's modest wishes bound; 
" My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound." 
I'itholeon sends to nic ; "You know his grace: 
I want a iialnin; ask him f<u' a place." 
ritholeon libelled me, — ■"Hut here's a, letter 
Informs you, sir, 'twas when ho knew no better. 
Dare you refuse him, Cnrll invites to dine ? 
He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine!" 

Bless uie! a packet. — " "Tis a stranger sues, 
A virgin tragedy, an orphan mu.se." 
If I dislike it. "Furies, death, and rage;" 
If I approve, "Commend it to the stage." 
There (thank my stars) my whole commission ciuls; 
The players and I are, luckily, no friends. 
Fired that the house reject him, "'Sdcath, I'll print 

it, 
And shame the fools, — your interest, sir, with Lin- 
tot." 
Lintot, dull rogue, will think your price too much : 
"Not, sir, if you revise it and retouch." 
All my demurs but double his attacks : 
At last he whispers, "Do, and we go snacks." 
(JIad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, 
" air, let me .see your works and you no more !'' 

"Why did I write t What sin to mo unknown 
Dipped nu) in ink, — my p:irents", or my own f 
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 
I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came : 
I left no calling for this idle trade. 
No duty broke, no father disobeyed: 
The Muse but served to case some friend, not wife; 
To liel|) me through this long <lisease, my life. 
To second, Arbnthnot ! thy art and care, 
And teach the being you preserved to bear. 
10 



FROM "THE EAPE OF THE LOCK." 
Canto I. 

And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed. 
Each silver va.so in mystic order laid. 
First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores. 
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. 
A heavenly imago in the glass appears. 
To that sho bends, to that her eyes she rears ; 
The inferior priestess, at her altar's side, 
Trembling, begins the sacred rites of Pride. 
L^nnunibered treasures ope at once, and hero 
The various ofl'eriugs of the world appear ; 
From each she nicely culls with curious toil, 
And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. 
This ca.sket India's glowing gems unlocks. 
And all Arabia bre:ithes from yonder box. 
The tortoi.se hero and elephant unite, 
Transformed to coinbs, the speckled and the white. 
Here tiles of pins extend their shining rows, 
Pull's, powders, patches," Bibles, billet-doux. 
Xow awful Beauty puts on all its arms; 
The fair each moment rises in her cliarms, 
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, 
And calls forth all the wonders of her face : 
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise. 
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
The busy .sylphs surround their darling care : 
These set the head, and those divide the hair; 
Some fold the sleeve, while others plait the gown ; 
Aud Betty's praised for labors not her own. 

Canto II. 

Xor with more glories, in the ethereal plain, 
The sun tirst ri.ses o'er the purpled main. 
Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams 
Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames. 
Fair nymphs aud well-dressed youth around her 

shone. 
But every eye was fixed on her alone. 

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore. 
Which .lews might kiss, and inlidcls adore ; 
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, 
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those : 
Favors to none, to all she smiles extends : 
Oft she rejects, but never once oft'emls. 
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike. 
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 
Yet, graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, 
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide: 



> Strnngely nmoDg oar grandmoihere reckoned ornanicDts 
to beniity. 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Jf to her share some female errors fall, 
Look ou her face, and you'll forget them all. 

This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, 
Nourished tno locks, which graceful hung behind 
In equal curls, and well conspired to deck 
With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains. 
And mighty hearts are held in slender chaius. 
With hairy springes we the birds betray, 
Slight lines of hair surprise the finuy prey, 
Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare. 
And beauty draws us with a single hair. 



THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. 

Father of all ! iu every age, 

In every clime, adored, 
By saint, by savage, and by sage, 

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 

Tliou great First Cause, least understood. 

Who all my sense confined 
To know but this, that thou art good. 

And that myself am blind ; 

Yet gave me, in this dark estate. 

To see the good from ill ; 
And, binding nature fast in fate. 

Left free the human will : — 

What conscience dictates to be done. 

Or warns me not to do. 
This teach nio more than hell to shun, 

That more than heaven pursue. 

What blessings thy free bounty gives, 

Let me not cast away ; 
For God is paid when man receives : 

To enjoy is to obey. 

Yet not to earth's contracted span 
Tliy goodness let me bound ; 

Or think thee Lord alone of man, 
Wheu thousand worlds are round. 

Let not this weak, unknowing hand 
Presume thy bolts to throw, 

And deal damnation round tbe laud 
On each I judge thy foe. 

If I am right, thy grace impart 
Still iu the right to stay ; 



If I am wrong, oh, teach my heart 
To find that better way. 

Save me alike from foolish pride. 

Or impious discontent ; 
At anght thy wisdom has denied, 

Or aught thy goodness lent. 

Tench me to feel another's woe ; 

To hide tlie fault I see ; 
That mercy I to others show, 

That mercy show to me. 

Mean though I am, not wholly so. 
Since quickened by thy breath ; 

Oh, lead me, wheresoe'er I go, — 
Through this day's life or death. 

This day, be bread and peace my lot: 

All else beneath the sun 
Thou know'st if best bestowed or not, 

And let thy will be done. 

To thee, whose temple is all space. 
Whose altar, eartb, sea, skies! 

One chorus let all being raise ; 
All nature's incense rise ! 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 

This ode was partly suggested by tlie followiog Hues, written 
by the Empei-or Adrian : 

ADRIANI MORIENTIS—AD ANIMAM SUAM. 

Auiniula, vagnla, blanduhi, 
Hospes Comesqiie Corporis, 
QnjB nnuc abibis in loca, 
Palliduhi, rigidii, uudubt? 
Nee, ut soles, dabis joca. 

Pope's lines were composed at tbe request of Steele, who wrote: 
"This is to desire of you that you wouM please to make an 
ode as of a cheerful, dying spirit ; that is to say, tbe Emperor 
Adrian's animula vagnla put into two or three stanzas for mu- 
sic." Pope replied with the three stanzas below, and says to 
Steele in a letter, "You have it, as Oowley calls it, warm from 
the brain. It came to me the first moment I waked this moi-u- 
ing." 

Vital spark of heavenly flame. 
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame ! 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, Hying, 
Ob the pain, the bliss of dying! 
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife. 
And let me languish into life. 

Hark ! they whisper ; angels say, 
Sister spirit, come away. 



ALEXAXDicn I'ori:. 



117 



Wbat is tbis absorbs mo quite, 
Steals my souses, sliuts my sifibt. 

Drowns my spirits, draws my Urealli? 

Tell me, my soul, cau this bo deulli .' 

The world reoodis ; it disaiipears ; 
Heaven opens on my eyes; my eare 

With sounds seraphic riug : 
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I lly! 
O grave ! where is tby victory t 

O death! where is thy sting f 



FROM "ELOISA TO ABELAKD." 

Ill llieso deep solitudes and awful cells, 
Where heavenly-]iensivc Conleniplation dwells, 
And ever-musing Jlelaiuluily reigns; 
What means this tnniiilt in a vestal's veins? 
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat ! 
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat ? 
Yet, yet I love ! — From Abelard it came, 
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. 

Dear, fatal name! rest ever unrevealed, 
Nor pass these lips in holy silence sealed : 
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, 
Where, mixed with God's, his loved idea lies; 
Oh, write it not, my baud— the name appears 
Already written — wash it out, my tears! 
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays. 
Her heart still dictates, anil her hand obeys. 

Relentless walls! who.se darksome round contains 
Itepentant sighs and voluntary jtains: 
Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have wiu'ii : 
Ye grots and caverns .shagged with horrid tliorn ! 
slniiies! where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep; 
And pitying saints, who.so statues learn to weep! 
Tliougli cold like yon, unmoved and silent grown, 
1 have not yet forgot myself to stone. 
All is not Heaven's while Abelard Ills part, 
.Still rebel Xaturo liolds out half my heart; 
Xor prayers nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain. 
Nor tears, for ages taught to How in vain. 

Soon as tby letters trembling I unclose. 
That well-known name awakens all my woes. 
Ob. name forever sad! forever dear! 
Still breathed iu sighs, still nsbeied with a tear. 
I tremble too, where'er my own I find, 
.Some dire misfortune follows close behind. 
Lino after line my gushing eyes o'erflow, 
I,ed through a sad variety of woe : 
Now warm in love, now withering in my bloom, 
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom ! 



There stern Religion quenched th' unwilling tlame, 
There died tho best of pa.sslons, love and fame. 

Yet write, oh write mo all, that I may join 
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine. 
Nor foes nor Fortune take this power away ; 
And is my Abelard less kind tliaii they ? 
Tears .still are mine, and those I need not spare. 
Love but demands what el.so were shed in prayer; 
No liappier task these faded ej-es pursue ; 
To read and weep is all they now can do. 

Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief; 
Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief. 
Heaven lirst taught letters for some wretch's aid. 
Some banished lover, or some captive maid ; 
They live, they speak, they breathe what love in- 
spires, 
Warm from tho soul, and faithful to its tires, 
The virgin's wish without her fears impart, 
Excuse tlie blush, and pour out all tho heart. 
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to sonl, 
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole. 



CONCLUSION OF THE "ESSAY ON MAN." 

What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy. 

The soul's calm sunshine, and tho heart-felt joy. 

Is Virtue's prize: A better would yon fix f 

Then give Hnmilify a, coach and six, 

.Justice a conqueror's sword, or Truth a gown. 

Or Public Spirit its great cure, a crown. 

Weak, foolish man ! will Heaven reward us there 

Willi tho same trash mad mortals wish for beret 

The boy and man an individual m.akes, 

Y'et sigh'st thon now for apples and for cakes f 

Go, like tho ludiau, in another life 

Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and tliy wife; 

As well as dream such trIHes are assigned, 

As toys and empires, for a godlike mind; 

Rewards, that either would to virtue bring 

No joy, or be destructive of tho thing; 

How oft by these at sixty are undone 

Tho virtues of a saint at tweuty-one! 

To whom can riches give repute, or trust, 

Content, or pleasure, hut tlie good and just? 

Judges and .senates have been bought for gold ; 

Esteem and love were never to bo sohl. 

O fool! to think God hates tho worthy mind, 

The lover and the love of human-kind, 

Whoso life is healthful, and whose conscience 

clear, 
Because be wants a thoii.-aiid pounds a year! 



146 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Honor and shame from no condition rise ; 
Act well your part, there all the honor lies. 
Fortune in men has some small difl'ercuce made, 
One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade ; 
The cobbler aproned, and the parson gowned. 
The friar hooded, and the monarch crowned. 
"What differ more," you cry, '-than crown and 

cowl !" 
I'll tell yon, friend! a wise man and a fool. 
You'll find, if ouce the monarch acts the monh, 
Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk, 
Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow : 
The rest is all but leather or prunella. 

-;f ■* ?* * ^ ,f 

Go! if yonr ancient, but ignoble blood 

Has crept through scoundrels ever since the Flood, 

Go ! and pretend your family is young ; 

Nor own your fathers have been fools so long. 

What can enuoble sots, or slaves, or cowards ? 

Alas 1 uot all the blood of all the Howards. 

Look uext on greatness ; say, where greatness 
lies : 
"Where but among the heroes and the wise?" 
Heroes are much the same, the point's agreed. 
From JIacedonia's madman to the Swede; 
The whole strange purpose of their lives, to find. 
Or make, an enemy of all mankind! 
Not one looks backward, onward still he goes, 
Yet ne'er looks forward further than his nose. 
No less alike the politic and wi.se : 
All sly .slow things, with circumspective eyes : 
Men in their loo.sc, unguarded hours they take; 
Not that themselves are wise, but others weak. 
But grant tliat those can conquer, these can 

cheat : 
'Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great ; 
Who wickedly is wise, or madly bravo. 
Is but the more a fool, the more a knave. 
Who noble ends by noble means obtains, 
Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains, 
Like good Anrelius let him reign, or bleed 
Like Socrates, that man is great indeed. 

What's fame ? a fancied life in other.s' breath, 
A thing beyond us, ev'n before our death. 
Just what you hear, you have ; and what's un- 
known. 
The same, my lord, if Tnlly's, or your own. 
All that we feel of it begins and ends 
In the small circle of our foes or friends ; 
To all beside as much an empty shade 
An Eugene living, as a Cfesar dead ; 
Alike or when, or whei-e they shone, or shine, 
Or on the Rubicon, or on the Rhine. 



A wit's a feather, and a chief a rod : 

An honest man's the noblest work of God. 

Fame but from death a villain's name can save. 

As Justice tears his body from the grave ; 

When Avhat t' oblivion better were resigned. 

Is hung on high to poison half mankind. 

All fame is foreign, but of true desert ; 

riays round the head, but comes not to the heart: 

One self-approving hour whole years outweighs 

Of stupid starers, and of loud hnzzas ; 

And more true joy Marcellus exiled feels. 

Than Ciesar with a senate at his heels. 

In parts superior what advantage lies? 
Tell (for yon can) what is it to be wise? 
'Tis but to know how little can be known ; 
To see all others' faults, and feel our own : 
Condemned in business or in arts to drudge. 
Without a second, or without a judge: 
Truths would yon teach, or save a sinking land ? 
All fear, none aid you, and few understand. 
I'ainl'ul pre-eminence! yourself to view 
Above life's weakness, and its comforts too. 

Bring, then, these blessings to a strict account ; 
Make fair deductions ; see to what they mount : 
How much of other each is sure to cost ; 
How much for other oft is wholly lost ; 
How iuconsisteut greater goods with these ; 
How sometimes life is risked, and always ease : 
Think, and if still the things thy envj' call. 
Say, wouldst thou be the man to whom they fall ? 
To sigh for ribbons, if thou art so silly, 
Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy. 
Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life ? 
Look but on Gripus, or ou Gripus' wife. 
If parts allure thee, think how Bacon sliined. 
The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind : 
Or, ravished with the whistling of a name. 
See Cromwell, danmed to everlasting fame ! 
* jf * « ^ * 

Know, then, this truth (enough for man to know), 
" Virtue alone is happiness below :" 
The only point where human bliss stands still. 
And tastes the good without the fall to ill; 
Where only merit constant pay receives, 
Is blest in what it takes, and what it gives; 
The joy unequalled, if its end it gain. 
And if it lose, attended with no pain ; 
Without satiety, though e'er so blest, 
And but more reli-shed as the more distressed: 
The broadest mirth unfeeling Folly wears. 
Less pleasing far than Virtue's very tears ; 
Good, fnuu each object, from each place, acquired, 
Forever exercised, yet never tired ; 



ALEXANDER POPE. 



140 



Never elated while one man's oppressed ; 
Never dejected while anolhei'a blest ; 
Aud where uo wauts, no wishes can remain, 
Since but to wish more virtue is to gain. 

See the solo bliss Hcavcu could on all bestow ! 
Wliieh who bnt feels can taste, but thinks can 

know 1 
Ytjt poor with fortune, and with learning blind, 
Tho bad must miss, the good, untaught, will (ind ; 
Slave to no sect, who takes uo private road. 
Hut looks through Nature up to Nature's God ; 
Pursues that chain which links th' ininicnso design, 
.loins heaven and earth, and mortal and diviuo; 
Sees that uo being any bliss can know 
Jiut touches some above and some below ; 
Learns from this union of the rising whole 
The first, last purpose of the human soul ; 
And knows Aviiere faith, law, morals all began, 
All end in love of God and love of man. 
For him alone Hope leads from goal to goal, 
Aud opens still, aud opens on his soul ; 
Till, lengthened on to Faith, and uncouQned, 
It pours the bliss that fills up all the mind. 
He sees why Nature plants in man alone 
Hope of known bliss, and faith in bliss unknowu 
(Nature, whose dictates to no other kind 
Are given in vain, but what they seek they find) : 
Wise is her present ; she couuects iu this 
His greatest virtue with his greatest bliss ; 
At once his own liright prospect to be blest. 
And strinigest motive to assist the rest. 

Self-hive, thus pushed to social, to divine. 
Gives thee to make thy neighbor's blessing thine. 
Is this too little for tho boundless heart f 
Extend it, let thy enemies have part, 
firasp the whole worlds of re.ison, life, and sense 
In one close system of beuevolenco ; 
Happier as kinder, iu whate'er degi-ee, 
And height of bliss but height of charity. 

God loves from whole to parts; but human soul 
Must ris<> from indiviilual to the wlioli>. 
.Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake. 
As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake : 
The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds, 
Another still, and still another spreads; 
Friend, parent, neighbor, first it will embrace; 
His country next, and next all hnman race; 
Wiile anil more wide, th' o'erllowings of the mind 
Take every creature in, of every kind; 
Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blest. 
And Heaven beholds its image iu his breast. 

Come, then, my friend I my genius! come along! 
Oh master of tho poet aud tho soug! 



And while the Muse now stoops, or now ascends. 
To man's low jjassions, or their glorious ends. 
Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise, 
To fall with dignity, with temper rise ; 
Formed by thy converse, happily to steer, 
Frorti grave to gay, from lively to severe ; 
Correct with spirit, elofjuent with case; 
Intent to reason, or polite to please. 
Oh, while along the stream of time thy uame 
Expanded flie-s, aud gathers all its fame. 
Say, shall my little bark attendant sail. 
Pursue the triumph, aud partake the gale ? 
When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose, 
Whose sous shall blush their fathers were thy foes, 
Shall then this verso to future age pretend 
Thou wert uiy guide, philosopher, aud friend ? 
That, urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art. 
From sounds to things, from fancy to tho heart I 
For Wit's false minor held up Nature's light : 
Showed erring Pride, WiiATiiVKU l.s, is itiGltT ; 
That reason, passion, answer one great aim ; 
That true self-love and social are tho same ; 
That virtue only makes our bliss below; 
And all our knowledge is ourselves to know ?' 



OF THE CHAK.\CTEES OF WOMEN. 
From "To a Ladv," Epistle II. 

Ah ! friend, to dazzle let the vain design ; 
To raise the thought and touch the heart bo thine ! 
That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the ring 
Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing : 
So, when tho Sun's broad beam has tired the sight. 
All mild ascends the Moon's more sober light, 
Sereno in virgin modesty she shines, 
Aud unobserved the glaring orb declines. 

Oh ! blest with temper, whoso unclouded ray 
Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day : 
She, who can love a sister's charms, or bear 
.Sighs for a daughter with unwouuded ear; 
She who ne'er answers till a husband cools. 
Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules; 
Charras by accepting, by submitting sways, 
Yet has her humor most when she obeys ; 
Lets fops or fortune fly which way they will, 
Disdains all loss of tickets or coddle ; 
Spleen, vapoi's, or small-pox, above them all, 
Aud mistress of herself, though china fall. 

And yet, believe ine, good as well as ill, 
Womau's at best a cuutradictiou still. 



' The " Easny on XIiiu " is hi four epistles, addressed to 
□eiiry SL John, Lord Buliugbroke, 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRlTISn AND AMEIUCAN POETRY. 



Heaven, •when it strives to jioliali all it c.iu 

Its last best work, but forms a softer niau ; 

Picks from each sex, to make the favorite blest, 

Yonr love of pleasure, our desire of rest : 

Blends, in exception to all genex-al rules. 

Your taste of follies with our scorn of fools : 

Reserve with frankness, art with truth allied. 

Courage with softness, modesty with pride ; 

Fixed principles, with fancy ever new; 

Shakes all together, and produces — you. 

Be this a woman's fame ! with this unblest, 

Toasts live a scorn, and qneeus may die a jest. 

This Phoebus juomised (I forget the year) 

When those l)lue eyes iirst opened on tlio sphere ; 

Ascendant Plurbns watched that hour with care. 

Averted half your parents' simple prayer ; 

And gave you beauty, but denied the pelf 

That buys your sex a tyrant o'er itself. 

The generous god, who gold and wit refines. 

And ripens spirits as he ripens mines, 

Kept dross for duchesses, the world shall know it, 

To you gave sense, good humor, and a poet. 



PROLOGUE TO MR. ADDISON'S TRAGEDY OF 
" CATO." 

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art. 
To raise the genius, and to mend tho heart ; 
To make mankind in conscions virtue bold, 
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold; 
For this the Tragic Mnse first trod tho stage. 
Commanding tears to stream through every age ; 
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, 
And foes to Virtue wondered Iiow they wept. 
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move 
The hero's glory, or tho virgin's love; 
In pitying Love, we but onr weakness show, 
And wild Ambition well deserves its woe. 
Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause, 
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws : 
He bids your breasts witli ancient ardor rise, 
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. 
Virtue confessed in human shape he draws, 
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was : 
No common object to your sight disjilays. 
But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys, 
A bra^'e man struggling in the storms of fate. 
And greatly falling with a falling state. 
While Cato gives his little senate laws, 
What bosom beats not in his couutry's cause ? 
Who sees him act, but envies every deed ? 
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? 



Even when proud Ciesar midst triumphal cars. 
The spoils of nations, and the i)omp of wars. 
Ignobly vain, and impotently great. 
Showed Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state ; 
As her dead father's reverend image past. 
The pomp was darkened, and the day o'ercast ; 
The triumph ceased, tears gushed from every eye; 
Tlie world's great victor i)assed unheeded by ; . 
Her last good man dejected Rome adored. 
And honored Ctesar's less than Cato's sword. 

Britons, attend : be worth like this ajiproved, 
Aud show you have the virtue to he moved. 
With honest scorn the first famed Cato viewed 
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued; 
Your scene precai'iously subsists too long 
On French translation, and Italian song. 
Dare to have sense yourselves ; assert the stage. 
Be justly warmed with your own native rage ; 
Such plays alone should win a British ear, 
As Cato's self had not disdained to hear. 



THE MOON. 



Translated from Hosier. 



As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night. 
O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light, 
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, 
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene, 
Around her throne the vivid iilanets roll, 
Aud stars nnnumhered gild the glowing pole; 
O'er the dark trees a j-ellower verdure shed. 
And tip with silver every monutain's head; 
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, 
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies : 
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight, 
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light. 



FROM "THE TEMPLE OF FAME." 

Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favors call: 

She comes unlooked for, if she comes at all. 

But if the purchase cost so dear a price 

As soothing folly, or exalting vice,^ 

Oh ! if the muse must flatter lawless sway. 

And follow still where fortune leads the way, — 

Or if no basis bear my rising name, 

But the fallen ruins of another's fame, — 

Then teach me. Heaven ! to scorn the guilty liays, 

Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise ; 

Unblemished let me live, or die unknown : 

Oh, grant an honest fame, or grant me none ! 



ALEXANDER POPE.— JOHN GAT. 



151 



LIN'ES ON ADDISON. 

When Pope first came to town, i» boy nnd little known, he 
courlec] Addison, nnd wrote an ndmirnble prolo;;ne for his 
"Ciito." Oradnnlly a coolness aro*ie between them. Some 
think th.at Addison wns jcnions of Pope's hrightenini; fame; 
bnt it Is fnr more prob.ible thiit Pope, whoj^e peevish temper 
was the .nccompnninieut of n sickly frame, took oflcncc at fan- 
cied wronfirs. His "portrait" of Addison ninst, therefore, be 
regarded more as a literary cariosity than as an honest like- 
ness. The lines are from the "Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot." 

Peace to all such ! but were tbero one whoso fires 
True j;eiiius kindles, and fair fame inspires; 
Blest with each talcut aud each art to please, 
Aud boru to write, couverso, and live with ease : 
.Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, 
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, 
View Iilni Avilh scornful, yet with jealous eyes, 
Aud hate for arts that caused himself to rise; 
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, 
And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer ; 
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike ; 
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; 
Alike rcserv<'d to blame or to commend, 
A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend ; 
Dreading even fools, by flatterers besieged. 
And so obliging that ho ne'er obliged ; 
Like Cato, give his little seuato laws. 
And sit attentive to his own applause; 
Whilst wits and Templars every sentence raise, 
And wonder with a foolish face of praise : — 
Who but must laugh if such a one there be ? 
Who would not weep if Atticus were hot 



CONCLUSION OF "THE DUNCIAD." 

She comes ! she conies ! the sable throne behold 

Of Night primeval, and of Chaos old ! 

Before her Fancy's gilded clouds decay, 

Aiul all its varying rainbows die away. 

Wit shoots in vain its momentary fire.s. 

The meteor drops, and in a ilash expires. 

As one by cue, at dread Medea's strain. 

The sickening stars fade off the ethereal plain; 

As Argus' eye, by Hermes' wand ojiprest. 

Closed one by one to everlasting rest; 

Thus, at her felt approach, and secret might. 

Art after art goes out, and all is night. 

See skulking Truth, to her old cavern (led, 

Mountains of casuistry heaped o'er her head! 

riiilosophy, that leaned on Heaven before. 

Shrinks to her second canse, and is no more. 

Physic of metaphyaic begs defence, 

And nietaphysic calls for aid on sense ! 



See mystery to mathematics fly! 

In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. 

Religion, blushing, veils her sacred fires. 

And unawares morality expires. 

Nor public llamc, nor private dares to shine: 

Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine ! 

Lo! thy dread empire. Chaos ! is restored; 

Light dies before thy nncreating word; 

Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall. 

And universal darkness buries all. 



3o\)\\ Q?an. 



A Devonshire man of good family (1G88- 17.33), Gny 
was first apprenticed to a silk-mercer in London. Not 
liking the business, he got liis discharge, and commenced 
writing poetry. As donicstle secretary to the Duchess 
ofMonmoutli, he found leisure for literary pursuits. He 
is best known by his "Fables" aud his "Beggars' Ope- 
ra." This last, produced in 1727, was the great success 
of his life. Swift had suggested to Gay the idea of a 
Newgate pastoral. Tliis gave rise to the "Beggars' Op- 
era." It was ofl'ercd to Gibber, at Drury Lane, and re- 
fused. It was then offered to Rich, at Covent Garden, 
and accepted. Its success gave rise to the saying that 
" it made Rich gay, and Gay rich." It was composed in 
ridicule of the Italian Opera, and had such a run that it 
drove the Italians away for tluit season. 

As a poet. Gay hardly rises above mediociity ; but he 
was the inventor of the Euglisli Ballad Opera, and some 
of his "Fables" are excellent, haviug a philosophical 
aud moral purpose far beyond that of ordinary verses. 
His "Trivia, or The Art of Walking the Streets of Lon- 
don," has some witty lines; and his "Epistle to Pope 
on the Comidction of his Translation of Homer's Iliad " 
is still worth reading as a rapid sketch of Pojie's fash- 
ionable acquaintances. The fable of "The Hare and 
Many Friends" is supposed to be drawn from Gay's 
own experience ; for he sought court favor, and was 
grievously disappointed. 

Pope says that G.iy "was a natural man, without de- 
sign, who spoke what he thought, and just as he thought 
it." Swift was deeply attached to liini, and Pope char- 
acterizes Gay as 

"Of manners gentle, of affections mild ; 
In wit, a man ; simplicity, a child." 

Gay's mortal remains were interred in Westminster Ab- 
bey, where a handsome monument was erected to his 
memory by the Duke and Duchess of Qucensberry. 



SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK- 
EYED SUSAN. 

All in the Downs the fleet was moored, 
The stieatners waving in the wind, 

When black-eyed Susan c;imo aboard. 
"Oh, where .shall I inv true love find T 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true. 

If my sweet William sails among the crew." 

William, wlio, high iipou the yard. 

Rocked with the billow to and fro. 
Soon as her well-known voice he heard, 
lie sighed, and cast his eyes below : 
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing 

hands, 
And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. 

So the sweet lark, high poised in air. 

Shuts close his pinions to his breast, 
If chance his mate's shrill call he hear. 
And drops at once into her nest : 
The noblest captain in the British fleet 
Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet. 

"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear! 

My vows shall ever true remain ; 
Let mo kiss oft' that falling tear ; 
We only part to meet again. 
Change as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall be 
The faithful compass that still points to thee. 

"Believe not what the landsmen say, 

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind. 
They'll tell thee sailors, w hen away, 
lu every jiort a mistress find : 
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so. 
For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. 

"If to fair India's coast we sail, 

Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright ; 
Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, 
Thy skin is ivory so white. 
Thus every beauteous object that I view 
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 

"Though battle call mo from thy arms, 

Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 
Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, 
William shall to his dear return. 
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, 
Lest precious tears should droj) from Susan's 
eye." 

The boatswain gave the dreadful word, 

The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 
No longer must she stay aboard : 

They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. 
Her lessening boat unwilling rows to laud : 
"Adieu!" she cries, and waved her lily hand. 



THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS. 

From the " Fables." 

Friendship, like love, is but a name. 
Unless to one you stint the flame. 
The child whom many fathers share 
Hath seldom known a father's care. 
'Tis thus in friendship : who depend 
On many, rarely find a friend. 

A Hare, who, in a civil way. 
Complied with everything, like Gay, 
Was known by all the bestial train 
Who haunt the wood or graze the plain : 
Her care was never to ofieiid. 
And every creature was her friend. 

As forth she went at early dawn, 
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn. 
Behind she hears the hunter's cries. 
And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies. 
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath ; 
She hears the near advance of death ; 
She doubles, to mislead the hound. 
And measures back her mazy round ; 
Till, fainting in the public way. 
Half dead with fear she gasping lay. 

What transport in her bosom grew 
Wheu first the Horse appeared in view ! 

" Let me," says she, " your back ascend. 
And owe my safety to a friend. 
You know my feet betray my flight : 
To fi-ieudship every burden's light." 

The Horse replied, "Poor honest Puss, 
It grieves my heart to see thee thus : 
Be comforted ; relief is near. 
For all your friends are in the rear." 

She next the stately Bull implored. 
And thus replied the mighty lord : 
"Since every beast alive can tell 
That I sincerely wish you well, 
I may without offence jtretend 
To take the freedom of a friend. 
Love calls me hence ; a favorite cow 
Expects me near yon barley-mow ; 
And when a lady's in the case. 
You know, all other things give place. 
To leave you thus might seem unkind. 
But, see, the Goat is just behind." 

The Goat remarked her pulse was high, ' 
Her languid head, her heavy eye : 
" My back," says he, " may do you harm ; 
The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." 

The Sheep was feeble, and complained 
His sides a load of wool sustained ; 



JOHN BY ROM. 



15:? 



Said ho was slow ; coiili'ssocl his IVare, 
F<ir hounds cat shoop as well as hares. 

She now the livttiuj; Calf addressed 
To save from death a friend distressed. 

" Shall I," says he, " of tender age, 
In this important caro engage f 
Older and abler passed you by. 
How strong arc those ! how weak am I ! 
Should I prcsnmo to bear yon heme, 
Those frieuds of niino may take olVenco. 
Excuse me, then ; yon know my heart ; 
lint dearest friends, alas ! mnst part. 
How shall we all lament ! Adieu ; 
For, see, the hounds are jn.st in view." 



i?ol)ii Cnrom. 



Byrom (ICOl-lTfti) was born nc:u- M.mchestcr, was ed- 
ncated at Caniljridjje, nud sliidied niuilicine in Fiance. 
His poetical reputation seems to have oilginated in a 
pastoral poem, '• My time, O ye SIuscs, was happily 
spent," publislicd in the Sjxctator, October Gtli, 1714, 
and mildly commended by Addison. In reading it now, 
one is surprised to tiud that so slender a literary invest- 
ment could have produced such returns of fame. By- 
rom, however, proved liimself capable of l)ettcr things. 
He invented a system of stenography, in teaching which 
be had Gibbon and Horace Walpolc for pupils. By the 
death of a brother he at last became heir to the family 
property in Manchester, where he lived much respected. 
His poems were included by Chalmers in his edition of 
tlie poets. 



MY 8PIKIT LONGETH FOR THEE. 

My spirit longeth for thee 
Within my troubled breast, 

Altliongli I be uuwmthy 
Of so divine a Gnest. 

Of so divine a Guest 
Unworthy though I he, 

Vet has my heart no rest 
Unless it come from thee. 

Unless it come from thee, 
In vain I look aronud ; 

In all that I can see 
No rest is to be found. 

No rest is to ho found 
liut in thy blcssC'il love : 

Oh, let my wish ho crowned, 
And send it i'rtnu above! 



THE AN'.SWER. 

Cheer up, desponding sonl ! 

Tliy longing plea.sed I see ; 
'Tis part of that great whole 

Wherewith I longed for thee. 

Wlierewilh I longed for thee, 
-Vnd left my Father's throne. 

From death to set thee free, 
To elaini thee for my own. 

To claim thee for my own 
I snll'ered on the cross. 

Oh, were my love but known, 
No soul could fear its loss. 

No sonl could fear its loss. 
But, filled with love divine, 

Would die on its own cross, 
And rise forever mine. 



AN EPIGRAM ON THE BLESSEDNESS OF 
DIVINE LOVE. 

Faith, Hope, and Love were questioned what they 

thought 
Of future glory, which Religion t.auglit. 
Now, Faith believed it firmly to Ix; true, 
And Hope expected so to find it too; 
Lovo answered, smiling, with a conscions glow, 
Believe ? expect ? I know it to he so. 



.ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE VOUTIT. 

St. Philip Neri, as old readings say. 

Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day ; 

And, being ever courteously inclined 

To give young folks .-i sober turn of mind. 

Ho fell into discourse with him ; and thus 

The dialogue they held comes down to ns. . 

SI. I'. j\'. Tell mo what brings you, gentle youth, 
to Rome ? 

Toiith. To make myself a scholar, sir, I conic. 

St. P. X. And when you are one, what do you in- 
tend f 

YoHlli. To he a priest, I hope, .sir, in the end. 

St. I'. X. Suppose it so, what have you next in 
view f 

Toiilh. That I may get to be a eaiion too. 

SI. l: X Well, and liow then f 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Youth. Wliy, thou, for augbt I kuow, 

I may 1)0 made a bishop. 

St. P. N. Be it so, — 

What theu ? 

Youth. Why, cardinal's a high degree, 

And yet my lot it possibly may he. 

St. P. N. Suppose it was, — what then ? 

Youth. Why, who can say 

But I've a chance of being pope one day? 

St. P. N. Well, having worn the mitre, and red hat. 
And triple crown, what follows after that ? 

Youth. Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure, 
Upon this earth that wishing can procure : 
When I've enjoyed a dignity so high 
As long as God shall please, then I must die. 

St. P. N. What ! must you die, fond youth ? and 
at the best 
But wish, and hope, and mai/he all the rest? 
Take my advice — whatever may betide, 
For that which must he, first of all provide ; 
Then think of that which may be ; and, indeed. 
When well prepared, who knows what may succeed ? 
Who knows hut you may then be, as you hope, 
Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope ? 



Spleen" is : " Orandnm est ut sit mens Sana in corpore 
sano." It is "inscribed by the author to his particular 
friend, Mr. C. J." 



JACOBITE TOAST. 

God bless the king ! — I mean the Faith's Defender ; 
God bless (no harm in blessing) the Pretender! 
But who Pretender is, or who is king, — 
God bless us all! — that's quite another thing. 



fllattljcw (f5rcen. 

Little is known of Matthew Green (1696-1737) except 
that he had bis education among the Dissenters, and his 
employment in the London Custom-house. He is re- 
membered by his poem of "The Spleen;" less known 
than it deserves to be to modern readers. It contains 
less than nine hundred lines ; is full of happy expres- 
sions, and evidently tlie production of a profound, origi- 
nal, and independent thinker. Gray recognized bis gen- 
ius, and said of bim, " Even bis wood-notes often break 
out into strains of real poetry and music." Aikin, while 
naively objecting to Green's speculating " very freely on 
religioiis topics," remarks : "It is further attested tluit 
he was a man of great probity and sweetness of dispo- 
sition, and that bis conversation abounded witli wit, but 
of the most inoffensive kind. * * * He passed his life in 
celibacy. Few poems will bear more repeated perusals 
than bis ; and with those who can fully enter into them, 
tbcy do not fiiil to become favorites." The motto on 
the title-page of the original edition (1737) of "The 



FROM "THE SPLEEN." 

This motley piece to yon I send. 
Who always were a faithful friend; 
Who, if disiiutes should happen hence, 
Can best explain the author's sense ; 
And, anxious for the public weal. 
Do, what I sing, so often feel. 

The want of method pray excuse, 
Allowing for a vapored Muse ; 
Nor to a narrow path confined, 
Hedge in by rules a roving mind. 

The child is genuine, you may traca 
Throughout the sire's transmitted face. 
Nothing is stolen : my Muse, though mean, 
Draws from the spring she finds within ; 
Nor vainly buys what Gildou' sells. 
Poetic buckets for dry wells. 

Such thoughts as love the gloom of night, 
I close examine by the light ; 
For who, though bribed by gain to lie. 
Dare sunbeam-written truths deny. 
And execute plain commou-.seuse. 
On faith's mere hearsay evidence ? 

That superstition mayn't create, 
And club its ills with those of fate, 
I many a notion take to task, 
Slado dreadful by its visor-mask ; 
Thus scruple, spasm of the mind, 
Is cured, and certainty I find ; 
Since optic reason shows me plain, 
1 dreaded spectres of the brain ; 
And legendary fears are gone. 
Though in tenacious childhood sown. 
Thus in opinions I commence 
Freeholder, in the proper sense, 
And neither suit nor service do, 
Nor homage to pretenders show. 
Who boast themselves, by spurious roll, 
Lords of the manor of the soul ; 
Preferring sense, from chin that's hare. 
To nonsense throned in whiskered liair. 

" To thee, Creator uncreate, 
O Entium Ens! divinely great!" 



' Gildon published (1718) a " Complete Art of Poetry." He 
seems to have hcen a literavy pielender. Macaulay speaks uf 
iiim ns " n bad writer," and as pestering the puhlic " witli dog- 
gerel aud slander." Pope meutious him contemptuously. 



MATTHEW GREEX.— ROBERT BLAIR. 



155 



Holil, Miiso, nor inciting piDious try, 

Nor near tlio liliiziiig glory ll.v ; 

Nor, straining, break tliy leoblo Ijow, 

I'nfoatliorcd aiTows far to tlirow 

Through fieUls unknown, nor madly stray. 

Where uo ideas mark the way. 

With tender eyes, and colors faint, 

And treuiljliug hanils forbear to jiaiut. 

Who, features veiled by light, can hit? 

Where can, what has uo outliue, sit? 

My soul, the vain attempt forego. 

Thyself, Iho fitter subject, know. 

Ho wisely shuns the bold extreme. 

Who soon lays by the uuequal theme, 

Nor runs, with Wisdom's sirens caught, 

On quicksands swallowing shipwrecked thought; 

But, conscious of his distance, gives 

Muto praise, and humble negatives. 

lu One, no object of our sight, 
Immutable, and i]]linile, 
Who can't he cruel, or unjust. 
Calm and resigned, I fix my trust ; 
To Him mj' past and present state 
I owe, and must my future fate. 
A stranger into life I'm come. 
Dying may be our going home: 
Transported hero by angry fate, 
The convicts of a prior state. 

Hence, I uo anxious thoughts bestow 
On matters I can never know: 
Through life's foul way, like vagrant, passed, 
He'll grant .1 settlement at last ; 
Aud with sweet ease the wearied crown. 
By leave to lay his being down. 
If doomed to dance the eternal round 
Of life, no sooner lost but found, 
And dissolution, soon to come. 
Like sponge, wipes out life's present sura. 
But can't our slate of power bereave 
An endless series to receive ; 
Then, if hard dealt with hero by fate. 
We balance in another state. 
And consciousness must go along. 
And sign th' aci|uittauce for the wrong. 
He for his creatures must decree 
More happiness than misery, 
Or be snpposr'd to create. 
Curious to try, what 'tis to hate: 
Aud do an act, wliieli rage infers, 
'Cause lameness halt.s, or bliiulncss errs. 

Thus, thus I steer my bark, .ind sail 
On even keel with gentle gale ; 



At helm I make my reason sit. 

My crew of passions all submit. 

If dark aud blustering prove some nights. 

Philosophy puts forth her lights; 

Experience holds the cautious glass, 

To shun the breakers as I pass, 

Aud frequent throws the wary lead. 

To see what dangers may be hid : 

Aud oneo in seven years I'm seen 

At Bath or Tuubridgo, to careen. 

Though pleased to see the dolphins play, 

I mind my compass and my way : 

With store suflicient for relief. 

And wisely still prepared to reef; 

Nor wanting the dispersive bowl 

Of cloudy weather in the soul, 

I make (may Heaven propitious send 

Such wind and weather to the end!). 

Neither becalmed nor overblown, 

Life's voyage to the world unknown. 



Uobcvt Clair. 

Blair (169S)-1746) was a native of Edinburgh, became a 
clergyman, and wrote a poem, vigorous in execution, en- 
titled "The Grave." In it lie ignores the poetical as- 
pects of his subject, and revels much in the physiciilly 
repulsive. It was written before the " Ni^:ht Thoughts " 
of Young, but has little of tlic condensed force of that 
remarkable work. There arc, however, oecnsional flashes 
of poetic fire in Blair's sombre production. He died 
young, of a fever, leaving a numerous family. 



DEATH OF THE STRONG MAN. 

Strength, too! thou surly, and less gentle boast 
Of those that laugh loud at the village ring! 
A fit of common sickness pulls thee down 
With greater ease than o'er fhoJi didst the stripling 
That rashly dared thee to the uuequal fight. 
What groan was that I heard f Deep groan, indeed. 
With anguish heavy-laden I Let me trace it. 
From yonder bed it comes, where the strong man. 
By stronger ami belabored, gasps for breath 
Like a hard-hunted bea.st. How his great heart 
Beats thick ! his roomy chest by far too scant 
To give the lungs full play! What now avail 
The strong -built, sinewy limbs and well -.spri;id 

shoulders ? 
See how he tugs for life, and lays about him, 
M.id with his pain ! Eager he catches hold 
Of what comes next to hand, and grasps it hard. 



156 



CYCLOFJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN FOETBY. 



Just liUe a creature drowning. Hideons sight ! 
Oil, liow bis eyes stand out, and stare full ghastly ! 
While the distemper's rank and deadly venom 
Shoots like a burning arrow 'cross bis bowels, 
And drinks bis marrow up. — Heard you that groan ? 
It was bis last. — See how the great Goliath, 
Jnst like a child that brawled itself to rest, 
Lies still. 

^noniimous anli illisfcllancous. 



THE LINCOLXSHIRE POACHER. 

Tliis old ditty was a fuvtu-ite with George IV., aud it is said 
tll:\t he uftcn liad it siiitij for liis ninusement by a band of 
Beiksliire jiIonL^hiueii. It was once a favorite also at Ameri- 
can theatres, wliere lleniy J. Finn, the estimable comedian, 
used to sing it witli great applause. 

When I was bound apprentice 

lu famous Lincolnsheer, 
Full well I served my master 

For more than seven year, 
Till I took up with poaching, 

As you shall rinickly hear : — 
Oh ! 'tis my delight of a shiny night 

In the season of the year. 

As mo and my comrades 

Were setting of a snare, 
'Twas then we seed the game-keeper — 

For him we did not care; 
For we can wrestle aud tight, my boys, 

And jump o'er everywhere : — 
Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night 

In the season of the year. 

As mo and my comrades 

Were setting four or five. 
And taking on bira up again, 

We caught the hare alive ; 
We caught the hare alive, my hoys. 

And through the woods did steer : — 
Oh ! 'tis my delight of a shiny night 

In the season of the year. 

Bad liii'k to every magistrate 

Tliut, lives in Liucolnsheer ; 
Success to every poacher 

That wants to sell a hare ; 
Bad luck to every game-keeper 

Tliat will not sell his deer : — 
Ob ! 'tis my deliglit of a sbiuy night 

In tlie season of the year. 



THE TWA CORBIES. 

This weird little ballad belongs, probably, to the nth centu- 
ry. It was communicated to Scott by Mr. Sharpe, as written 
down from tradition by a lad}'. 

As I was walking all alano 

I heard twa corbies' making a mane ; 

The tane unto the t'other say, 

" Where sail we gang and dine to-day ?" 

" In hehint you auld faiP dyke 
I wot there lies a new-slain knight ; 
And naebody kens that he lies there 
But bis hawk, his hound, aud lady fair. 

'•His hound is to the hunting gane, 
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, 
His lady's ta'en another mate ; 
So we may mak' our dinner sweet. 

"Ye'U sit on bis white hanse'-bane, 
Aud I'll pick out bis bonny blue een : 
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair 
We'll tlieek* our nest when it grows bare. 

"Mony a one for him makes mane. 
But uane sail ken where he is gane ; 
O'er his white banes, when they are bare, 
The wind sail blaw for evermair." 



STILL WATER. 

TuoJIAS D'Urfev (1038-1723). 

Damon, let a friend advise you, 
Follow Clores, though she flies you, 
Though her tongue your suit is slighting, 
Her kind eyes you'll hud inviting : 
Women's rage, like shallow water, 
Does but show their hurtless nature ; 
When the stream seems rough and frowning. 
There is then least fear of drowning. 

Let me tell the adventurous stranger, 
In our calmness lies our danger ; 
Like a river's silent running, 
Stillness shows our depth and cunning : 
She that rails you into trembling. 
Only shows her fine dissembling ; 
But the fawner to abuse you 
Thinks you fools, and so will use you. 



' Crows. 



2 Turf. 



3 Neck. 



* Thatch. 



AXOXFMOUS JXD MISCELLANEOVS POEMS. 



157 



Tin: JOVIAL BEGGARS. 

From " Pl.iyfiinrs Clinice Aires," ICCO. The authorship is 
attributed to liichard liromc. 

Tliore was a jovial bejigtir. 

He Iiail a wooden log, 
Lame from bis cradle, 
And foret^d for to beg. 
And a-lioggiiig wo will go, will go, will go, 
And a-begging wo will go. 

A bag for his oatmeal. 

Another for bis salt. 
Anil a pair of crutches 

To show that ho can halt. 

And .vbeggiiig we will go, etc. 

t 

A bag for his wheat, 

.Vnother for bis rye, 
And a little bottle by his side 
To drink when he's a-dry. 
And a-begging we will go, etc. 



For my old master Wild, 
Ho taught me to beg 

When I was but a child. 
And a-begging wo will go, etc. 

I begged for my master, 

And got him store of pelf, 
But Jove now be praisdd, 
I'm begging for myself. 
And a-begging wo will go, etc. 

Ill a hollow tree 

I live, atid pay no rent — 
rrovidence provides for me, 
And I am well content. 
Atid a-begging wo will go, etc. 

Of all the occupations 

A beggar's life's the best, 
For, wlieuever he's a- weary, 
He can lay hitu down to rest. 
And a-begging we will go, etc. 

I fear no plots against me, 

I live in open cell: 
Then who would bo a king. 

When beggars live so well? 
Atid .i-begging we will go, etc. 



HARVEST-HOME SONG. 
Anonymocs. 

Our oats they aro bowed, and our barley's reaped ; 
Our hay is mowed, and our hovels heaped : 

Harvest-home ! harvest-home ! 
We'll merrily roar out our harvest-home ! 

Harvest-home ! harvest-home ! 
We'll merrily roar out our barvest-bome ! 

Wo cheated the parson, we'll cheat him again ; 
For why should the vicar have one in ten ? 

One in ten ! one in ten ! 
For why should the viear have otui in ten ? 
For why should the vicar have one in ten f 
For staying while tlinner is cold and hot. 
And pudding and dumpling's burnt to pot: 

littrnt to pot! burnt to pot! 
The imdding and dumpling's biiiiit to jiot ! 

liurnt to pot! burnt to \m\\ 

We'll diiiik oft' the liquor while we can stand. 
And hey for the honor of old F.iiglaiid I 

Old Kngland! old Kngland ! 
And hey for the honor of old Englaiul ! 

Old Knglatid ! old Kngland ! 



TIME'S CURE. 
Anommogs. 

Mourn, O rejoicing heart ! 

The hours are flyiug! 
Each one some treasuic takes, 
Each one some blossom breaks, 

Ami leaves it dying. 
The chill, dark night draws near; 
The sun will soon depart, 

Ami leave thee sighing. 
Then mourn, rejoi<'ing heart! 

The hours aro Hying ! 

Rejoice, O grieving heart ! 

The hours fly fast! 
With each some sorrow dies. 
With each some shadow flies, 

Fiilil, at last, 
The red dawn in the east 
Bids weary night depart, 

And pain is p.ast ! 
Rejoice, then, grieving heart ! 

The hours llv fast! 



158 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



"WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN?" 

Anonymous. 

When shall we tbree meet again ? 
When shall we tbree meet again ? 
Oft shall glowing hope expire, 
Oft shall wearied love retire, 
Oft shall death and sorrow reign, 
Ere we three shall meet again. 

Though in distant lands we sigh, 
Parched beneath a hostile slcy ; 
Thongh the deep between us rolls, 
Friendship shall unite our souls : 
Still in Fancy's rich domain 
Oft shall we three meet again. 

When the dreams of life are fled, 
When its wasted lamps are dead ; 
When in cold oblivion's shade 
Beauty, power, and fame are laid ; 
Where immortal spirits reign, 
There shall wc three meet again ! 



GOD SAVE THE KING. 

ANONraous. 

The English Nntioiial Authem (which, as a merely literary 
]irodnctioii, is hardly entilled to uotice) is generally attributed 
to Dr. John tUilI (1.51II), professor of music, Oxford, and cliain- 
ber musician to .James I. Henry Carey's soji claimed it as the 
production of his father, whose granddauj^hter, Alice Carey, 
was ilie mother of Edmund Kean, the actor. The germ of tlie 
song is to be found in one which Sir Peter Carew used to sing 
before Ileiiry VIII.— Chorus : 

"And I said, Good Lord, defend 
England with thy most holy hand. 
And save noble Henry our King." 

God save our gracious King ! 
Long live our noble King ! 

God save the King ! 
Send him victorious, 
Happy and glorious, 
Long to reign over us! 

God save the Kiug ! 

O Lord our God, arise ! 
Scatter bis enemies. 

And make them fall ; 
Confound their politics. 
Frustrate their knavish tricks : 
On him onr hopes we &x — 

God save ns all ! 



Thy choicest gifts in store 
On him be pleased to pour; 

Long may he reign ! 
May he defend our laws, 
And ever give us cause 
To sing with heart and voice, 

God save the King ! 



WINIFREDA. 

This poem Bishop Percy believes to have been first printed 
in a volume of "Miscellaneous Poems by Different Ilands,'' by 
David Le\vis (1T"2G). The authorship, though much discussed, 
is as yet uuliiiowu. 

Away ! let naught to love displeasing. 

My Wiuifreda, move your care ; 
Let nauglit delay the heaveuly blessing. 

Nor squeamish pride nor gloomj' fear. 

What though no grauts of royal donors 
With pompous title grace our blood? 

We'll shine in more substantial honors, 
And to bo noble we'll be good. 

Onr name, while virtue thus we tender. 
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke ; 

And all the great ones they shall wonder 
How they respect such little folk. 

What though from Fortune's lavish bounty 
No mighty treasures we possess? 

WVll tind within our pittance plenty, 
And bo content without excess. 

Still shall each kind returning season 

Sufficient for our wishes give ; 
For we will live a life of reason. 

And that's the only life to live. 

Through youth and age in love excelling. 
We'll hand-in-hand together tread ; 

Sweet smiling peace .shall crown our dwelling, 
And babes, sweet smiling babes, onr bed. 

How should I love the pretty creatures. 
While round my knees they foudly cluug. 

To see them look their mother's features, 
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue ! 

And when with envy Time transported 
Shall think to rob us of our joys, 

V'ou'U in your girls again be courted. 
And I'll go wooing in my boys. 



AyOXYMOCS AM) MJSCEILJMCOIS I'OEMS. 



I.-)!) 



WHY SHOULD WE QUARREL FOR RICllKS. 

The chorus of this old and favorite song, taken from '* Ram- 
say's Tea-Table Miscellany," has become almost iiroverbial. 

How pleasant a sailor's lifo passes, 

Who roauis o"or the watery main ! 
No treasuro ho ever amasses, 

But cheerfully spends all his gain. 
We're strangers to party and faction, 

To honor and honesty true; 
Anil would not commit a bad action 
I'or power or profit in view. 
Then whj- should wc ([uarrel for riches, 

Or any such glittering toys ; 
A light heart, and a thin pair of breeches, 
Will go through the world, my bravo boys! 

The world is a beautiful garden. 

Enriched witli the blessings of life. 
The toiler with plenty rewarding. 

Which plenty too often breeds strife. 
When terrible tempests assail us, 

And mountainous billows aflVight, 
Xo grandeur or wealth eau avail us, 

lint industry ever steers right. 
Then why should we quarrel, etc. 

The courtier's more subject to dangers, 

Who rules at the lii-lin of the State, 
Than we that to politics strangers. 

Escape the snares hiiil for the great. 
The various blessings of nature. 

In various nations wc try ; 
No mortals than us can be greater, 

Who merrily live till we die. 
Then why should we quarrel, etc. 



THE FAIRY QUEENE. 

ThcfJC lines (ICV)), from " Percy's Reliqnes," indicate a pop- 
ular belief Kot from Sax-m ancestors long before they left their 
iJerman forests: a belief in a kind of diminutive demons, or 
middle species between men and spirits, whom they called 
Diiergars or Dwarfs, and to whom they attributed many won- 
derful perfurmauces far cxccediug human art. 

Come follow, follow me. 

Von, fairy elves that be : 

Which circle on the gieene. 

Come follow Mab your quecnc. 
Hand in hand let's dance around. 
For this place is fairy ground. 



When mortals are at rest, 

.\nd snoring in their nest ; 

Unheard, and nnospied, 

Through keyholes wo do glide ; 
Over tables, stools, and shelves. 
Wo trip it ■with our fairy elves. 

.Villi if the hou.se be foul 

With platter, di.sh, or bowl, 

Upstairs we nimbly creep, 

And find the sluts asleep : 
There wo pinch their armes and thighs; 
None escapes, nor none espies. 

liiit if tlie house be swept, 

And from uncleanncss kept. 

Wo praise the household maid. 

And duly she is paid : 
For we use before we goo 
To drop a tester in her shoe. 

Upon a uiushroome's head 

Our table-cloth we spread ; 

A grain of rye, or wheat. 

Is manchet,' which we eat ; 
IVarly drops of dew wo drink 
III acorn cups tilled to the brink. 

The brains of nightingales. 
With unctuous fat of snailes. 
Between two cockles stewed, 
Is meat that's easily chewed; 
Tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice, 
Do malvo a dish that's wondrous nice. 

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly. 

Serve for our niitistrelsie ; 

Grace said, wo dance awhile. 

And so the time beguile: 
.\iid if the moon doth hide her head. 
The gloe-worm lights us homo to bed. 

On tops of dewio gr.isso 

So nimbly do we passe ; 

The young and tender stalk 

Ne'er bends when wo do walk : 
Yet in the morning may bo seen 
Where wo the night before have been. 



■ A loaf or cake of line bread. Tennyson has this conplct : 

"And Enid bronght sweet cakes to make them cheer, 
.\nd, in her veil infolded, nianchet bread." 



160 



CYCLOPJSDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE MAIDEN'S CHOICE. 

Henet Fieldino (1707-1754). 

Geuteel in personage, 
Conduct, and equipage ; 
Noble by heritage. 

Generous and free ; 
Brave, not romantic ; 
Learned, not pedantic ; 
Frolic, not frantic — 

Tills must he be. 



Honor maiutaiuiug, 
Meanness di.sdaiuing, 
Still entertaining. 

Engaging and new ; 
Neat, but not finical ; 
Sage, but not cynical ; 
Never tyrannical, — 

But ever true I 



THE WHITE ROSE: SENT BY A YORKSHIRE 
LOVER TO HIS LANCASTRIAN MISTRESS. 



If this fair rose offend thy sight. 
Placed in thy bosom bare, 

'Twill blusli to find itself less white. 
And turn Lancastrian there. 

But if thy ruby lip it spy. 
As kiss it thou may'st deign. 

With envy palo 'twill lose its dye, 
And Yorkish turn again. 



FROM MERCILESS INVADERS. 



From ii ni.imiscript bearing date 15SS. Probably written at 
the time of the tlireatened invasion of tlie Spauisli Armada. 

From merciless invaders. 

From wicked men's device, 
O God, arise and help ns 

To (lucU our enemies ! 
Sink deep their potent navies, 

Their strength and courage break I 
O God, arise and save us, 

For Jesus Christ his sake ! 



Though cruel Spain and Parma 

With heathen legions come, 
O God, arise and arm ns ! 

We'll die for our home. 
We will not change our credo 

For pope, nor book, nor bell ; 
And if the devil come himself, 

We'll hound liiiu back to hell. 



WILLIE'S VISIT TO MELVILLE CASTLE. 

ANONmous. 

We cannot give the origin of this spirited little poem. We 
tiud it quoted in William Black's novel of "Madcaj) Violet," 
where it is mentioned as '* the good, old, wholesome ballad of 
* Willie's Visit to Melville Castle.' " 

O Willie's gane to Melville Castle, 

Boots and spurs ami a', 
To bid the ladies a' farewell. 

Before he gaed awa'. 

The first ho met was Lady Bet, 
Who led him through the ha', 

And with a sad and sorry heart 
She let the tears doon fa'. 

Near the fire stood Lady Grace, 

Said ne'er a word ava;' 
She thought that she was sure of Lim 

Before he gaed awa'. 

The next he saw was Lady Kate ; 

Guid troth, he needna craw, 
"Maybe the lad will fancy mo, 

And disappoint ye a'." 

Then down the stair .skipped Lady Jean, 

The flower among them a' ; 
Oh, lasses, trust in Providence, 

And ye'll get husbands a'. 

As on his steed he g.allopcd off, 

Tliey a' came to the door ; 
Ho gayly raised his feathered plume ; 

They set up sic a roar ! 

Their sighs, their cries, brought Willie back. 

Ho kissed them aue and a' : 
" Oh, lasses, bide till I come hame. 

And then I'll wed ye a' !" 

1 At all. 



JXOXYMOrS AXD MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



161 



OUR GUDE-MAN. 

In this humorous ballad, the wife hides a rebel relative in 
the house, and endeavors to gnnrd her husband's loyalty at the 
expense of her own veracity, and the "Kiule-nian's " sense of 
sight. 

Our Kudo-iiiaii caui" liaiiip at c"i;ii, 

Ami liaiiio cam' lie ; 
Ami tlu'ie lie saw ii sadiUc-Iiorse, 

Wliaiir iiae horse slimild be. 
"Oh, how cam' this horsn here, 

Ht)w can this he 1 
How caiii' this horse here, 
Wiilimit the leave o' me f" 
"A horse!" quo' she. 
"Ay, a horse,'" quo' he. 
"Yo auld blind doited carle, 

minder mat yo be ! 
"Tis iiaething but a milk cow 
My miunie sent to me."' 
"A milk cow!" quo' he. 
''Ay, a milk cow," quo' she. 
"Far lia'e I ridden, 

And nieikle ha'o I seen ; 
But a saddle on a cow's back 
Saw I never naiie !" 

Our gnde-mau cam' hauie at e'en, 

And harao cam' he ; 
III- spied a pair o' jack-boots, 

Whaur nao boots should be. 
" What's this now, gude-wife T 

What's this I see f 
How cam' these boots here, 

Without the leave o' nie !" 
" Boots!" quo' she. 
"Ay, boots," quo' he. 
" Shame fa' your cuckold face. 

And ill mat yo sec ! 
It's but a pair o' water-stoiips 

The cooper sent to me." 
" Watcr-stoup.s !" quo' he. 
"Ay, watcr-stonps," quo' she. 
" Far ha'e 1 ridden. 

And farer ha'e I ganc ; 
But siller spurs on water-stoups 

Saw I never naue !" 

Our gude-man cam' hame at e'en, 

Aiul hame cam' he; 
Anil there ho saw a sword, 

Whaur nao sword should be. 
"What's this now, gude-wifo t 

What's this I see f 
11 



Oh, how cam' this sword here, 

Without the leave o' me f " 

"A sword!" quo' she. 

"Ay, a sword," quo' he. 

"Shame fa' your cuckold face, 

And ill mat ye see ! 
It's but a jiarritch spurtle' 
My niinnie sent to me." 
"A spurtle!" quo' he. 
"Ay, a spurtle," quo' she. 
"Wool, far ha'e I ridden, 

AiuI nieikle ha'e I seen ; 
But siller-liaiidlcd spurtles 
Saw I never naiic !" 

Our gude-man cam' hame at e'en, 

And hame cam' he ; 
There he S|iied a pouthcrcd wig, 

Whaur iiae wig should be. 
" What's this now, gude-wifu f 

What's this I see ? 
How cam' this wig here. 

Without the leave o' me?" 
"A wig!" quo' she. 
"Ay, a wig," quo' he. 
" Shame fa' your cuckold face. 

And ill mat ye sec ! 
'Tis naething but a clockiu' hen 

My minnie sent to me." 
"A clockin' hen!" quo' he. 
"Ay, a clockiu' hen," quo' she. 
" Far ha'o I ridden, 

And meikle ha'o I seen ; 
But pouther on a clockiu' hou 

Saw I never nane !" 

Our gude-man cam' haiuo at e'en, 

Aud hame cam' he ; 
And there ho saw a riding-coat, 

Whaur nao coat should be. 
" Oh, how cam' this coat here T 

How can this be f 
How cam' this coat here, 

Without the leave o' me V 
"A coat!" quo' she. 
"Ay, a coat," quo' he. 
"Ye auld blind dotard carle. 

Blinder mat yo lie ! 
It's but a pair o' blankets 

My niinnio sent to me." 



> A slick for stirring porridge. 



162 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



"Blaukets!" quo' ho. 
"Ay, blankets," quo' she. 
"Far ba'e I lidtlen, 

Au(l lueikle ba'e I seen ; 
But buttons upon blaukets 
Saw I uever nane !" 

Ben went our gude-uian, 

Anil ben went lie ; 
And tbere be spied a sturdy man, 

Wliaiir uao man sUouId be. 
" How cam' this man liere ? 

How can tbis be ? 
How cam' this nuiu bere, 

AVitbont the leave o' me?" 
"A man !" quo' she. 
"Ay, a doited man," qno' he. 
"Puir blind body ! 

And blinder mat yo be ! 
It's a new milking-maid 

My niiunie sent to me." 
" A maid !" quo' be. 
"Ay, a maid," quo' sbe. 
"Far ba'e I ridden. 

And meikle lia'e I seen ; 
But lang-bearded milking-malds 

Saw I uever nane I" 



JOCK O' HAZELGEKEN. 

The followiiifx, from Roberts's Collection, is constructed from 
the versions of Kinloch, Buchan, and Chambers. It was a frag- 
ment of this wliich suggested to Sir Waller Scott his flue ballad 
of "Jock of Ilazeldeau." 

As I went forth to take the air 

lutill an evening clear, 
I beard a pretty damsel 

Making a heavy bier:' 
Making a heavy bier, I wot, 

But and a piteous mean ;" 
And aye sbo sighed, and said, "Alas, 

For Jock o' Hazel green !" 

The sun was sinking in the west, 

The stars were shining clear, 
When thro' the thickets o' the wood 

An auld knicht did appear: 
Says, " Wba has dune j'ou wrang, fair maid, 

And left yon here alane ? 
Or wba has kissed your lovely lips. 

That ye ca' Hazelgreen ?" 



^ Lamentation. 



2 Moan. 



" Hand your tongue, kind sir," sbe said, 

"And do not banter sae. 
Ob, wliy will ye add affliction 

Unto a lover's wae ? 
For Dae man has dune me wrang," sbe said, 

"Nor left me here alane; 
And nane has kissed my lovely lipis. 

That 1 ca' Hazelgreeu." 

" Why weep ye by the tide, ladye ? 

Wby weep ye by the tide ? 
How blythe and happy micht he be 

Gets you to be his bride! 
Gets J'OU to bo his bride, fair maid. 

And him I'll uo bemean ; 
But when I tak' my words again, — 

Whom ca' ye Hazelgreeu ? 

" What nice a man was Hazelgreeu ? 

Will ye show him to me ?" 
" He is a comely, proper youth 

I in my days did see ; 
Ilis shoulders broad, bis armis lang. 

He's comely to be seen:" 
And aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock o' Hazelgreeu. 

" If ye'll forsake tbis Hazelgreeu, 

Aud go along wi' me, 
I'll wed ye to my eldest son — 

Make you a lady free." 
" It's for to wed your eldest son 

I aiii a maid o'er mean ; 
I'd rather stay at hame," sbe says, 

"Aud dee for Hazelgreeu." 

Tlien be'.s ta'en out a siller kaim, 

Kaiiued down her yellow bair. 
And lookit in a diamond bricbt, 

To see if sbe were fair. 
"My girl, ye do all maids surpass 

That ever I ba'e seen ; 
Cheer up your heart, my lovely lass — ■ 

Forget young Hazelgreeu." 

" Young Hazelgreen be is my love. 

And evermair shall bo ; 
I'll nae forsake young Hazelgreen 

For a' the gowd ye'll gie." 
But aye she sighed, and said, "Alas!" 

And made a iiiteous mean ; 
And aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock o' Hazelgreen. 



AXOXYMOUS jyi) MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



1C3 



But lie lias tiv'cii her up bcbiiul, 

Set Iier upon liis horse ; 
And they rode on to Kmbro'-towii, 

And Hchted at the Cross. 
And ho has coft her silken claes — 

She looked like any qnecn : 
'■ Yo snrely now will sig;li nac niair 

For Jock o' Ilazelgreeu f 

" Yonng Hazelgicen he is iiiy love, 

And cvcrinair shall be ; 
I'll nac forsake yonng Ilazelgrccn 

For a' the gowd ye gie." 
And aye she sighed, and said, "Alas!" 

And made a piteuns mean ; 
And aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For .lock o' llazelgreen. 

Then he has coft for that ladyo 

A fine silk riding-gown ; 
Likewise he coft for that ladye 

A steed, and set her on ; 
Wi' luenjl feathers in her hat, 

8ilk stockings, siller sboon ; 
And they ha'e ridden far atbort, 

Seeking young Hazelgrccu. 

And when they came to Hazclyetts, 

Tliey liehted down therein: 
Monie were the hraw ladyes there, 

Moiiie ane to be seen. 
AVlien she liehted down aniaiig them a', 

Shu seemed to bo their (lucen ; 
Hilt aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock o' Hazelgreen. 

Then forth ho came young Hazelgreen, 

To welcome his father free : 
" Yon'ro welcome here, my father dear. 

An' a' yonr companie." 
lint when he looked o'er his shoulder, 

A liclit langli then ga'e he ; 
Says, "If I gctna this ladyo. 

It's for lier I mann dee. 

" I must confess this is the maid 

I ance saw in a dream, 
A-walking thro' a pleasant shade. 

As «ho had been a queen. 
And for her sake I vowed .a vow 

I ne'er would wed but she ; 

> I'urcliascd. 



Should this fair ladyo cruel prove, 
I'll lay mo down and dee." 

"Now baud your tongue, young Hazelgreen ; 

Let a' your folly bo : 
If yo bo sick for that ladye, 

She's tlirico as sick for thee. 
She's thrice as sick for thee, my sou, 

As bitter doth coinplean ; 
And a' she wants to heal her waes 

Is Jock o' Hazelgreen." 

He's ta'en her iii his arniis twii. 

Led her thro' bower and ha' : 
" Cheer up your heart, my dearest May, 

Y'e'ro ladye o'er them a'. 
The morn shall bo our bridal day, 

The uicht's our bridal e'en ; 
Ye sail nae mair h.Vo cause to mean 

For Jock o' llazelgreeu.'' 



LOVE NOT ilK FOR COMELY GRACE. 

AXONTUOCS. 

Love not me for comely grace, 
For my pleasing eye or face, 
Nor for any outward part, 
No, nor for my eonstaut heart ; 

For those may fail or turn to ill, 
So thou .and I shall sever : 
Keep therefore a true woman's eye. 
And love mo still, but know not why. 

So hast thou the same reason still 
To dote upon mo ever. 



HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND? 



From !i half- sheet song, with the mnsic, printed ahout the 
ye.ir I7I0. Tliis tias been called General Wolfe's song, and la 
said to have lieen sung by him the uight before the battle of 
Quebec. 

How stands the glass around t 

For shame ! ye- take no care, my boys, 
How stands the glass around T 
Let mirth and wine abound ; 
The trninpets sound! 

The colors llyiiig arc, my boys. 
To fight, kill, or wound. 
May wo still bo found 

Content with our hard fare, my boj'.s, 
On the cold ground. 



164 



CrCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISE AXD AMERICAN POETRT. 



Wliy, soldiers, wby 
Should wo lie meliiucholy, bojs ? 

Wliy, soldiers, wliy 1 

Wlioso Ijiisiuess 'tis to die ? 

What! sighiug? Fie! 
Shim fear, driuk on, be jolly, boys ! 

'Tis lie, yon, or I. 

Cold, hot, wet, or dry. 
We're always bound to follow, boys. 

And scorn to Hy. 

'Tis but in vain 
(I mean not to uidnaid yon, boys) — 

'Tis bnt in vain 

For soldiers to complain. 

Should next cauipaigu 
Send us to Him that made us, boys, 

We're free from pain ; 

But should wo remain, 
A botde and kind landlady 

Cures all again. 



YE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND. 

This song by Martyn P.aiker (1630) is interesting as li.aviug 
prompted mnch of tlie lyric force in Campbell's far uoljler pro- 
duction, "Ye Mariners of Euglaud." 

Ye gentlemen of England 

That live at home at ease. 
Ah ! little do you think upon 

Tlie dangers of the seas. 
Give ear unto the mariners, 

Aud they will plainly show 
All the cares and the fears 

When the stormy winds do blow. 
Wlieu the stormy, etc. 

If enemies oppose us 

When England is at war 
With anj' foreign nation. 

We fear not wound or scar ; 
Our roaring guns sh.all teach 'era 

Our valor for to know. 
Whilst they reel on the keel. 

And the stormy winds do blow. 
And the stormy, etc. 

Then courage, all brave mariners, 

And never be dismayed ; 
While we have bold adventurers, 

Wo ne'er shall want a trade : 



Our merchants will employ us 
To fetch them wealth, we know ; 

Tlicn be bold — work for gold, 

When tlie stormy winds do blow. 
When the stormy, etc. 



ANNIE LAURIE. 

Tlie original song, which is in two stanzas, and inferior to 
the following version, may be fonnd in Sliarpe's Collection. 
It WHS composed previous to 16S8 by one Douglas of Fiug- 
laud, in honor of Miss Laurie, of Maswelton. The bard was 
unsuccessful in his suit, or else the lady jilted him, as she 
married a Mr. Ferguson. 

Maxwelton braes are bonnie. 

Where early fa's the dew ; 
Aud it's there that Annie Laurie 

Gi'ed me her promise true ; 
Gi'ed mo her promi.se true. 

Which ne'er forgot will be ; 
Aud for bonuie Aunie Laurie 

I'd lay mo douue and dee. 

Her brow is like the snaw-drift. 

Her throat is like the swan, 
Her face it is the fairest 

That e'er tlie sun slioue on ; 
Tli.at e'er the sun slione on — 

And dark blue is her ce ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'd lay me doune aud dee. 

Like dew on tho gowau lying 

Is the fa' o' her fairy feet ; 
Like the winds in sunnucr sighing, 

Her voice is low aiul sweet ; 
Her voice is low aud sweet — 

Aud she's a' the world to me ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'd lay me douue aiul dee. 



THE SOLDIER'S GLEE. 

Feoji " Del-teromelia ; on, The Second Part of SIusick's 
Melodie," etc. (1G09). 



We be soldiers three, 

(Pardonnez mol, je vous en ijrie !) 
Lately come forth of the Low Country, 

With never a pemiy of monie. 



IlEXRY iAUKY.—JAilKS TUUilSOX. 



Kio 



Here, gooil fellow, 'I driuk to tlico ! 

(Parilouucz moi,jo vous eu piio!) 
To all good fellows, wherever tliey be, 

With never ;i peiiny of inonie I 

And he that will not picdgo nie this 
(Pardonuez moi,jo vous eu prie!) 

Pays for the shot, whatever it is, 
With never a penny of monie. 

Charge it again, boy, eliargo it again, 
(Pardouuez nioi,jo vous en prie!) 

As long as there is any ink in thy pen, 
With never a penny of monic. 



f)ciirn (Caret). 



Carey (about 1700-174S) was a natural son of Gcorsu 
Savillc, Marquis of Halifax, from wliom and from his 
family lie received a liaudsome annuity to the time of 
Ills unhappy dcatli by bis own liand. He was a musician 
by profession, and composed several songs, dramas, and 
burlesques. His "Sally in our Alley" was higlily com- 
mended by Addison. Carey bad been watching an ap- 
prentice and bis betrothed in Vauxliall enjoying their 
cakes and ale, when he came home and wrote the song. 
Kdinund Kean, the actor, was a descendant of Carey. 
The composition of "God save the King" has been 
claimed for Carey ; but it was probably anterior to his 
day. 



SALI.V IX Oll{ ALLEY. 

Of all the girls that are so smart. 

There's none like pretty Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in onr alley. 
There is no lady in the land 

Is half so sweet as Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And, she lires iu our alley. 

Her father he makes cahbage-uets, 

Anil through the streets docs cry 'cm; 
Her mother she sells laces long 

To such as please to buy 'em : 
But sure such folks could ne'er beget 

So sweet a girl as Sally ! 
She is the darling of my luait, 

.\nd she lives in our alley. 

When she is by, I leave my work, 
I love her bo sincerely ; 



My niastiT comes like any Turk, 
And bangs mo most sevei'ely : 

But let him bang his bellyful, 
I'll bear it all for Sally ; 

•She is tho darling of my heart, 
And she lives in our alley. 

Of all tho days that's in tho week 

I dearly love but one day^ 
And that's the day that comi's betwixt 

A Saturday and Monday ; 
For then I'm drest all iu my best 

To walk abroad with Sally; 
She is tlio darling of my heai't, 

And she lives iu onr alley. 

My nnister carries mo to church, 

Aiul often am I blara<^d 
Because I leave him iu the lureli 

As soon as text is named ; 
I leave tho church iu sermon-time, 

And slink away to Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

When (;iiristmas comes about again, 

Oh then I sUall have money ; 
I'll hoard it up, and box it all, 

I'll givo it to my houcy : 
I would it were ten thousand pound, 

I'd give it .all to Sally; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives iu our alley. 

My master and the neighbors all 

Make game of mo and Sally ; 
And, but for her, I'd better be 

A slave and row a galley ; 
But when my seven long years are ont, 

Oh tfien I'll marry Sally,— 
Oh then we'll wed, and then we'll bed. 

But not In onr alley. 



iJiamcs iTIjomsoii. 



The son of a Scotch minister, Thomson (1700-1748) 
was born at Eilnam, in Roxburghshire, Scotland. He 
completed liis cduculion at the University of Ediuburi;li, 
wlicre in 171'J he was admilted as a student of divinity. 
Tlie professor gave him the 104tli Psalm to paraiihriisc, 
and he did it in so poetical a way tliat he was admon- 
ished to curb his imagination if he wished to be useful 



160 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



in till! ministry. Thereupon he resolved to try Uis fort- 
une as an author. His father having died, James went 
to London, where he had his pocket picked of ii hand- 
kerchief containing his letters of introduction. Finding 
himself without money or friends, he fell back on liis 
manuscript of " Winter," which he sold to Mr. Millar 
for three guineas, and it was published in 1736. It soon 
raised up friends for him, among them Pope, who revised 
and corrected several passages in his verse. "Winter" 
was s.uccecded by "Summer" in 1737; "Spring" in 1738; 
and "Autumn" in 1730. Thomson wrote "Sophonisba," 
a tragedy; also "Agamemnon," and " Edward and Elco- 
nora," but no one of his dramatic ventures was a suc- 
cess. His "Coriolanus" was not produced till after his 
death. In 1733 he published his poem of "Liberty," a 
production now little read. 

After suffering somewhat from narrow means, he got 
a pension of £100 from the Prince of Wales, and was 
appointed Surveyor-general of the Leeward Islands, the 
duties of which lie could perform by proxy, and which 
brought him .£300 a year. Being now in easy circum- 
stances, he retired to a cottage near Riclimond Hill, on 
the Thames, where he wrote his "Castle of Indolence," 
generally regarded as his masterpiece. It was published 
in 174S. One day in the August of that year, after a 
brisk walk, ho took a boat at Hammersmith for Kcw. 
On tlie water he got chilled, neglected the slight cold, 
became feverish, and in a few days departed this life in 
las forty-eighth year. 

As a man, Thomson was generous, affable, and amia- 
ble. His cliief fault was indolence, of which he was fully 
aware. As a poet, he was remarkable for purity of lan- 
guage and tliought; and the highest eulogy that eonUl 
be pronounced upon a man's writings was Lord Lyttel- 
ton's assertion that Tliomsou's contain 

"No line which, dying, he could wish to blot." 

It is not to be denied that his cumbrous style, his 
flided classicalitics, and his redundant and somewhat 
turgid diction have injured him with modern readers ; 
but he was a genuine poet notwithstanding. No better 
proof of this could be given than the remarkable lines 
wliich he wrote at the age of fourteen. This curious 
fragment was first publislied in 1841, in a life of Thom- 
son by Allan Cunningham, and is as follows : 

"Now I surveyed my native faculties. 
And traced my actions to their teeminj; source ; 
Now I explored the universal frame, 
Giizeil nature through, aud, with interior light, 
Couversed with angels and unbodied saints. 
That tread the courts of the Eternal King ! 
Gladly I would declare in lofty strains 
The power iif Godhead to the sons of men, 
But thought is lost in its immensity: 
* Itviaginatiou wastes its strength in vain, 
Ai!d fancy tires and turns within itself, 
Struck with the amazing depths of Deity! 
Ah ! my Lord God ! iu vain a lender youth, 
Uuskilled in arts of deep philosophy, 
Attemiits to search the bulky mass of matter. 
To trace the rules of motion, and pursue 
The phantom Time, too subtle for his grasp: 
Yet may I from Thy most apparent works 
Form some idea of their wondtous Author." 



There are passages in his " Seasons " and his " Castle 
of Indolcuee" which are not likely to become obsolete 
while high art and genuine devotional feeling find a 
response in the soul. His " Hymu on the Seasons," 
though at times suggesting a reminiscence of Milton, 
lias been equalled by nothing iu the same class that any 
succeeding poet has produced ; and, in saying this, we 
do not forget Coleridge's " Chamouni," nor the many 
noble passages in Wordsworth's "Excursion." To 
Thomson we owe in no small measure the revival of 
that enthusiasm for the associations and beauties of ex- 
ternal nature whicli had been absent from English poetry 
during tlie predominance of the artificial school. 

One of the finest similes in that part of " The Sea- 
sons" entitled "Autumn" was supplied by Pope, to 
whom Thomson liad given an interleaved copy of the 
edition of 1736. Describing Lavinia, Thomson wrote : 

"Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self, 
Kecluse nniong the woods : if city dames 
Will deign their faith-, and thus she went, comiielled 
By strong necessity, with as serene 
Aud pleased a look as Patience e'er put ou. 
To gleau Palemou's lields." 

Pope drew liis pen through this description, and sub- 
stituted the following lines — and so they stand in all 
the subsequent editions : 

"Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self, 
Kecluse amid the close-embowering woods. 
As in the hollow breast of Apenuiue, 
Beneath the shelter of encircling hills, 
A myrtle rises, far from human eyes, 
And bre;itlies Its balmy fragrance o'er tlie wild ; 
So flourished blooming, aud unseen by all, 
The sweet Lavinia . till at length compelled 
By strong necessity's supreme command. 
With smiling i>atience iu her looks, she went 
To gleau Palemon's fields." 

"The love of nature," says Coleridge, "seems to have 
led Thomson to a cheerful religion ; and a gloomy re- 
ligion to have led Cowper to a love of nature. The one 
would carry his fellow-men along with him into nature; 
tlie other Hies to nature from his fellow-men. In chas- 
tity of diction, however, and the harmony of blank verse, 
Cowper leaves Thomson immeasurably below him; yet 
I still feel the latter to have been the born poet." 



THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 

From "Tue Seasons." 

From tbo moist meatlow to the withered hill, 
Lcil by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs, 
And swells and deepens to the cherished eye. 
The hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves 
Put forth thoir buds, unfoldiug by degrees, 
Till the whole leafy forest stands displayed, 
In full luxuriance, to the sighing gales; 
WHiere the deer rustle through the twining brake, 
And the birds sing coneealcd. At once arrayed 
In all the colors of the flushing year, 



JJMES ruo.Msoy. 



1G7 



By Nature's swil't and sccret-workinp; liand, 

The garden glows, and (ills (ho liberal air 

With lavish fragrance; while the promised fruit 

Lies yet a little embryo, uuperceivod 

Within its crimson folds. Now from the (own, 

linried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps, 

Ot't let mo wander o'er the dewy lields. 

Where freshness breathes, and dash the trembling 

drops 
From the bent Imsh, as tlirongli the verdant nui/.o 
Of sweetbrior hedges I pni'sne my walk ; 
Or taste the smell of dairy ; or ascend 
Some emiricnce, Angnsta, in thy plains. 
And SCO the country, far ditfused aronnd, 
One boundless blnsh, one white-empnrpled shower 
Of mingled blossoms; where the raptured eyo 
Hurries from joy to .joy, and. hid bem'atli 
The fair profusion, yellow Autumn sjjies. 



SUNRISE IN SUMMER. 
From " The Seasons."' 

Hut yonder comes the powerful king of day, 
Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud. 
The kiiuUing uznrc, and the mountain's brow 
Illnmed with fluid gold, his near approach 
l!et(dvcn glad. I>o ! now, apparent all. 
Aslant the dew-bright Earth, and colored air, 
lie hwks in boundless majesty .abroad ; 
.\Md sheds the shining day, that burnished plays 
On rocks, and hills, ami towers, and wandering 

streams, 
High gleaming from afar. Prime eheerer. Light ! 
Of all material beings first and best ! 
KQlux divine ! Nature's resplendent robe ! 
Without whose vesting beauty all were wrapt 
tn nucssential gloom ; and thou, O Sun ! 
^^oul of surrounding w(ul(ls! in whom best seen 
Shines out thy Maker! May I sing of thee f 



HYMN ON THE SEASONS. 

These, as they change, Almighty Father, these, 
.\re but the varied (Jod. The ndling year 
Is full of thee. Eorlli in the pleasing spring 
Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. 
Wide (lush the fields; the softening air is balm; 
Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; 
.•\iid every sense and every heart is joy. 
Then comes thy glory in (he summer months, 
With light and heat refulgent. Then thv snii 



Shoots full perfection through the swelling year ; 
And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; 
And oft at dawn, deep uoon, or falling eve, 
I5y brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. 
Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined, 
And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
In winter, awful thou! with clouds and storms 
Around theo thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled, 
Majestic darkness! ou the whirlwind's wing. 
Riding sublime, thou bidd'st the world adore, 
And humblest natun! with thy n<nthern blast. 
Mysterious ronml ! What skill, what force di- 
vine, 
Deep felt, in tlieso appear! a simple train. 
Yet so deligUtful mixed, with such kind art, 
Such beauty and beneficence combined ; 
Shade, unpereeived, so .softening into shade; 
And all so forming an harmonious whole. 
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, 
Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand. 
That, ever-busy, wheels the silent sphen^s, 
Works in the secret deep, shoots, steaming, (hence 
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring. 
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day. 
Feeds every creature, hurls the tempest forth ; 
And, .as on earth this grateful change revolves. 
With traiLsport touches all (he siuings of life. 

Nature, attend ! join every living soul, 
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky. 
In adoration join, and, ardent, rai.so 
One general song! To him, ye vocal gales, 
Breathe soft, whose spirit in your tVcslmess breathes. 
Oh, talk of him in solitary glooms, 

] Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine 
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 

I And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar. 

Who sh.ake the a.stonished world, lift high to 

heaven 

Tho impetuous song, and say finm whom you 

rage. 

His praise, ye brooks, attune, yo trembling rills; 

And let me catch it as I muse along. 

Yo headlong torrents, rapid and profound! 

Yo softer floods, that lead the liumiil 7naze 

' 
Along tho vale; and thou, m.ajestic main, 

A secret world of wonders in thyself, 

Sound his stupendous praise ; who.so greater voice 

Or bids you roar, or bills your roarings fall. 

Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, 

III mingled eloiids (o him ; whoso sun exalts, 

Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil 

paints. 



168 



CYCLOPJiDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN FOETRT. 



Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to him ; 
Bi-eathe your still song iuto the reaper's heart, 
As home he goes Ijeueath the joyous moon. 
Ye that keej) watch iu heaven, as earth asleep 
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams. 
Ye constellations, while your angels strike. 
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 
Great source of day! best image here below 
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 
From world to world, the vital ocean round, 
Ou nature write with every beam his praise. 
The thunder rolls : be bushed the prostrate world ; 
While clou<l to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 
Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks, 
■Retain the sound : the broad responsive low, 
Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns ; 
And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. 
Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song 
Burst from the groves ! and when the restless 

day, 
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep. 
Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm 
The listening shades, and teach the night his 

praise. 
Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, 
At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all. 
Crown the great hymn ! in swarming cities vast, 
Assembled men, to the deep organ join 
The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear, 
At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass ; 
And, as each mingling flame increases each. 
In one united ardor rise to Heaven. 
Or, if you rather choose the rural shade. 
And find a fane in every secret grove ; 
There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, 
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre. 
Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll. 
For me, when I forget the darling theme, 
Whether the blossom blows, the summer-ray 
Eussets the plain, inspiring autiimu gleams; 
Or winter rises in the blackening east ; 
Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more. 
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! 

Should fate command me to the farthest verge 
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, 
Rivers unknown to song ; where first the sun 
Gilds Indian mountains, or bis setting beam 
Flames on the Atlantic isles; 'tis naught to me, 
Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
In the void waste, as in the city full ; 
And where he vital spreads, there must bo joy. 
When even at last the solemn hour shall come, 
And wing mv mystic flight to future worlds. 



I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers. 
Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go 
Where Universal Love not .smiles around, 
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; 
From seeming evil still educing good. 
And better thence again, and better still, 
In infinite progression. But I lose 
Myself iu him, iu light ineffable ; 
Come, then, expressive Silence, muse his praise. 



THE BARD'S SONG. 

From " TuE Castle of Indolence." 

It was not by vile loitering in ease 
That Greece obtained the brighter palm of art. 
That soft yet ardent Athens learnt to please, 
To keen the wit, and to sublime the heart, 
In all supreme, complete in every part ! 
It was not thence majestic Rome arose, 
And o'er tlie nations shook her conquering dart: 
For sluggard's brow the laurel never grows ; 
Renown is not the child of indolent repose. 

Had unambitious mortals minded naught, 
But in loose joy their time to wear away; 
Had they alone the lap of Dalliance sought, 
Pleased on her pillow their dull heads to lay, 
Rude nature's state had been our state to-day; 
No cities e'er their towery fronts had raised, 
No arts had made us opulent and gay ; 
With brother-brutes the human race had grazed; 
None e'er had soared to fame, none honored been, 
nouc praised. 

Great Homer's song had never fired the breast 
To thirst of glory, and heroic deeds ; 
Sweet Maro's' Muse, sunk in inglorious rest, 
Had silent slept amid the Mincian reeds ; 
The wits of modern time had told their beads, 
The monkish legends been their only strains ; 
Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapt iu weeds, 
Our Shakspcare strolled and laughed with War- 
wick swains, 
Ne had my master Spenser charmed his JIulla's 
plains. 

Dumb too had been the sage historic Muse, 
And perished all the sons of ancient fame ; 
Those starry lights of virtue, tliat diffuse 



■ Virpcil, boni on the banks of the Minciiis, iu the north of 
Imly. 



JAMES THOMSON. 



IG'J 



Through tho dark ilcpth of time their vivid 

H;iiiio, 
Had all been lost with such as have no name. 
Who then had scorned his case for others' 

gooil f 
Who Iheu had toiled rapacious men to tame f 
Who in tho pnblic breach devoted stood. 
And for his conntry"s cause been jirodigal of 

blood ? 

Hut should your hoarts to fame unfeeling be, 
If right 1 read, you pleasure all rei|uire: 
Then hear how best may bo obtained this fee, 
How best enjoyed this nature's wide desire. 
Toil, and bo glad! let Industry inspire 
Into your quickened limbs her buoyant breath ! 
Who docs not act is dead; absorpt entire 
111 miry sloth, no pride, no Joy he hath: 
Oh leaden-hearted men, to be in lovo with death I 

All! what avail tho largest gifts of Heaven, 
When drooping health and spirits go amiss f 
How tasteless then whatever can be given ! 
Health is the vital principle of bliss. 
And exercise of health. In proof of this, 
Behold tho wretch who slugs his life away, 
Soon swallowed in disease's s.ad abyss ; 
While he whom toil has braced, or manly play. 
Has light as air each limb, each thought as clear 
as day. 

Oh, who can speak tho vigorous joys of health! 
Unelogged the body, unobscnred tho mind: 
Tlie morning rises gay, with pleasing stealth. 
The temperato evening falls serene and kind. 
In health tho wiser brutes truo gladness lind. 
See how the younglings frisk along tho me.ids, 
.\s Jlay comes on, and wakes tho balmy wind ; 
Rampant with life, their joy all joy exceeds: 
Yet what but high-strung health this dancing 
pleasaunce breeds t 



RULE, BRITANNIA! 
A> Ode, rnojj ".\i.ireii, a Mashce." 

When Britain fu-st, at Heaven's command, 

Arose from out tho aznro main. 
This was the charter of tho laml, 

Anil guardi;iii angels sung this strain: 
•• K'lili', liritannia, rule tho waves, 
liiitons never will be slaves." 



The nations not so blessed as thee' 

Must in their turn to tyrants fall ; 
While thou shalt ilourish great and free, 
The dread and envy of them all. 
"Rule, Britannia, rule tho waves, 
Britons never will be slaves." 

Still more majestic shalt thou rise. 

More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; 
As tho loud blast that tears tho skies 
Serves but to root thy native oak. 
'• Rule, Britannia, rule tho waves, 
Britons never will be slaves." 

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame : 
All their attempts to bend thee down 
Will but iirouso thy generous flame, 
But work their woe and thy renown. 
"Rule, Britannia, rule tho waves, 
Britons never will be slaves." 

To thee belongs the rural reign ; 

Thy cities shall with commerce shine: 
All thine shall bo the subject main : 
And every shore it circles thine. 
"Rnle, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Britons never will be slaves." 

The Muses, still -with freedom found, 

Shall to thy happy coast repair : 
Blessed isle! -with m.atchless beauty crowned, 
And manly hearts to guard the fair. 
" Rule, Britanni.i, rnle the ■w.aves, 
Britons never will be slaves." 



LOVE OF NATURE. 

From " The Castle of Indolence." 

I care not. Fortune, what you mo deny ; 
You cannot rob mo of free Nature's grace, 
You cannot shut tho windows of tho sky. 
Through which Aurora shows her brightening 

face ; 
Y'ou cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve: 
Let health my nerves and finer filires brace. 
And I their toys to the great children leave ; 
Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can mo bereave. 



' " Blessed as thon " wonld be the coircct form : but rbjnne 
is imperious. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



301)11 Dncr. 



Dyer (1700-1758) was a young Welsliman, son of a 
prosperous attorney. He tried to be a painter, and went 
to Rome to study, but gave it up on finding lie could 
not rise to his ideal. Grongar Hill was near his birth- 
place, and he sang of it at six-and-twcnty. The poem, 
if first published in the nineteenth century, would have 
excited less attention ; but it was a new departure iu its 
day from the swelling diction then so prevalent, that 
even Thomson did not escape from it iu describing nat- 
ural scenes. Dyer struck a less artificial note, but could 
not wholly cast off nymphs and Muses, gods and god- 
desses, then considered a necessary part of the "prop- 
erties" of the poetical adventurer. He wrote "The 
Fleece," a poem ; also one on " The Ruins of Rome" — 
both iu blank verse. Wordsworth addresses a sonnet to 
him, and predicts that "a grateful few " will love Dyer's 
modest lay, 

"Long as the thrash shnll pipe on Grongar mill" 



GRONGAR HILL. 

Sileut iiympl], with curious eye, 

Who, the purple eveuiug, lie 

On the mountain's lonely van, 

Beyond tlio noise of busy man : 

Painting fair the form of things, 

While the yellow linnet sings, 

Or the tuneful nightingale 

Charms the forest with her tale, — 

Come with all thy various hues, 

Come, and aid thy sister Muse ; 

Now, while I'hmbus riding high 

Gives lustre to the laud and sky ! 

Grongar Hill iuvites my song. 

Draw the landscape bright and strong ; 

Grongar, iu whose mossy cells 

Sweetly-niusiug Quiet dwells; 

Grongar, iu nho.so silent shade, 

For the modest Muses made, 

So oft I have, the evening still. 

At the fountain of a rill, 

Sate upon a flowery bed. 

With my hand beneath my head, 

While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood, 

Over mead, and over wood. 

From house to house, from hill to hill. 

Till Contemplation had her fill. 

About his checkered sides I wind, 
And leave his brooks and meads behind. 
And groves and grottoes where I lay. 
And vistas shooting beams of day : 
Wide and wider spreads the vale, 
As circles on a smooth canal : 



The mountains round, uuhappy fate ! 
Sooner or later of all height. 
Withdraw their summits from the skies, 
And lessen as the others rise : 
Still the prospect wider spreads. 
Adds a thousand woods and meads ; 
Still it widens, widens still, 
And sinks the newly risen hill. 

Now, I gain the mountain's brow, 
What a landscape lies below ! 
No clouds, no vapors intervene, 
But the gay, the open scene 
Does the face of nature show, 
Iu all the hues of heaven's bow, 
And, swelling to embrace the light, 
S|ireads around beneath the sight. 

Old castles on the cliffs arise, 
Proudly towering in the skies ; 
Rushing from the woods, the spires 
Seem from hence ascending fires; 
Half his beams Apollo sheds 
On the yellow mountain-heads. 
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks. 
And glitters on the broken rocks. 

Below me trees unnumbered rise, 
Beautiful iu various dyes: 
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue. 
The yellow beech, the sable yew. 
The slender fir that taper grows, 
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs. 
And bej'ond the purple grove, 
Hanut of Phyllis, queen of love ! 
Gaudy as the opening dawn, 
Lies a long and level lawn, 
On wliiili a dark hill, steep and high, 
Holds and charms the wandering eye. 
Deep are his feet iu Towy's flood. 
His sides are clothed with waving wood, 
And ancient towers crown his brow, 
That cast an awful look below ; 
Whoso ragged walls the ivy creeps, 
And with her arms from falling keeps; 
So both a safety from the wind 
On mutual dependence find. 
'Tis now the raven's bleak abode ; 
'Tis now the apartment of the toad ; 
And there the fox securely feeds ; 
And there the poisonous adder breeds, 
Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds ; 
While ever and anon there falls 
Huge heaps of hoary mouldered walls. 
Yet Time has seen, — that lifts the low. 
And level lays the loffy brow, — 



JOnX DYER.—rillLll' DODDRIDGE. 



171 



lias seen this liroken pile complete, 
IJig with tho vanity of state: 
Hilt transient is tlio smilo of Fate ! 
A littlo riilo, a little sway, 
A siiiilioain in a winter's day. 
Is all the jiroiKl ami mighty have 
Between the cradle and the grave. 

And see the rivers liow they run. 
Through woods and meads, in shade and snn. 
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, 
Wave succeeding wave, they go 
A various jonrney to the dee]), 
LiUo human life to endless sleep. 
Thns is Natnre's vesture wronght. 
To instruct our wandering thonght; 
Thns she dresses green and gay, 
To disperse onr cares away. 

Ever charming, ever new. 
When will tho landscape tiro tho view! 
The fonntain's fall, the river's flow, 
Tlie woody valleys, warm and low ; 
The windy summit, wild and high, 
Koiighly rnshiiig on the sljy ! 
The pleasant seat, the ruined tower, 
The naked rock, the shady bower ; 
The town and village, dome and farm, 
Kach give each a donlde charm. 
As pearls upon an Etliiop's arm. 

See on the mountain's southern side. 
Where the prospect opens wide, 
Where the evening gilds tho tide. 
How close and small the hedges lie! 
What streaks of meadows cross tho eye ! 
A step, methiiiks, may pass the stream. 
So littlo distant dangers seem ; 
So wo mistake tho Future's face, 
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass; 
As yon snniinits soft and fair. 
Clad in colors of the air. 
Which to those who journey near, 
Itarren, brown, and rough appear; 
Still we tread the same coarec way, 
Tho present's still a cloudy day. 

Oh may I with myself agree, 
And never covet what I see ; 
Coiilent me with a humble shade, 
My i)assious tamed, my wishes laid; 
Vox while our wishes wildly roll, 
We banish r|uiet from the soul : 
'Tis thus the busy beat the air. 
And misers gather wealth ami care, 

Now, even now, my Joys run high, 
As on the nioMiitain turf I lie; 



While the wanton zephyr sings, 
And in the vale perfumes his wings ; 
While tho waters nuuinnr deep. 
While tho shepherd elinrms liis sheep. 
While the birds nnboiiiided Uy, 
And with music till the sky. 
Now, even now, my joys run high. 

Be full, ye courts; ho great who will; 
Search for Peace with all your skill : 
Open wide the lofty door. 
Seek her on tho marble lloor. 
In vain you search, she is not there; 
In vain you search the domes of Care ! 
Grass and flowers Quiet treads, 
On the meads, and mountain-heads. 
Along with Pleasure, close allieil. 
Ever by each other's side ; 
And often, by tho murmuring rill, 
Hears the thrush, while all is still. 
Within tho groves of Grongar Ilill. 



|)l)Uip DotiLiribcjc. 

Doddridge (1703-17.51) was a native of London, He 
lost belli his parents at an early age, and pursued his 
st'.Klies for the ministry at an academy for Dissenters at 
Kibwortli. He began liis ministry at tlie aire of twenty, 
and became an eminent preacher. As an autlior of prac- 
tical religious works his reputation is very liigh. His 
"Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul" is among 
tlie most esteemed of his productions. His hymns, 
which entitle him to a place among Knglish religious 
poets, were nncxcellcd in tlicir day, and show genuine 
devotional feeling, a good car for versilicution, and line 
literary taste. A pulmonary complaint cansed Dod- 
dridge to try the climate of Lisbon. lie arrived there on 
the 21st of October, 17.51, but survived only live days. 
As a man he was much beloved, and bis character shines 
forth in his writings. 



YE GOLDEN LAJIPS. 

Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, 

With all your feeble light; 
Farewell, thou ever-changing moon. 

Pale empress of the night ; 

And thou, refulgent orb of day. 

In brighter flames arrayed ! 
My soul, that springs beyond thy siihero, 

No more demands thine aid. 

Yc stars are but tlu' shining dust 
Of my divine abode, — 



V-2 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Tho iiavement of those lieaveuly courts 
Where I shall reiyu with Goil ! 

The Father of eternal light 
Shall there his beams display, 

Nor shall oue momeut's tlarkuess mix 
With that unvaried day. 

No more the drops of piercing grief 
Shall swell into mine eyes ; 

Nor the meridian snn decline 
Amid those brighter skies. 

There all the millions of his saints 

Shall in one song unite, 
And each the bliss of all shall view 

With infinite delight. 



AWAKE, YE SAINTS. 

Awake, ye saints, and raise your eyes. 
And raise yonr voices high ; 

Awake and praise that sovereign love 
That shows salvation iiigh. 

.On all tho wings of time it flies, 

Each moment brings it near ; 
Then welcome each declining day. 
Welcome each closing year ! 

Not many years their round shall run, 

Nor many mornings rise, 
Ere all its glories stand revealed 

To onr admiring eyes ! 

Ye wheels of nature, speed your course ! 

Ye mortal powers, decay ! 
Fast as ye bring the night of death, 

Y'o bring eterual day ! 



EPIGRAM. 

Dr. Johnson jnsUy pvononnces the following "one of the 
finest epigrams in the English langH;ige." It is founiled on 
Doddridge's own fiimily motto of " Dum vivinuis viv.amns" 
(While we live, let us live). 

" Live while you live," the epicure would say, 
" And seize the pleasures of the present day." 
" Live while you live," the sacred preacher cries, 
"And give to God each moment as it flies." 
Lord, in my view let both united be : 
I live in pleasure when I live to Thee! 



HARK, THE GLAD SOUND. 

Hark, the glad sound ! the Saviour comes. 

The Saviour promised long ; 
Let every heart prepare a throne. 

And every voice a song! 
* if « # jf ^* 

He comes, the prisoners to release. 

In Satan's bondage held ; 
TUe gates of brass before him burst. 

The iron fetters yield. 

He comes, from thickest lilms of vice 

To clear the mental ray, 
And on the eyeb,alls of the blind 

To pour celestial day. 

He comes the broken heart to bind, 

The bleeding soul to cure. 
And witli the treasures of his grace 

To enrich the humble poor. 

-.T # -;t ^ # 

Our glad Hosaunas, Prince of Peace, 

Thy welcome shall proclaim. 
And heaven's eterual arches ring 

With thy beloved name. 



3ol)n lUcslcy. 



Son of the rector of Epwortb, in Lincolnshire, John 
Wesley (1703-1791) was educated at Oxford, where he 
and his brother Charles, and a few other students, lived 
after a regular system of pious study and discipline, 
whence they wore tlenominated Methodists. James 
Harvey, author of tlie " Meditations," and George White- 
field, the great preacher, who died at Newburyport, 
Mass., were members of this association. John and 
Charles Wesley sailed for Georgia with Oglethorpe, Oc- 
tober 14tli, 173.5, and anchored in the Savannah River, 
February 6th, 1736. Charles soon returned to England; 
John stayed in Georgia a year and nine months. In 1710 
he began in England that remarkable career as preacher, 
writer, and laborer, which led to the formation of tho 
largo and powerful Methodist denomination. In 1750 
he married, but the union w.as an unhappy one, and sep- 
aration ensued. lie continued his ministerial work np 
to his ciglity-eighth year; his apostolic earnestness and 
venerable appearance procuring for him everywhere pro- 
found respect. His religious poems are many of them 
paraphrases from the German, but have much of the 
merit of original productions. From phenomena in his 
own family, Wesley became a devout believer in preter- 
natural occurrences and spiritual intereommuuicatiou. 
"With my latest breath," he says, "will I bear my tes- 
timony against giving up to infidels one great ijroof of 
the invisible world." 



JUUy WESLEY. — WILLIAM UAMILTOX. 



17:! 



COMMIT THOU ALL THY GRIEFS. 

Fitou THE German of Vkvl Gekiiaiidt. 

Commit tliou all tliy griefs 
Ami ways into liis bands, 
To his sure tiiitli and tciulur care, 

Who earth and licavcn commands; 

Who points the clouds tlnir course, 

Wliom winds and seas obey. 
Ho shall direct thy wandering feet, 

He shall prepare tliy way. 
# » # - 1. » 

(!ive to the winils thy fears; 

Hope, and bo undismayed ; 
God hears thy sighs, and counts thy tears, 

God shall lift uj) thy head. 

Through waves and clouds and storms, 
Ho gently clears thy way; 
Wait thou his time; so shall this night 
Soon cud in joyous day. 

Still heavy is thy heart? 
Still sink thy spirits down ? 
Cast otf the weight, let fear depart, 
And cvci-j- care be gone. 

Wliat though thou nilest not f 
Vet heaven and eartli and liell 
Proclaim, God sitteth on tlie Throne, 
And nileth all things well ! 

Leave to his sovereign sway 
To clioose and to cominnnd ; 
So shalt tliou wondering own, his way 
IIow wise, how strong his band! 

Far, far al)ove thy thought 
llis counsel shall a|ipoar, 
When fully he tlie work liath wrought 
That caused thy needless fear. 

Thou secst our weakness, Lord ! 
Our hearts are known to thee: 
Oh.' lift thon u]i the sinking hand, 
Conlirm the feeble knee ! 

Let ns, in life, in death. 
Thy steadfast Trutli declare. 
And puldi.-.h, with our latest breath, 
Tliy love and giiardiau care ! 



lUilliam £)amilton. 



A n:itive of Ayrshire, in Scotland, Hamilton of Ban- 
gour (170i-17.M) was a man of forltnic anil family. An 
unautlioi'izcd edition of his poems appeared in Glasgow 
in 174S; a genuine edition was published by his friends 
in 1700; and a still more complete one, edited by James 
Patcrson, appeared in 1850. Hamilton was the delight 
of the fashionable circles of Scotland. In 174."> he joined 
the standard of Prince Charles, and, on the downfall of 
the Jiicobitc party, fled to France. He was finally par- 
doned, and his paternal estate restored to him; but he 
did not long live to enjoy it. A pulmonary attack com- 
pelled him to seek a warmer climate, and he died at 
Lj'ous in the fiftieth year of his age. "The Braes of 
Yarrow " is the best known of Hamilton's poems ; in- 
deed, the rest of them are quite worthless. Johnson 
said of his poems, with some justice, that "they were 
very well for a gcullemau to hand about among his 
friends;" but Johnson must have overlooked "The 
Braes of Yarrow," or else he was not in a mood to 
feel its marvellous pathos and beauty. It seems to 
have suggested three charming poems to Wordsworth 
— "Yarrow Unvisited," "Yarrow Visited,"' and "Yar- 
row Kevisited." 



THE BRAES OF YARROW. 

A. Husk yo, busk yc, my bonny, bonny bride ; 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow; 
Busk ye, busk yc, my bonny, bonny bride, 
Aud think nae uiair on the braes of Yarrow. 

/)'. Where gat yo that bonny, bonny bride? 

Where gat yo that wiusomo marrow ? 
A. I gat her where I darcna well be seen, 

Pu'ing the birks' on the braes of Yarrow. 

Weep not, weep not, my bonny, bonny bride: 
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow ! 

Nor let thy heart lament to leave 

Pu'iug the birks on the braes of Yarrow. 

li. Why docs she weep, thy bonny, bonny bride ? 
Why does she weep, thy win.somo marrow? 
And why dare ye nae mair well be seen 
Pu'iug the birks on the braes of Yarrow ? 

A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, nuiiin she 
weep ; 
Lang maun she weep with dulc and sorrow ; 
And lang maun I uao mair well be seen 
Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. 

■ PalliDg the birches. 



174 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



For she lias tint her lover, lover dear, 
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow ; 

And I lia'o slain tlie comeliost swain 

That e'er pu'ed birlis on the braes of Yarrow. 

Why runs tliy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, rcid ? 

Why on tliy braes heard the voice of sor- 
row ? 
And wliy yon melancholions weeds. 

Hung oil the bonny birl^s of Yarrow? 

What's yonder floats on the riiefnl, rueful 
flude ? 

What's yonder floats ? Oh, dulo and sorrow ! 
'Tis he, the comely swaiu I slew 

Upon the dnlcfnl braes of Yarrow ! 

Wash, oh wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, 
His wounds iu tears with dule and sorrow; 

And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, 
And lay him on the braes of Yarrow ! 

Then build, then bnild, ye sisters, sisters sad. 
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow ; 

And weep around iu waeful wise 

His helpless fate ou the braes of Yarrow. 

Curse ye, curse ye, his u.seless, useless shield, 
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow. 

The fatal spear that pierced his breast, 
His comely breast, ou the braes of Yarrow. 

Did I not warn thee not to, not to love, 
And warn from fight ? but to my sorrow, 

O'er-rashly bauUl, a stronger arm 

Thou met'st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow. 

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows 
the grass. 

Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan. 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock. 

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowin'. 

Flows Y'arrow sweet ? As sweet, as sweet flows 
Tweed, 

As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, 
As sweet smells on its braes the birk. 

The apple frae the rock as mellow. 

Fair was thy love, fair, fair indeed thy love ! 

In flowery bands thou him didst fetter : 
Tho' he was fair, and well beloved again, 

Than me he never lo'ed thee better. 



Busk ye, then busk, my bouny, bonny bride ; 

Busk ye, bu.sk ye, my wiusomo marrow ; 
Bnsk ye, and lo'e me on tho banks of Tweed, 

And think uae mair ou the braes of Y'arrow. 

How can I busk a bonny, bouny bride ? 

How can I busk a winsome marrow? 
How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed 

That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow ? 

O Yarrow fields ! may never, never rain 
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover ! 

For there was basely slain my love, 
My love, as he had not been a lover ! 

The boy put on his robe.s, his robes of green ; 

His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewin'. 
Ah, wretched me ! I little, little ken'd 

He was in these to meet his rniu ! 

The boy took out his milk- white, milk- white 
steed, 

Unheedful of my dule and sorrow ; 
But ere the to-fall of the night. 

Ho lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow. 

Much I rejoiced tliat waeful, waeful day; 

I sang, my voice the woods returning ; 
But lang ere night the spear was flown 

That slew my love, and left me mouruiug. 

What can my barbarous, barbarous father do 
But with his cruel rage pursue me? 

My lover's blood is on thy spear ; 

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me ? 

My happy sisters may be, may be proud, 

With cruel and ungentle scofHn', 
May bid me seek on Y'arrow Braes 

My lover nailed iu his coffin. 

My brother Douglas may upbraid, upliraid. 
And strive with threatening words to move me. 

My lover's blood is on thy spear ; 

How canst thou ever bid me love thee? 

Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love ; 

With bridal sheets my body cover; 
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door. 

Let iu the expected husbaud lover I 

But who the expected husband, husband is? 
His hands, methiuks, are bathed iu slaughter : 



JfATHASIEL COTTON.— CHARLES WESLEY. 



175 



All nio ! what gliastly spectre's yoii, 

Coiiu's, ill bis i>iiIo sLroud, blt'Ciling, after f 

Palo as lio is, liero lay him, lay him down ; 

Oil, lay his cold head on my pillow ! 
Take aft", take atV these bridal weeds. 

And crown my careful head willi willow. 

Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beloved. 
Oh could my warmth to life restore thee ! 

Ye'd lio all night betwceu my breasts : 
Xo youth lay ever there before thee. 

Pale, pale indeed, oh lovely, lovely youth ! 

Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter. 
And lio all night bctweeu my breasts ; 

Xo youth shall ever lie there after. 

A. Return, return, oh mournful, niounifMl bride!. 
Return, and dry thy useless sorrow : 
Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs; 

Ho lies a corpse on tho braes of Yan-ow ! 



^'atl)anicl (Tottoii. 



Cotton (1707-17S.S; pulilislied "Visions in Verse" 
(17.51), for cliiklren, and "Works in Prose and Verse" 
(17!tl). He followed tlie medical profession, and was 
distini;uishcd for his skill in the treatment of eases of 
insanity. Cowpcr, the poet, was liis patient, and bears 
testimony to his "well-known humanity and sweetness 
of temper." 



TO-MORROW. 

PEREUNT ET IMPUTANTUR. 
To-niorrow, didst thou say ? 
Jletbonght I heard Horatio say. To-morrow. 
Oo to — I will not hear of it. To-morrow! 
'Tis a sharper who stakes his penury 
.\gainst thy plenty; who takes thy ready ea.sli, 
.\nd pays thee naught but wishes, hopes, and prom- 
ises, 
Tho currency of idiot.s. Injurious bankrupt. 
That gulls the easy creditor! To-morrow ! 
It is a period nowhere to be found 
In all the hoary registers of Time, 
irnless, perehanee, in the fooKs calendar! 
Wisdom <lisclaims the word, nor holds society 
With those who own it. No, my Horatio, 
Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its Father; 
Wrought of such stnll'iia dreams are, and as baseless 
As the fantastic visions of tho evening. 



But soft, my friend; arrest the present moments; 
For, be a.ssured, they are all arrant tell-tales ; 
And though their flight be silent, and their path 
Trackless as the winged couriers of tho air, 
They post to heaven, and there record thy folly ; 
Because, though stationed on tho important wateh, 
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless senliml. 
Didst let them pass unnoticed, uuiinprovi'd. 
And know for that thou sluniberest on tho guard, 
Thou shalt bo made to answer at tho bar 
For every fugitive ; and when then thus 
Shalt stand iniideaded at the high tribunal 
Of hoodwinked Justice, who shall tell thy aiulit ? 

Then stay tho present instant, dear Horatio! 
Imprint the marks of wisd(un on its wings. 
'Tis of more worth than kingdoms — far more pre- 
cious 
Than all tho crimson treasures of lifi's fountains! 
Oh, let it not elude thy grasp, but, like 
The good old patriarch upon record. 
Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee! 



Cljitvlcs lUcslcij. 



Charles Wesley, brother of .John, was born at Epworth 
in 170S ; died in London, 1788. Educated at Oxford, he 
became an able preacher, and nidcd his brother in the 
establishiucnt of Methodism. He wrote liynins, full of 
devotional fervor. " The Wrestler" stamps him a poet. 
Two of Wesley's sons, Charles and Samuel, became emi- 
nent as musicians. 



THE WRESTLER. 

Genesis XX.XII. 24-2G. 

Come, oh tluiu traveller unknown. 
Whom still I hold, but cannot see, 

Jly company before is gone. 

And I am left alone with thee; 

With thee all night I mean to stay. 

And wrestle till the break of day. 

I need not tell thee who I am. 

My mi.sery or sin declare : 
Tliyself hast called me by my nanio ; 

Look on thy hands, and read it there! 
But who, I ask thee, who art Ihou f 
Tell mo thy name, and tell mo now. 

In vain thou striigglest to get free, 
I never will unloose my hold ; 



176 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN I'OETRT. 



Art tliou the Man that died for me t 

The secret of thy love uufold. 
Wrestling, I will not let thee go, 
Till I thy name, thy nature know. 

Wilt thou not yet to me reveal 

Thy new, unutterable name ? 
Tell me, I still beseech thee, tell : 

To know it now, resolved I am : 
Wrestling, I will not let thee go. 
Till I thy name, thy nature know. 

'Tis all in vain to hold thy tongue, 
Or touch the hollow of my thigh : 

Though every sinew be unstrung, 
Out of ray arms thou shalt not tly : 

Wrestling, I will not let thee go, 

Till I thy name, thy nature know. 

What though my shrinking flesh complain, 
And murnnir to contend so long ? 

I rise superior to my paiu ; 

When I am weak, then I am strong : 

And when my all of strength shall fail, 

I shall with the God-Man prevail. 

My strength is gone ; my nature dies ; 

I .sink beueath thy weighty hand; 
Faint to revive, and fall to rise ; 

I fall, and yet by faith I stand : 
I stand, and will not let thee go. 
Till I thy name, thy nature know. 

Yield to me now, for I am weak, 

But confident in self-despair ; 
Speak to my heart, in blessings speak, 

Be conquered by my instant prayer! 
Speak, or thou never hence shalt move. 
And tell me if thy name be Love ? 

'Tis Love! 'tis Love! Thou diedst for me! 

I hear thy whisper in my heart ! 
The morning breaks, the shadows flee ; 

Pure universal Love thou art ! 
To me,, to all, thy bowels move ; 
Thy nature and thy name is Love! 

My prayer hath power with God ; the grace 

Unspeakable I now receive ; 
Through faith I see thee face to face, 

I see thee face to face, and live : 
In vain I have not wept and strove ; 
Thy nature and thy name is Love 1 



I know thee. Saviour, who thou art; 

Jesus, the feeble sinner's friend ! 
Nor wilt thou with the night depart. 

But .stay, and love me to the end ! 
Thy mercies never shall remove, 
Thy nature aud thy name is Love. 

The Sun of Righteousness on mo 

Hath rose, with healing in his wings; 

Withered my nature's strength, from thee 
My soul its life and .succor brings; 

My help is all laid up above ; 

Thy nature and thj' name is Love. 

Contented now upon my thigh 

I halt, till life's short journey end; 

All helplessness, all weakness, I 

Ou thee alone for strength depend; 

Nor have I power from thee to move; 

Thy nature and thy name is Love. 

Lame as I am, I take the prey. 

Hell, earth, aud sin, w ith ease o'ercome ; 
I leap for joy, pursue my way, 

Aud as a bounding hart fly home! 
Through all eternity to prove 
Thy nature aud thy name is Love! 



COME, LET US ANEW. 

Come, let us anew our journey i)ursue — 

Roll round with the year, 
Aud never stand still till the Master appear : 
His adorable will let us gladly fuUil, 

And our talents improve 
By the jiatieuce of hope, aud the labor of love. 

Our life is a dream; our time, as a stream, 

Glides swiftly away, 
And the fugitive moment refuses to stay : 
The arrow is flown, the moment is gone ; 

The millcnial year 
Rushes on to our view, and eternity's near. 

that each, in the day of his coining, may say, 

" I have fought my way through ; 

1 have finished the work thou didst give me to 

do I" 
O that each from his Lord may receive the glad 

word, 

"Well and faithfully done! 
Enter into my joy, aud sit down on my throne !" 



GEORGE, LORD LYTTELTON.— SAMUEL JOHXSON. 



177 



THE ONLY LIGHT. 

Christ, whose glory fills the skica, 
Christ, the true, the only Light, 

Sun of KightcoHsiioss, arise, 

Triumph oVr the shinies of night! 

Day-spriiig from ou liigli, bo near! 

Day-star, iu my heart appear! 

Darli and cheerless is the morn 

Unaccompanied by thee ; 
Joyless is tlie day's return 

Till tliy mercy's beams I see ; 
Till they inward liglit impart. 
Glad my eyes and warm my heart. 

Visit then this sonl of mine. 

Pierce the gloom of sin and grief! 

Fill me, Railiancy Divine, 
Scatter all my unbelief! 

More and more thyself display, 

Shining to tho perfect day. 



(Pcorgc, £orb Ciittclton. 

Lyttclton (liW)-!??:'.), a native of liagloy, and the son 
of a baronet, was educated at Oxford, and at nineteen 
travelled on the Continent. lie is one of the poets ad- 
mitted into Aiken's Collection ; but the most buoyant 
of his proUuetions is the one little song wliieh we sub- 
join. 



TELL ME, MY HEART. 

AVhcn Delia on the plain appears. 
Awed by a thousand tender fears, 
I would approach, but dare not move : 
Tell me, my heart, if this bo love f 

Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear 
No oilier voice but hers can hear. 
No other wit but hers approve: 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love f 

If she some other youth commend. 
Though I was once his fondest friend. 
His instant enemy I prove: 
Tell me, my heart, if this be love T 

When she is absent, I no more 
Delight in all that pleased before, 
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove: 
Tell nie, my heart, if this be love f 
\i 



When, fond of power, of beauty vain. 
Her nets she spread for every swain, 
I strove to hate, but vainly strove : — 
Tell mo, my heart, if this bo love f 



Samuel JJoljiiGon. 

The son of a poor Lichfield bookseller, Johnson (1709- 
1784) fought his way nobly to literary eminence against 
poverty, disease, and adverse fortune. At nineteen he 
went to Oxford, where he stayed three years, and got a 
reputation for his Latin verses ; but his father becoming 
insolvent, he had to leave without taking a degree. In 
17:36 he married Mrs. Porter, a widow twenty years older 
than himself. To her he showed a true attachment as 
long as she lived. In 1738 he began his career iu Lon- 
don with a poem upon "London," which drew from 
Pope tlie remark: "The author, whoever he is, will not 
long be concealed." For ten years more Johnson bat- 
tled on, doing job work for Cave, publisher of the Gm- 
(leinaii's Maijazinc ; and at the age of forty irablishcd 
liis "Vanity of Human Wishes," a poem in imitation 
of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal. The following year ap- 
peared "The Rambler." His "Rassclas" was written 
to pay the expenses of his mother's funeral. His "Dic- 
tionary" occupied eight years of his life. The last of 
his literary labors was "The Lives of the Poets." Of 
this almost forgotten work it has been remarked : " Some 
of his dwarfs are giants; many of his giants have dwin- 
dled into dwarfs." lie could not .ippreciate Jlilton or 
Gray; but he gave importance to versifiers whose very 
names are unfamiliar to the modern reader. 

In 1703 the king conferred on Johnson a pension of 
£300 a year, partly, it maj' be inferred, in consequence of 
his political services; for he wrote a pamphlet entitled 
"Taxation no Tyranny," to show that Samuel Adams, 
George Washington, and the rest of the American mal- 
contents ought to pay their taxes on tea, etc., without 
grumbling. Henceforth he had a comparatively easy 
ti[nc of it, and the Johnson of this period is pretty well 
known. He is as near to us as it is in the power of 
writing to place any man. Everjlhiiig about l]im — his 
coat, his wig, his figure, his face, his scrofula, his St. 
Vitus's dance, his rolling walk, his blinking eye; the 
"flushed face, and the veins swollen on his broad fore- 
head," outward signs which too clearly marked his ap- 
probation of his dinner; his insatiable appetite for fish- 
sauce and veal -pie with plums, his thirst for tea, his 
trick of touching the posts as he walked, and his mys- 
terious practice of treasuring up scraps of oi-ange-pcel ; 
his morning slumbers, his midnight disputations, his 
contortions, his muttcrings, his grunlings, his puffings; 
his vigorous, acute, and ready eloquence ; his sarcastic 
wit, his vehemence, his insolence, his fits of tempestuous 
rage, his queer inmates, shielded by his kindness — old 
Mr. Levett and blind Mrs. Williams, the eat Hodge, and 
the negro Frank — all are as familiar to us ns the objects 
by which we have been surrounded from cbildhood. 

For all this knowledge we arc indebted to Junies Bos- 
well, Esquire," a Scottish advocate, of ehuUow bruin but 



178 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



impci-turbable conceit, the thickness of whose mental 
skin enabled him to enjoy the great Englishman's soci- 
ety, in spite of sneers and insults hurled by day and 
night at his empty head. Not a perfect vacuum, how- 
ever, was that head ; for one fixed idea possessed it— ad- 
miration of Samuel Johnson, and the resolve to lose no 
words that fell from his idolized lips. To this fussy, 
foolish man, the butt and buffoon of the distinguished 
society into wliich he had pushed himself, we owe a 
book wliieh is justly held to be the best biography in 
the English language." 

Johnson's mortal remains were buried in Westminster 
Abbey, near the foot of Shakspeare's monument, and 
close to the grave of Garriek. 



CHARLES XII. OF SWEDEN. 

On what foundation stands the waiTioi's pride, 

How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles' decide: 

A frame of adamant, a soul of lire. 

No dangers friglit hiui, and no labors tire: 

O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 

Uuconqnered lord of pleasure and of pain ; 

No joys to him pacific sceptres yield. 

War sounds the Iruuip, he rushes to the field ; 

Behold, surrounding kings their powers combine. 

And one capitulate, and one resign ; 

Peace courts his hand, hut spreads her charms in 

vain ; 
"Think nothing gained," he cries, "till naught re- 
main ; 
On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards tly, 
And all ho mine heueath the polar sky." 
The march hegins in military state, 
And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 
Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, 
And Winter barricades the realms of frost; 
He conies, nor want nor cold his course delay: — 
Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day! 
The Yauquished hero leaves his broken hands. 
And shows his miseries in distant lauds ; 
Condennied a needy supplicant to wait: 
W^hile ladies interpose, and shaves debate. 
But did not chance at length her error mend? 
Did no subverted empire liiark his end ? 
Did rival monarcbs give the fatal wound ? 
Or hostile millions press him to the ground ? 
His fall was destined to a barren strand, 
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand : 
He left the name, at which the world grew pale. 
To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 

1 Charles XU. of Sweden, defeiiled at the battle of PmUow.i, 
in Jnly, 1TI19, was shot at Frederickshall, ou the coast of Nor- 
way, iu December, 1718. 



ON THE DEATH OF ME. ROBERT LEVETT,' 
A PKACTISER IN PHYSIC. 

Condemned to Hope's delusive mine, 

As on we toil from day to day, 
By sudden blasts, or slow decline. 

Our social comforts drop away. 

Well tried through many a varying year, 
See Levett to the grave descend, 

Officious, innocent, sincere, 

Of every friendless name the friend. 

Yet still he tills Aflection's eye. 
Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind ; 

Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny 
Thy praise to merit unrefined. 

WHien fainting Nature called for aid. 

And hovering Death prepared the blow, 

His vigorous remedy disjilayed 

The i)ower of art without the show. 

In Slisery's darkest cavern known, 

His useful care was ever nigh. 
Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan, 

And lonely Want retired to die. 

No summons mocked by chill delay. 
No iietty gain disdained by pride ; 

The modest wants of every day 
The toil of every day supplied. 

His virtues w-alkcd their narrow round, 
Nor made a pause, nor left a void ; 

And sure the Etern.al Slastcr found 
The single talent well employed. 

The busy day, the peaceful night, 

Uufelt, uncounted, glided by ; 
His frame was firm, his jiowers were bright, 

Though now his eightieth year was nigh. 

Then with no fiery throbbing pain. 

No cold gradations of decay. 
Death broke at once the vital chain, 

And freed his soul the nearest way. 

1 One of the odd pensioners on Johnson's bonnty, and an in- 
mate of his house for tweiUy years. Macauliiy was tempted 
to refer to him as " au old quack doctor, named Levett, who 
bled and dosed coal-heavei's and hackney-coachmen, and re- 
ceived for fees crusts of bread, bits of bacon, glasses of giu, 
and sometimes a little copper." Possibly all Ibis may be a 
trifle unjust. 



SAMUEL JOBXSOX.—HICUAUD GLOrEU. 



179 



CARDIN^UL, WOLSEY. 
From "The Vanity of IItman Wishes." 

Ill full l>l(>\vii (li;;nity see Wolscy Rt;in<l, 
J,a\v ill lii.s voioo, ami fortune in liis hand : 
Til Iiini tlio cliiircli, the roalni, their powers consign, 
Tliroiiijh him tlio rays of ro^al bonnty shine. 
Turned by his nod the stream of honor flows. 
His smile alone security bestows: 
Still to new heights his restless wishes tower, • 
Claim leads to claim, and power advances power: 
Till comiiU'st unresisted ceased to please, 
And rights submitted, left him none to seize. 
At length his sovereign frowns — the train of state 
Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate. 
Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye. 
His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly: 
Now drops at once tlio pride of awful state, 
The golden canopy, the glittering plate, 
The regal palace, the luxurious board, 
The liveried army, and the menial lord. 
With age, with cares, with maladies oppressed, 
lie seeks a refuge of monastic rest: 
(Ji ief aids disease, remembered folly stings. 
And his last sighs reproach tlio faith of kings. 
Speak thon, whoso thoughts at humble peace 
repine, 
.Shall Wolscy's wealth, with Wolsey's end, be thine? 
Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content, 
Tho wisest justice on the banks of Trent? 
Tor why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate, 
Ou weak foundations rai.-!0 tit" enormous weight? 
Why but to sink beneath misfortune's blow, 
Willi louder ruin to the gulfs below? 



NOR DEEJI KELIGION VAIN. 

Where, then, shall Hope and Fear their objects 

lliidf 
Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? 
Must helpless man, in ignorance .sedate, 
\l<>\\ darkling down the torrent of his fate? 
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise. 
No cries invoke the mercies of tho skies? 
Inipiirer, eea.se ; petitions yet remain 
Which lli-aven may hear, nor deem religion vain. 
Still raise for good the supplicating voice, 
liut leave to Heaven the measure and the choice. 
Safe in his power, whoso eyes discern afar 
The secret ambush of a specious prayer, 
liiipUue his aid. in his decisions rest. 
Secure whatc'er lie gives, ho gives tho best. 



Yet when the sense of sacred presence fires. 
And strong devotion to the skies aspires, 
Ponr forth thy fervors for a healthful mind, 
Obedient passions, and a will resigned; 
For love, which scarce collective man can fill ; 
For patience, sovereign o'er trausniuted ill; 
For faith, that panting for a hapjiier seat. 
Counts death kiud Nature's signal of retreat : 
These goods for man tho laws of Heaven ordain. 
These goods he grants,who grants the power to gain ; 
With these celestial Wisdom calms tho mind. 
And makes tho hapx>iuess she does not find. 



ON CLAUDE PHILLIPS, AN ITINERANT 
MUSICIAN IN WALES. 

Phillips! whose touch harmonious could remove 
Tho pangs of guilty power and hapless love. 
Rest here, distressed by poverty no more. 
Find here that calm thou gavest so oft before ; 
Sleep undisturbed within this peaceful shrine. 
Till angels wake thee with .a note like thine. 



Uicljarii (Dloucr. 



Glover (1712-1785), the son of a London merchant, and 
liiiuself a merchant, published two elaborate poems in 
lilank veise — "Leonidas," and "Tlic Atlicuaid." He was 
a member of Parliament for several years, and was es- 
teemed eloquent, intrepid, and incorruptible. He wrote 
two or three tragedies, but they were not successful ou 
the stage. He edited the poems of Matthew Green, and 
seems to have appreciated the peculiar genius of that 
neglected poet. Tho ballad which wo publish from 
Glover's pen is likely to outlast all his cpies and plays. 



ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST. 

Ill 1727 the EDglisli admirnl, Ilosier, blocliadcd Porto-Bcllo 
with twenty ships, but was not allowed to attack ft, war not 
liaviitg nctimlly brotceii ont between England and Spniii ; and 
a peace beinc patched np, his sqandruii was withdrawn. In 
1740, Adniiial Vernon (nfler whom Washington's "Mount Ver- 
non" was named) took Porto-Bello with si.^ ships. It was ap- 
parently a very credtt.abic exploit : but Vernon lieiiiK an enemy 
of Walpolc's, and a memlier of the Opposition, it was glortlled 
by them beyond its merits. Glover is here the mouth-piece of 
the Opposition, who, while they ex.iltcd Vernon, affected to pity 
Hosier, wtio hnd diefl, ns they declared, of a Itrokcn tieart, and 
of whose losses by disease daring; the blockade Ihcy did not 
fail to malce the most. 

As near Porto-Bello lying. 

On the gently swelling flood. 

At niiiliiigbt, with streamers flying, 
tJiir triiiiii|diaiit navy rode; 



180 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



There, nvbile Vernon sat, all glorious 
From the Spaniards' late defeat, 

And bis crews with shouts victorious 
Drank success to Euglaud's fleet ; — 

On a sudden, shrilly sounding, 

Hideous yells and shrieks were heard ; 
Then, each heart with fear confounding, 

A sad troop of ghosts appeared ; 
All in dreary hammocks shrouded. 

Which for -winding-sheets they wore, 
And with looks by sorrow clouded 

Frowning on that hostile shore. 

On them gleamed the moon's wan lustre. 

When the shade of Hosier brave 
His iialo bands was seen to muster, 

Eisiug from their watery grave. 
O'er the glimmering wave bo hied him 

Where the Burford reared her sail, 
With three thousand ghosts beside him. 

And in groans did Vernon hail : 

"Heed, oh heed, onr fatal story, — 

I am Hosier's injured ghost, — 
You who now have purchased glory 

At this place where I was lost : 
Though in Porto-Bello's ruin 

You now triumph free from fears. 
When you think on our undoing, 

You will mis your joy with tears. 

" See these mournful spectres, sweeping 

Ghastly o'er this bated wave, 
Whose wan cheeks are staiued with weeping : 

'J'hese were Engli.sh captains brave. 
Mark those numbers pale and horrid ; 

Those were once my sailors bold : 
Lo ! each hangs his drooping forehead 

While his dismal tale is told. 

" I, by twenty sail attended, 

Did this Spanish town att'right ; 
Nothing then its wealth defended 

But my orders not to fight. 
Oh that in this rolling ocean 

I bad cast them with disdain. 
And obeyed my heart's warm motion 

To have quelled the pride of Spain ! 

" For resistance I could fear none, 
But with twenty ships had done 



What thon, brave and happy Vernon, 
Hast achieved with six alone. 

Then the bastiinentos' never 
Had our foul dishonor seen. 

Nor the sea the sad receiver 
Of this gallant train had been. 

"Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying. 

And her galleons leading home, 
Though, condemned for disobeying, 

I bad met a traitort doom. 
To have fallen, my country crying, 

' He has played an English itart !' 
Had been better far than dying 

Of a grieved and broken heart. 

"Unrepiuiug at thy glory, 

Tiiy successful arms we hail ! 
But remember our sad story, 

And let Hosier's wrongs prevail. 
Sent in this foul clime to languish, 

Thiuk what thousands fell in vain. 
Wasted with disease and anguish. 

Not in glorious battle slain ! 

"Hence, with all my train attendiug 

From their oozy tombs below. 
Through the hoary foam ascending, 

Here I feed my constant woo ; 
Here the bastimentos viewing, 

We recall our shameful doom. 
And our plaintive cries reuewiug, 

Wander through the midnight gloom. 

"O'er these waves forever mourning 

Shall we roam, deprived of rest. 
If, to Britain's shores returning. 

You neglect my just request. 
After this proud foe subduing. 

When your patriot friends you see, 
Tliink on vengeance for my ruin. 

And for England shamed in me !" 



lUilliam Sljcnstouc. 

Slienstone (1714-1763) was born at Leasowes, in Shrop- 
shire. He received liis hij,dici' education at Pembroke 
College, Oxford, but did not take a degree. In 174.5 the 
paternal estate fell to his care, and, as Jobnson cbariic- 
teristically describes it, he began " to point bis pros- 

' Baetimento (Itfilifui), a ship. 



WILLIAM SHENSTOyE. 



181 



pccU, to diversify his surface, to entangle liis wallis, and 
to wind liis waters." Descriptions of the Leasones Imve 
t)ccn written by Dodsley and (ioldsmitli. Tlic property 
was altogellier not worth more tlian £300 per annnm, 
and Shcnstone had devoted so much of his means to ex- 
ternal cmbellisliment, tliiit he liad to live in a dilapidated 
liouse hardly rain-proof. He liad wasted his substance 
in temples, inscriptions, and arlilieial walks. At every 
turn there was a bust or a scat with an inscription. 

Among the inscriptions, that to Miss Dolman is mem- 
orable because of a felicitous sentiment in Latin, often 
quoted : " Peraniabili sua; cousobrina; M. D. Ah 1 Maria ! 
puellarum elcgantissima ! ab llorc venust^itis abrepta, 
vale ! Neu quanta minus rst cum reUquis vcrsari, quani liii 
maninwie ."' In English: "Sacred to the memory of a 
most amiable kinswoman, M. D. Ah ! Maria I most ele- 
gant of nymphs ! snatched from us in the bloom of 
beauty — ah! farewell! Alas! how much less precious is 
it to converse mth others than to remember thee .'** 

Shenstoue's highest effort Is "The School-mistress," 
said to have been written at college In 1736. It is still 
read with pleasure. It is in Imitation of Spenser, and 
" so delightfully quaint and ludicrous, yet true to nat- 
ure, that It has all the force and vividness of a painting 
by 'feniers or Wilkie." Of his other poems, comprising 
odes, elegies, and pastorals, few of them are likely to 
endure iu the survival of the fittest. 



FROM 'THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS." 
Is Imitation of Spi;sseb. 

All me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn, 
To think liow moilcst worth neglected lies, 
While partial Fame ilotli with her blasts adorn 
Such deeds alouo as pride and pomp disguise ; 
Deeds of ill sort, and miscliievons emprize : 
Lend mo thy clarion, goddess ! let nie try 
To soiinil the ]>raise of merit cro it dies, 
Such as I oft have eliancf^d to espy 
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. 

In every village marked with litilo spire, 
Emhowered in trees, and hardly known to fame. 
There dwells, in lowly slia<les and mean .ittiro, 
-V nnitrou old, whom we School-mistress name ; 
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame; 
Tliey grieveii gore, in piteous durance pent, 
Awed by tho power of this relentless dame, 
And ofttimes, on vagari<'s idly bent, 
Tor unkempt hair, or task nneonncd, aro sorely 
shent. 

And all iu sight doth ri.se a birelion-trce. 
Which learning near Ucr little dome did stow. 
Whilom a twig of snuiU regard (o see, 
Though now so wide its waving branches flow; 
And work the simple vassals niiekle woo; 



For not a wind might curl tho leaves that blew, 
But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse beat 

low ; 
And, as they looked, they found their horror grow, 

And shaped it into rods, and tingled at tho view. 
• «#»»»» 

Near to this dome is found a patch so green, 
On which the tribe their gambols do display, 
And at I he dour imprisoning board is seen. 
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray, 
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! 
Tile noises intermixed, which thence resound, 
Do learning's little tenement betray; 
Where sits the dame, disguised iu look profound. 

And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel 
around. 

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow. 
Emblem right meet of decency does yield ; 
Iler aprou, dyed in grain, as blue, I trow, 
As is tho harebell that ad(nus the field ; 
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield 
Tway birchen sprays ; with anxious fear en- 
twined. 
With dark mistrust and sad repentance filled ; 
And. steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined. 
And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. 

One ancient hen she took delight to feed. 
The plodding pattern of the busy dame. 
Which ever and aiicui, ini]u'lled by need, 
Into her school, begirt with chieken.s, came; 
Such favor did her past deportment claim : 
And if neglect had lavished on the ground 
Fragment of bread, she would C(dlect tho same; 
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound. 
What sin it wore to waste tho smallest crumb she 
found. 

« W « « » M 

Right well she knew each temper to descry ; 
To thwart the proud, and tho snbmiss to raise; 
Soino with vilo copper prize exalt on high, 
And some entice with pittance small of praise ; 
And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays : 
E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold, 
While with qnaint arts the giddy crowd she 

sways ; 
Forewarned, if little bird their pranks behold, 
'Twill whisper in her ear, and all tho scene unfold. 

Lo ! now with state she utters the comnLiud ! 
Efl.soons the urchins to their t.asks repair. 
Their hooks, of stature small, they take in hand. 



182 



CrCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Which with pellucid horu secured arc, 
To save from fiuger wet the letters fair ; 
The work so gay, that on their back is seen, 
St. George's high achievements does declare. 
On which thilli wight that has y-gazing been, 
Keus the l"ortli-coniii)g rod, nupleasing sight, I ween. 



WEITTEN AT AN INN AT HEXLEY. 

To thee, fair Freedom, I retire 

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din ; 
Nor art thou fonnd in mansions higher 

Thau the low cot or humble inn. 

'Tis here with boundless jiower I reign, 
Aud every health which I begin 

Converts dull port to bright champagne; 
8nch freedom crowns it at an inn. 

1 lly from pomp, I lly from plate, 
I lly from falsehood's specious griu ; 

Freedom I love, and form I hate. 
Aud choose uiy lodgings at an inn. 

Here, waiter! take my sordid ore. 

Which lackeys else might hope to win ; 

It buys what courts have not in store, 
It buys me freedom at an inn. 

Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, 
Where'er his stages may have been, 

May sigh to think he still has fonnd 
The warmest welcome at an inn. 



(i[|)omas (O^raii. 

The son of a London scrivener in noisy Cornhill, Gray 
(1T16-1T71) wiis nulbrtnn.'ite in his paternal relations. 
His I'iither w:is of a harsh, despotic disposition ; and 
Mrs. Gray was obliged to separate from him, and open a 
millinery shop for her maintenance. To the love of this 
good mother, who lived to witness the eminence of her 
son, Thomas owed his superior education. Her brother 
being a muster at Eton, the lad went there to school, aud 
found among his classmates young Horace Walpolc, with 
whom he became intimate, and after.ward travelled on 
the Continent. At Cambridge Gray seems to have found 
college-life irksome. He hated mathematics and meta- 
physics. He passed his time principally in the study of 
languages and history, leaving in 173S without taking a 
degree. He fixed his residence at Cambridge. Severe 
as a student, he was indolent as an author. His charm- 



ing letters, and his splendid but scanty poetry, leave the 
world to regret his lack of productive industry. He was 
a man of ardent aflections, of sincere piety, and practical 
benevolence ; but his sequestered student-life, and an al- 
fectation of the character of a gentleman who studied 
from choice, gave a tinge of etfeminaey and jiedantry to 
his manners that incurred the ridicule of the wilder spir- 
its of Cambridge. 

The scenery of the Grande Chartreuse iu Dauphine 
awakened all his enthusiasm. He wrote of it : " Not a 
precipice, not a torrent, not a cli.ff, but is pregnant with 
religion and poetry. There are certain scenes tliat would 
awe an atheist into belief, without the help of other ar- 
gument. One need not have a very fantastic imagina- 
tion to see spirits there at noonday." 

Charles Dickens remarked of Gray that no poet ever 
gained a place among the immortals with so small a vol- 
ume under his arm, Gray's first public appearance as 
a poet was in 1747, when his "Ode to Eton College" 
(written in 1743) was published by Dodsley. In 17.51 liis 
" Elegy written in a Country Church-yard" was printed, 
and immediately attained a popularity which has gouc 
on increasing up to the present time. The " Pindaric 
Odes" appeared iu 1757, but met with little success. 
Gray was oflibrcd the appointment of poet-laureate, va- 
cant by the death of CoUey Cibbcr, but declined it, and 
accepted the lucrative situation of Professor of Modern 
History, which brought him in about £400 per annum. 
He died of gout in the stomach, iu the Ufty-fitth year of 
his age. 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- 
YARD. 

Ill .1 letter to liis publisher (1751), Gniy requested that the 
Elegy should be "priuted without any iuterval between the 
stanzas, because the sense is iu some places contiuned beyond 
tliem." In those stanzns to which he refers we have here eu- 
dciivored to conform to his wish by not dividing them. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughmau homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 

And all the air a solemn stillness holds. 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 

The moping owl does to the moou complain 
Of such as, wandering near her .secret bower, 

Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. 
Where heaves the tnrf in many a mouldering 
heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid. 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 



THOMAS GJiAY. 



183 



The breezy call of iiiceiise-bi-catliiii{; morn, 

Tlie swallow twittering from the straw -Vmilt 
slied, 

Tliti cock's shrill clarion, or the eclioiiij; horn, 
No more shall rouse thoin from their lowly bed. 

For tlieni no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or \>nsy housewife jily hir evening care; 

No ehihireii run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his kuces the envied kis8 to share. 

Oft did the h.irvest to their sickle yield, 

Tlieir furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: 

IIiiw jocund did tliey drive their team a-lield ! 
Ilow bowed the woods beneath their sturdy 
stroke ! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 

Tlirir lionuly joys, and destiny obscure ; 
Xor (iraiidcur hear witli a disdainful smilo 

The sliort and siuiph' annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the ])()nip of power, 

And all that beauty, all tliat wealth o'er gave, 

.\wait alike the inevitable hour: 

The paths of gloiy lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, yo proud, impute to these the fault, 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where tlirough the long-drawn aisle and fretted 
vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Hack to its mansion call the fleeting brealli? 
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 

Or I'lattery soothe the dull, cold ear of Death? 
Perhaps in this neglected sjiot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial lire ; 
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed. 

Or waked to ecstasy tho living lyre: 
I!ut Knowledge to tlieir eyes her ample page, 

Kich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 
Chill rennry repressed their noble rage, 

.\iid froze tho genial current of the soul. 

I'lill many a gem of juirest ray serene 

The ilark, nnfathomed caves of ocean bear; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
.\nd waste its swoetncs-s on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little IjTant of his fields withstood; 



Some mute, inglorious Milton hero may rest. 

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

Tho apidauso of listening senates to coinmaiid. 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise. 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 
Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; — 
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 

To qiieneh the blushes of ingenuous shame. 
Or heap tho .shrine of Luxury and Pride 

With incense kindled at the Muse"s flame.' 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 

Tliey kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to protect. 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless scnliitnn' 
di'eked. 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 
The place of fame and elegy supply ; 

And many a, holy text arouiul she strews 
That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who. to dumb Forgetfnlncss a prey. 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned. 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering lo(dc behind f 



* Between this Ptanza and that t>eg:iiiiiiii{:, "Far from tlie 
mixUtiiis crowd's ignoble strife, " came, in Gray's earlier MS. 
draft, lliesc four stanzas niarl^ed at the side for omission, of 
whicli one is used, iu an altered form, lower down : 

"The thonghdcss World to ^lajesly may bow, 
Exalt the brave, and idolize success : 
Bin more to Innocence their safety owe 
Than Power and Genius e'er conspired to bless. 

"And thou who, mindful of th' nuhonored dead. 
Dost in these uotcs their artless tale relate. 
By Night and lonely Contemplation led 
Ti> Huijcr iu the gloomy walks of Fate, 

" Ilark bow the sacred cnltn that broods around 
Itida every tierce, tumultuous passion cease. 
In still small accents whispering; from the ground 
A grateful earnest of eternal pence. 

"No more, with Reason and thyself nl strife. 
Give anxious cares and endless wishes room ; 
But through the cool, sequestered vale of life 
Pursue tlie silent tenor of thy doom." 



184 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



On some foiid breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops tbe closing eye requires ; 

Even from tlie tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
Even iu our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the uuhouored dead. 

Dost iu these lines their artless tale relate. 
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led. 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 

" Oft hare we seen him at the jjeep of dawn 
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away 

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beecli, 
Tliat wreatlies its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch. 
And iioro upon the Ijrook that Vialjbles by. 

"Hard by you wood, now smiling as in seovu, 
Mutteriug his wayward fancies, he would rove. 

Now drooping wofiil-wan, like one forlorn. 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless 
love. 

"One morn I missed him on the 'customed liill. 
Along the lieatli, and near his favorite tree ; 

Another came, nor yet beside the rill. 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. 

"The next witli dirges due in sad array 

Slow through the church-way path we saw him 
borne. 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) tlie lay 
Graved on tlie stone beneath you aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown. 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 
He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear. 

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a 
friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread .abode 

(There they alike in trembliug hope repose). 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON 
COLLEGE. 

"Al'^pUTTO?" (Kavi; Trpatpairi^ cip to Avct'XiTv. — MeSANDER. 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers. 

That crown the watery glade. 
Where grateful Science still adores 

Her Henry's' holy shade ! 
And ye that from the stately brow 
Of Windsor's heights the expanse below 

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
Whose turf, whose shade, whoso flowers among 
Wanders the hoary Thames along 

His silver-winding way : 

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! 

Ah, fields beloved in vain ! 
Where once my careless childhood strayed, 

A stranger yet to pain ! 
I feel the gales that from ye blow 
A momentary bliss bestow. 

As, waving fi'esh their gladsome wing, 
Jly weary soul they seem to soothe. 
And, redolent of joy and youth, 

To breathe a second spring. 

Say, Father Thames, — for thou hast seen 

Full mau_y a sprightly race. 
Disporting on thy margent green, 

The paths of pleasure trace, — 
Who foremost now delight to cleave 
Witli pliant arm thy glassy wave ? 

The captive linnet which iuthrall? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed. 

Or urge the flying ball ? 

While some, on earnest business bent, 

Their murmuring labors ply 
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint 

To sweeten liberty, — 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign, 

And unknown regions dare descry: 
Still as they run they look behind. 
They hear a voice in every wind, 

And snatch a fearful joy. 

Gay hope is theirs, by Fancy fed. 

Less pleasing when jiossessed ; 
The tear forgot as soon as shed. 

The sunshine of the breast ; 

^ Khig Henry VI., ftiuiider of the college. 



THOMAS GHAT.— JAMES MEERICE. 



185 



Theirs buxom lu'altli, of rosy hue; 
■\Vil(l wit, invoiitiou ever new, 

Ami livrly clicpv of vigor bom ; 
The Ihoiijihllcss day, tho Ciusy night. 
Till' spirits imro, the slumbers light, 

That tly the approach of moru. 

Alas! regardless of their doom, 

Tlio little victims jday! 
No sense have they of ills to come, 

Nor care beyond to-day. 
Yot see how all around them wait 
Tlio ministers of human fate, 

Aud black Misfortune's baleful train ! 
Ah, show them where in ambush stand. 
To seize their prey, the niurd"rous baud! 

Ah, tell them they are men ! 

These shall the fury Passions tear, 

The vultures of the mind — 
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 

And Shame, that skulks behind ; 
Or pilling Love shall waste their youth, 
Or Jealousy, with raukling tooth, 

That inly gnaws the secret heart, 
And Knvy wan, and faded Care, 
Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair, 

And Sorrow's piercing dart. 

Ambition this sh.ill tempt to rise. 

Then whirl tho wretch from high. 
To bitter .Scorn a sacrilice, 

And grinning Infamy. 
The stings of Falsehood those shall try, 
Aud hard I'nkindness' altered eye. 

That mocks the tear it forced to (low; 
And keen Uemorse, with blood deliled, 
Aud moody Sladness, laughing wild 

Amid severest woe. 

Lo! iu ilio v.ale of years beneath 

A grisly troop are seen. 
The painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their queen: 
This racks tho joiuts, this fires tho veins, 
That every laboring sinew strains, 

Those in the deeper vitals rjige : 
I.o. I'overty, to nil the baud. 
That UMiiibs the siuil with icy hand. 

And slow-consuming Age. 

To each his sufferings : all arc men, 
Condemned alike to groan : 



The tender for another's pain, 

Tho unfeeling for his own. 
Yet ah! why should they know their fate, 
Since sorrow never comes too late, 

Aud happiness too swiftly flies f 
Thought would destroy their Paradise. 
No more : where ignorance is bliss, 

'Tis folly to be wise. 



JJituics iUcir'uk. 

Merrick (1720-17G!)) was a clergyman, as well as a 
writer of verse. He protbicetl a version of the Psalms, 
a Collection of Hymns, and a few miscellaneous poems. 
His "Chameleon" is still buoyant anion;; the produc- 
tions that the world does not willingly lot die. At Ox- 
ford, Merrick was tutor to Lord Tloilh. Owing to in- 
cessant pains in the head, he was obliged to abandon 
his vocation of clergyman. 



THE CHAMELEON. 

Oft has it been my lot to mark 
A proud, conceited, talking spark, 
With eyes that hardly served at most 
To guard their master 'gainst a post; 
Yet round the world tho blade has licen, 
To see whatever could bo seen. 
Returning from his finished tour, 
Orowu ten times perter than before, — 
AVhatever word you chance to drop, 
The travelled fool your mouth will stop : 
" Sir, if my judgment you'll allow — 
I've seen — aud sure I ought to know."— 
So begs you'd pay a due submission. 
And .acquiesce in his decision. 

Two travellers of such a cast, 
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed. 
And on their way, in friendly chat, 
Now talked of this, and then of that. 
Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other inalter, 
Of tho chameleon's form and nature. 
"A stranger animal," cries one, 
" Sure never lived beneath the sun : 
.V lizard's body, lean and long, 
A fish's head, ,a serpent's tongue. 
Its foot with tri]ilo claw disjoined; 
And what a length of tail beliinill 
How slow its pace! aud then its Into — 
Who ever saw so fine .a blue !'' 

" ll<dd, there!" the other quick replies: 
"'Tis green; I saw it with these eyes. 



186 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



As liite M'ith open nioutb it lay, 
Aiul warmed it in the suuny ray ; 
Stretched at its ease the beast I vie\red, 
And saw it eat the air for food." 

'■I've seen it, sir, as well as you, 
And must again atiirm it bine. 
At leisure I the beast surveyed, 
Extended in the cooling shade." 

" 'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye." — 
" Green 1" cries the other, in a fury ; 
" Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes ?" — 
" 'Twero no great loss," the friend replies ; 
" For if they always use you thus, 
You'll find them but of little use." 

So high at last the contest rose. 
From words they almost came to blows : 
When luckily came by a third : 
To him the question they referred ; 
And begged he'd tell them, if he knew, 
Whether. the thing was green or blue. 

" Sirs," cries the umpire. " cease your pother, 
The creature's neither one nor t'other. 
I caught the animal last night. 
And viewed it o'er by candle-light : 
I marked it well — 'twas black as jet. 
You stare ; but, sirs, I've got it yet. 
And can produce it." — "Pray, sir, do; 
I'll lay my life the thing is blue." — 
"And I'll be sworn that when you've seen 
The reptile, you'll prououuco him green." — 
" Well, then, at once to end the doubt," 
Replies the man, "I'll turn him out; 
And when before your eyes I've set him. 
If you don't fmd hira black, I'll eat him." 

He said : then full before their sight 
Produced the beast ; and lo ! 'twaa white. 

Both stared; the man looked wondrous wise. 
" My children," the chameleon cries 
(Then first the creature found a tongue), 
" You all are right, and all are wrong. 
When next you talk of what you view. 
Think others see as well as you. 
Nor wonder if you find that none 
Prefers your eyesight to his own." 



iUavk vlkcnsibc. 

The autlior of " Pleasures of Imagination" (1721-1770) 
was the sou of a butcher at Newcastle-upon-Tyne. An 
accident in his early years — the fall of one of his fiither's 
cleavers on his foot — rendei-ed liini lame for life. His 
parents were Dissenters, and Mark was sent to the Uni- 



versity of Edinburgh to be educated for the Presbyterian 
ministry. He entered, however, the ranks of medicine, 
and received in 17il the degree of M.D. from the Uni- 
versity of Leyden. As a boy of sixteen, lie had con- 
tributed pieces of some merit to the Oentlemau's Maga- 
zine. His "Pleasures of Imagination," publislied wlieu 
he was twenty-three years old, placed him in the list of 
conspicuous poets. Instead of pressing forward to bet- 
ter things, he passed several years in altering and re- 
modelling his first successful poem ,- but he gained noth- 
ing in reputation by the attempt, and died before it was 
completed. His Hymns and Odes are deservedly for- 
gotten. 

Removing to London, Akcnside took a house in 
Bloomsbury Square, where he resided till his death. As 
a physician, he never rose to eminence. His manner in 
a sick-room was depressing and unsympathetic. His 
chief means of support were derived from the liberality 
of his friend Jeremiah Dyson, a man of fortune, who se- 
cured to him an income of £300 a year. As a poet, 
Akcnside may not have reached the highest mark ; but 
bis "Pleasures of Imagination" will always be regarded 
as a remarkable iirodnction for a youth of twenty-three. 
In our extracts we have preferred the original text. Few 
of the author's subsequent alterations are improvements. 
Gray censures the tone of f\ilse philosophy which he 
found in the work. 



THE SOUL'S TENDENCIES TO THE INFINITE. 

Frosi '*TnE Pleasures of Imagination." 

Say, why was man so eminently raised 

Amid the vast creation ; why ordained 

Through life and death to dart his piercing eye, 

With thoughts beyond the limit of his frame ; — 

But that the Omnipotent might send him forth 

In sight of mortal and immortal powers. 

As on a boundless theatre, to run 

The great career of justice; to exalt 

His generous aim to all diviner deeds ; 

To chase each partial purpose from his breast : 

And through the mists of passion and of sense, 

And through the tossing tide of chance and pain. 

To hold his course uufalteriug, while the voice 

Of Truth and Virtue, up the steep ascent 

Of Nature, calls him to his high reward. 

The applauding smile of Heaven ? Else wherefore 

burns 
In mortal bosoms this unquenched hope, 
That breathes from day to day suljlimer things, 
And mocks possession ? wherefore darts the mind. 
With such resistless ardor to embrace 
Majestic forms ; impatient to bo free. 
Spurning the gross control of wilful might ; 
Proud of the stroug contention of her toils ; 
Proud to be dariug ? • » * 



MA UK AKESSIDE. 



187 



THE HIGH-UORX SOUL. 

Trom ** The TLEAsriiEs of Imagination," 

* * " Tlio liigli-boiu soul 
Disdains to rest her heaveu-aspiring wing 
Beneath its native qnarry. Tired of Earth 
And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft 
Througli fu'lds of air; pursues the Hying storm; 
Kiiles on tlio volleyed lightning through tlie 

Heavens ; 
Or, yoked with whirlwinds and the northern blast, 
Sweeps the long tract of day. Then high she soars 
The lilue profound, and, hovering round the sun, 
JJeluilds hiui pouring the redundant stream 
Of liglit ; beludds his unrelenting sway 
Bend the reluctant planets to abs(dve 
The fated rounds of Time. Thence far effused 
She darts her swiftness np tlie long career 
Of devious comets; through its burning signs 
Exulting measures the perennial wheel 
Of Xatnre, and looks back on all the stars. 
Whose blended light, as with a milky zone, 
Invests the orient. Now amazed she views 
The empyreal waste, where happy spirits hold. 
Beyond this concave Heaven, their calm abode ; 
And fields of radiance, whoso uufadiug light 
Has travelled the profound six thousand years, 
Nor yet arrives in sight of niort.il things. 
Even on the barriers of the world untircd 
She meditates the eternal depth below; 
Till half recoiling, down the headlong steep 
She plunges; soon o'erwhelmeil and swallowed up 
In that immense of being. There her hopes 
Kest at the fated goal. Eor from the birth 
Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said. 
That not in humble nor in brief delight. 
Not ill the fading echoes of Kenown, 
Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap. 
The soul shonhl find enjoyment ; but from these 
Turning disdainful to an e<iual good. 
Through all the .ascent of things enlarge her view, 
Till every bound at length should disappear, 
And iuQuito perfection close the scene. 



MIND, THE FOUNT OF BEAUTY. 
FnoM "The Tleascres of Imagination." 

* * • Thus doth Beauty dwell 
There most conspicuous, even in outward shape, 
Where d.'twns the high expression of a mind : 
Ity steps conducting our enraptured search 
To that eternal origin, whose power, 



Through all the unbounded syiiimetry of things. 

Like rays elTulging from the i)arcnt sun. 

This endless mixture of her charms dill'n.sed. 

Mind, mind alone (bear witness. Earth and Heaven) 

The living fountains in itself contains 

Of beauteous and sublime: here, hand in hand, 

Sit paramount the Graces ; here enthroned. 

Celestial Venus, with divinest airs, 

Invites the soul to never-fading joy. 

Look then abroad through Nature, to the range 

Of planets, sun.s, and adamantine spheres, 

Wheeling unshaken through the void immense ; 

And speak, O man ! does this capacious scene 

With half that kindling majesty dilate 

Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose 

Kefulgent from the stroke of Cicsar's fate. 

Amid the crowd of patriots ; and his arm 

Aloft extending, like eternal Jove, 

When guilt brings down the thunder, called alonil 

On TuUy's name, and shook his erinison steel. 

And bade the father of his country hail ? 

For lo ! the tyrant prostrate on the dust, 

And Rome agaiu is free .' » » • 



THE ASCENT OF BEING. 

From " The Pleasures of Imagination." 

* * * Through every age, 
Through every moment up the tract of time. 
His parent-hand, with ever-new increase 
Of happiness and virtue, has .adorned 
The vast harmonious frame : his parent-hand. 
From the mute shell-fish gasping on the shore, 
To men, to angels, to celestial minds, 
Forever leads the generations on 
To higher .scenes of being; wliile, supplied 
From day to day with his enliveniug breath, 
Inferior orders iu succession rise 
To fill the void below. As flame ascends, 
As bodies to their proper ceiitre move. 
As the poised ocean to the attracting Moon 
Obedient swells, and every headlong stream 
Devolves its winding waters to the main; — 
So all things which have life aspire to God, 
The Sun of being, boundless, unimpaired. 
Centre of souls! Nor does the faithful voice 
Of Nature cease to prompt their eager steps 
Aright ; nor is the care of Heaven withheld 
From granting to the task proportioned aid ; 
That in their stations all may pensevere 
To climb the ascent of being, and approach 
Forever nearer to the Life Divine. 



188 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETKY. 



THROUGH NATURE UP TO NATURE'S GOD. 

Fkom " The Pleascres of Imagination." 

Oil blest of Heaveu ! ^vbom not the lauguiil songs 

Of Luxury, tlio siieu ! uot the bribes 

Of soriliJ Wealtb, uor all tbe gaudy spoils 

Of pageant Honor, can seduce to leave 

Those ever-blooming sweets, wbicb from tbe store 

Of Nature fair Imagination culls 

To charm tbe enlivened soul ! What though not 

all 
Of mortal offspring can attain the heights 
Of envied life ; though only few i)ossess 
Patrician treasures or imperial state ; — 
Yet Nature's care, to all her children just. 
With richer treasures and au ampler state. 
Endows at large whatever happy man 
Will deigu to use them. His the city's jiomji, 
Tbe rural honors his. Whato'er adorns 
The princelj' dome, the column and tbe arch. 
The breathing marbles and tbe sculptured gold. 
Beyond tbe proud possessor's narrow claim. 
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the spring 
Distils her dews, and from tbe silken gem 
Its lucid leaves unfolds ; for liim, tbe band 
Of Autumn tiuges every fertile branch 
With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. 
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings, 
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk. 
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze 
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes 
The setting Sun's effulgence, uot a strain 
From all the tenants of the warbliug shade 
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake 
Fresh pleasure, unreproved. Nor thence par- 
takes 
Fresli pleasure only ; for the attentive mind. 
By this harmonious action on her powers, 
Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft 
lu outward things to meditate the charm 
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home 
To find a kindred order, to exert 
Within bcr.self this elegance of love, 
This fair inspired delight: her tempered powers 
Refine at length, and every pa.ssion wears 
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. 

* * * Thus tbe men 
Whom Nature's works can charm, with God him- 
self 
Hold converse ; grow familiar, day by day, 
With his conceptions, act upon bis plau ; 
And form to his, the relish of their souls. 



lUilliam (HoUins. 



Four years younger than Gray, Collins (1721-1T.5S1) died 
insane at the age of thirty-nine. The son of a hatter, hu 
was born at Chichester on Christmas-day, was educated 
at Winchester and Oxford, and gave early proofs of poet- 
ical ability. lie went to London full of high hopes and 
magnificent schemes. Ambitious and well-educated, he 
wanted that steadiness of application by which a man 
of genius may hope to rise. In 1746 lie published his 
"Odes," which had been bought by Millar, the book- 
seller. They failed to attract attention. Collins sank 
under the disappointment. He is said to have purchased 
the unsold copies of the edition, and burnt them. He 
became still more indolent and dissipated. In 1750 his 
reason began to fail, and in 1754 he had become hope- 
lessly insane. 

Residing for a time at Richmond, Collins knew and 
loved Thomson, who is supposed to have sketched bis 
friend in the following lines from "The Castle of Indo- 
lence:" 

"Of .ill the gentle tenants of the place, 
There was a maa of special grave remark ; 
A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face. 
Pensive, uot sad ; ill thought iuvolved, uot dark. 

Teu thousand glorious 83'Stems would he build, 

Ten thousand great ideas filled his mind : 

But with the clouds they tied, and left no trace behind." 

Johnson met Collins one day, carrying with him an 
English Testament. "I have but one book," said the 
unhappy poet, "but it is the best." Though neglected 
on their first appearance, the "Odes" gradually won 
their way to the reputation of being the best things of 
the kind in the language. The "Ode on the Tassions," 
and that to "Evening," are the finest of his lyrical 
works; but his "Ode on the Death of Thomson," in 
its tenderness and pathos, is worthy of being associated 
with them. After his death there was found among bis 
papers an ode on the "Superstitions of the Highlands," 
dedicated to Home, the future author of "Douglas." 
Either throngli fastidiousness or madness, Collins com' 
mitted to the flames many unpublished pieces. 



ODE, WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746. 

How sleep tbe brave who sink to rest, 
By all their country's wishes blest ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returus to deck their hallowed mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung. 
By forms nnseen their dirge is sung ; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless tbe turf that wraps their clay; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair. 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 



WJLLIAil COLLIXS. 



189 



ODE TO KVEXING. 

If aii^lit of oatcu stop or pastoral soug 

May hope, chaste Eve, to soollic tliy modest ear, 

Like tliy own solemn springs, 

Tby springs, and dying gales ; 

O nymph reserved, while now the hright-haiied Snn 
Sits in yon western tent, whose clondy sUirts, 

AVith brcde ethereal wove, 

O'erhang his wavy bed, — 

Ki)W air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat 
Witli short, shrill shriek Hits by on leathern wing; 

Or where the beetle winds 

His small but sullen horn, 

As oft ho rises 'mid the twilii;lit jintli. 
Against the pilgrim borne in boeilless hum ; — 

Now teach nn-, maid composed. 

To breathe some softened strain. 

Whoso numbers, stealing through thy darkening 

vale. 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit, 

As, musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial, loved return ! 

For when thy folding-star, arising, shows 
His paly circlet, — at his warning lamp 

The flagrant Hours, ami Elves 

AVlio slept in buds the day. 

And many a Njmph who wreathes her brows with 

sedge. 
And sheds Uie freshening dew, and, lovelier still. 

The pensive Pleasures sweet, 

Prepare thy shadowy car. 

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, 
Or fnid some ruin 'mid its dreary dells, 

Whoso walls more awful nod 

I'y thy religious gleams; 

Or, if chill, blustering winds, or driving rain, 
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut 

That, from the mountain's siile. 

Views wilds, and swelling floods, 

And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires. 
And hears their siniplo bell, and marks o'er all 

Thy dewy fingers draw 

The gradual dusky veil. 



While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont. 
And bathe thy breathing tres.ses, meekest Eve! 

While Summer loves to sport 

Ueueath thy lingering light; 

While sallow Antumn fills thy lap with leaves ; 
Or Winter, yelling through tho troublous air, 

AtlVights lliy shrinking train, 

And rudely rends tby robes ; 

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule. 

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Sciouco, smiling Peace, 

Tliy gentlest influence own. 

And love thy favorite name ! 



ODE OX THE DEATH OF THOMSON. 

The scene of the following &t.tuzns is supposed to lie on the 
Thames, near Riclinioud. 

In yonder grave a Druid lies. 

Where slowly winds tho stealing wave : 
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise, 

To deck its poet's sylvan grave. 

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds 
His airy harp' shall now be laid. 

That ho whose heart in sorrow bleeds 

May love through life the soothing shade. 

Then maids and youths shall linger here, 
And, while its sounds at distance swell, 

Shall sadly seem, in Pity's ear, 

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. 

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore 

When Thames in summer wreaths is drost, 

And oft suspend the dashing oar 
To bid his gentle spirit rest! 

And oft, as Ease and Health retire 

To breezy lawn or forest deep, 
The friend shall view yon whitening spire,' 

And 'mid the varied landscape weep. 

Hut thou, who own'st that earthly lied. 

All, what will every dirge avail f 
Or tears which Love and Pity shed. 

That mourn beneath the gliding sail f 



1 The harp of JSohis, of which sec a description in '*The Cas- 
tle of Indolence." 
' Mr. 'i'hoinsou was bnried in Richmond Chnrch. 



190 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Yet lives there oue wbose heedless eye 

Shall scoru thy jiale shrine glinimering near? 

With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die, 
And Joy desert tlic Ijloomiug year. 

Bnt thon, lorn stream, whose sulleu tide 
No sedge-crowned sisters now attend, 

Now waft me from the green hill's side 
Whose cold tnrf hides tlie bnried friend ! 

And see, the fairy valleys fade ; 

Dun Night lias veiled tlie solemn view! 
Yet once again, dear parted shade. 

Meek Natnre's eliild, again adien ! 

The genial meads' assigned to bless 
Thy life shall mourn tliy early doom I 

Their binds and sliepherd-girls shall dress 
With simple bands thy rnral tomb. 

Long, long thy stone and pointed clay 
Shall melt the mnsing Briton's eyes : 

" vales and wild woods !" shall be say, 
"In yonder grave your Drnid lies!" 



THE PASSIONS. 

AN (IDE FOB MUSIC. 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung. 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell. 
Thronged around her magic cell. 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting. 
By turns tbey felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, retiued ; 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
And, as they oft had beard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Eacli (for Madness ruled the hour) 
Would prove bis own expressive power. 

First, Few bis band, its skill to try, 
Amid the chords bewildered laid. 

And back recoiled, be knew not why, 
E'en at the sound himself bad made. 



1 Mr. Thomson resided in the neighborliontl of Riclirnoiul 
some time before his dcatli. 



Next Anger rnshed : his eyes on fire 
lu ligbtuiugs owned his secret stings; 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre. 

And swept with burried hand the strings. 

With wofnl measures wan Despair, 
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled ; 

A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair. 

What was thy delighted measure 1 

Still it whispered promised pleasure. 

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 
Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale. 
She called on Echo still, through all the song : 
And where her sweetest tbeme she chose, 
A soft responsive voice was beard at every close ; 
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden 

hair. 
And longer had she sung, — bnt, with a frown, 

Eevenge impatient ro.se. 
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, 
And, with a withering look. 
The war-denouncing trnmpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread. 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ! 
And ever and anon be beat 
The doubling drum with fnrious beat: 
And though sometimes, each dreary pause be- 
tween. 
Dejected Pity, at his side, 
Her soul-subduing voice applied. 
Yet still be kejit bis wild, unaltered mien, 
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting 
from his head. 

Thy numbers. Jealousy, to nauglit were fixed — 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 
Of ditfering themes the veering song was mixed, 

And now it courted Love, now, raving, called on 
Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, 

Pale Melancholy sat retired. 

And, from her wild, sequestered seat. 

In notes by distance made more sweet. 

Poured through the mellow born ber pensive soul ; 

And, dashing soft from rocks around, 

Bnlibling runnels joined the .sound. 
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure 
stole : 



WILLIAM COLLIKS.— TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLETT. 



liU 



Or, o'er soiiio liaiinted stream, with fond delay, 
l£i)uml a lioly calm dirt'iisiiifr, 
I,()V(> of peace, ami lonely miisiiiK. 
In hollow munutirs dicil away. 
Hut oil, how altered was its spriglitlier tone 
When Cheerfnlness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 
Her bow across her slionlder llnng, 
Iler bnskins gemmed with morning dow, 
Hlew an inspiring air that dale and thicket rnng, 
The hnnter's call, to Faun and Uryad known! 
The oak-crowned Sisters and their chaste-eyed 

Qneen,' 
Satyrs and Sylvan Boys were seen, 
reepiiig from forth their alleys green : 
ISrown Kxercise rejoiced to hear. 

And Sport leaped np ami seized his beechen 
spcMir. 
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 
He, with viny crown advancing, 

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; 
Hut soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, 

Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best: 
They wonld have thonght who heard the strain 
Tli( y saw, in Tempi's vale, her native maids. 
Amid file festal-sonnding shades. 
To some iinwearied minstrel dancing. 

While, as his ilyiug lingers kissed the strings. 
Love framed with Mirth a gay, fantastic rouml: 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbonnd ; 
And he, amid his frolic play, 
As if he wonlil the charming air repay. 
Shook tlionsand odors fiom his dewy wiugs. 

() Mnsic ! sphere-descended maid. 
Friend of riiasnre, Wisdom's aid ! 
Wliy, goddess, why, to ns denied, 
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside f 
As, in that loved Athenian bower. 
Yon learned an all-commanding power. 
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endeared. 
Can well recall what then it heard. 
Wliere is thy native simple heart, 
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art f 
Arise, as In that elder time. 
Warm, energetic, cha.ste, sublime ! 
Tliy wonders in that godlike age 
Fill thy reconling Sister's page. 
'Tis saiil — and I believe tho tale — 
Thy hnmblest reed could more prevail, 
Had more of strengtb, diviner rage, 
Than all which charms this laggard age ; 

' The Drynda and Diniia. 



E'en all at once together found 
Cecilia's mingled world of sound — 
Oh, bid onr vain endeavor cease ; 
Revive the just designs of Greece ; 
Eeturn In all thy simple state ; 
Conlirm tho tales her sons relate! 



(Tobias (!?eorgc Smollett. 

Better known as a novelist than as a poet, Smollett 
(1721-1771), a native of Cardross, in Scotland, was edu- 
cated at Dumbarton, and thence proeeeilcd to Glasgow 
to study mediciue. Literature and history, however, be- 
came his passion. At eighteen he wrote a tragedy, en- 
titled "The Regicide." It never got possession of the 
stage. In 1741 lie sailed as surgeon's mate in a ship of 
the line in the expedition to Carlhageua, which he de- 
scribes in "Roderick R;nulom." Having quilted the 
service, he resided for a time in Jamaica, whcic he fell 
in love with Miss Lasecllcs, whom ho manicd in 1747. 
He wrote, in 1740, " The Tears of Scotland," his principal 
poem. After passing some time in France and Italy, lie 
established himself as a phj-siciau at Bath. His health 
declining, he took up his residence at Leghorn, in Italy, 
where he died, aged lifty. 



THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. 

Written on the barb.arilies committed la the Highlands by 
the Euglish forces under the Duke of Cunibcrtand, after the 
battle of Cnllodeii, 1756. It is said that Smollett originally fin- 
ished the poem in six stanzas ; when, some one remarking that 
such a diatribe against government might injure his prospect*, 
he sat down and added the still more pointed invective of the 
seventh stanza. 

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, raonrn 

Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn! 

Thy sons, for valor long renowned. 

Lie slaughtered on their native ground ; 

Thy hospitable roofs no more 

Invite the stranger to tho door; 

III smoky ruins sunk they lie. 

The uioniinients of cruelty. 

Tho wretched owner sees afar 
His all become the jtrey of war ; 
Bethinks him of his babes and wife. 
Then smites his breast, and eur.ses life. 
Thy swains are famished on the rocks. 
Where once they fed their wanton Hocks: 
Thy ravished virgins shriek in vain ; 
Thy infants perish on the plain. 

What boots it, then, in every dime. 
Through tlic wide-spreading waste of time. 



192 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Thy martial glory, crowned witli praise, 
Still sUoiie -with undimiuisbed blaze ? 
Tliy towering spirit now is liroke, 
Tliy neck is bended to the yoke. 
What foreign arms conld never quell, 
By civil rage and rancor fell. 

The rural pipe and merry lay 
No more shall cheer the happy day : 
No social scenes of gay delight 
Beguile the dreary winter night : 
No strains but those of sorrow flow. 
And nanght be heard but sounds of woe, 
AVIiilo the pale phantoms of the slaiu 
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. 

Oh baneful cause, oh fatal morn, 
Accursed to ages yet iiuboru! 
The sous ag.iinst their fathers stood, 
The iiareut shed his children's blood. 
Yet, whcu the rage of battle ceased, 
The victor's soul was not appeased : 
The naked and forlorn mn.st feel 
Devouring llames and murdering steel! 

The pious mother, doomed to death, 

Forsaken wanders o'er the heath. 

The bleak wind whistles round her head, 

Her helpless orphans cry for bread ; 

Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, 

She views the shades of night descend. 

And, stretched beneath the inclement skies, 

Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. 

While the warm blood bedews my veins. 
And nuinipaired remembrance reigns, 
Resentment of my country's fate 
Within my filial breast .shall beat; 
And, spite of her insulting foe. 
My sympathizing verse shall flow : 
" Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn 
Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn !" 



ODE TO LEVEN -WATER. 

On Leveu's banks, while free to rove, 
And tune the rural pipe to love ; 
I envied not the hapjiiest swain 
That ever trod the Arcadian plain. 

Pure stream ! in whose transparent wave 
My 5'outhful limbs I wont to lave ; 



No torrents stain thy limpid source ; 
No rocks impede thy dimpling course. 
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed. 
With white, round, polLshed pebbles spread ; 
While, lightly poLsed, the scaly brood 
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood ; 
The spriuging trout in speckled pride ; 
The salmon, monarch of the tide ; 
The ruthless pike, intent on war; 
The silver eel, and mottled par. 
Devolving from thy parent lake, 
A charming maze thy waters make, 
By bowers of birch, and groves of piue, 
And hedges flowered with eglantine. 
Still on thy banks so gayly green. 
May numerous herds and flocks be seen. 
And lasses chantiug o'er the pail, 
And shepherds piping in the dale; 
And ancient Faith that knows no guile, 
And Industry embrowned with toil ; 
And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, 
The blessings they enjoy to guard ! 



iJolju tjomc. 



Home (1733-1808), author of "Douglas," w.is a native 
of heitli, Scotland, where his father was town-clerk. He 
entered the Chiu'ch, and succeeded Blair, author of "The 
Grave," as minister of Athelstaneford. Previous to this 
he had had some military experience, and tMkon up arms 
as a volunteer against the Chevalier. After the defeat 
at Falkirk, he was imprisoned, but efl'eetcd his escape by 
cutting his blanket into shreds, and letting himself down 
on the ground. Great indignation was raised against 
him by the Scotcli Presbyterians because of liis writing 
a play, and he was obliged to resign his living. Lord 
Bute rewarded hira with a sinecure office in ITCiO, and he 
received a pension of £300 per annum. He wrote other 
tragedies, which soon passed into oblivion; but witli an 
income of about £600 per annum, and with an easy, 
cheerful disposition, and distinguished friendships, he 
lived happily to the age of eighty-six. 



THE SOLDIER-HERMIT. 

FBOM " DODGLAS," A TEAGEDY. 

Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote 

And inaccessible by shepherds trod, 

In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand, 

A hermit lived ; a melancholy man. 

Who was the wonder of our wandering swains. 

Austere and lonely, cruel to himself, 

Did they report him ; the cold earth his bed. 

Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms. 



niLLIAM MASOX.—MISS JJXE ELLIOT. 



193 



I wcut to SCO liini, and my heart was touched 

AVilli reverence! and with jiity. MiM he spake; 

And, entering on discourse, such stories told, 

As made nio oft revisit his sad cell ; 

Tor he had been a soldier in his yontli, 

And lon^jht in famous hattk's, when the jieera 

Of Europe, hy the ohl (iiidtVedo led 

Against the usurping iiilidel, disphiyed 

Tlic l)le8s<^d cross, and won the Holy Laud. 

Pleased with my admiration and the firo 

His speech struck from me, tlie old man would shake 

His years away, and act his young encounters. 

Tlien. liaving showed his wounds, he'd sit him down, 

.\nd all the live-long day discourse of war. 

To Iielp my fancy, in the smooth green turf 

He cut the figures of the marshalled hosts ; 

Described the motions and ex]>laiiied the use 

Of tlio deep cohimii and the lengthened line. 

The square, the crescent, and the jihalaiix lirm ; 

I'or all that Saracen or Christian kiuw 

Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known. 

Why this brave soldier iu a desert liicl 
Those qualities that should have graced a camp. 
At last I also learned. T'nhappy man ! 
Iieturniug homeward by Messina's port. 
Loaded with wealth and honors, bravely won, 
A rude and boisterous captain of tho sea 
Fastened a quarrel on him. Fierce thcj' fonght : 
The stranger fell ; and, with liis dying breath. 
Declared his name and lineage. "Mighty heaven!" 
The soldier cried— "My brother! oh, my brother !" 
They exeliangcd forgiveness. 
And happy, in my mind, was he that died; 
For many deaths has the survivor sullered. 
Iu the Willi desi'rt, on a rock, he sits. 
Or on some nameless stream's untrodden banks. 
And rumiiuites all day his dreadful fate : 
At times, alas! not in his perfect mind, 
Holds dialogues with his loved brother's ghost; 
And oft, each night, f(Usakes his sullen couch. 
To make sad orisons for him he slew. 



lUilliam iHason. 

Mason, a native of Yorkshire (1T3.5-17U7), was the 
friend nud literary executor of Gray, whose acquaint- 
ance he made nt Cambridirc. lie became eliaplain to 
llie king, and wrote plays and odes after Greek models; 
but tliey lack vitality. In 1781 he published a didactic 
poem, "The English Garden," in blank verse, a stitTnud 
mucli p:ubk'(l jiroduction. In one genuine little poem, 
an cpita]i|i on liis wife, he seems to be betrayed into 
true feeling, and to escape from that " etatclincss and as- 
13 



sumed superiority of manner" which Aikin refers to as 
Airaeteristic of Mason's external demeanor, but which 
seems to have iuflueuced his interior nature so far as to 
liave deadened all spontancousncss in liis poetical utter- 
ances. It sliould be remarked that tbc last four lines of 
the " Epitaph on Mrs. Mason " were supplied by Gray. 



EPITAPH 0-\ MRS. MA80X, IX THE CATHE- 
DRAL OF BRISTOL. 

Take, holy earth, all that my soul holds dear ; 

Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave! 
To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling earo 

Her faded form ; she bowed to taste tho wave, 
And died. Docs youth, does beauty, read the liuof 

Does sympathetic fear tlnir breasts alarm f 
Speak, dead Maria! breathe a strain divine! 

Even from the grave thou shalt have power to 
cliaru). 
Bid them be chaste, bo innocent, like thee; 

Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move ; 
And if so fair, from vanity as free, 

As firm in friendship, and as fond in love, — 
Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die 

('Tw.as even to thee), yet, the dread path once 
trod. 
Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high. 

And bids tho pure in heart behold their God. 



illiss lauc €lliot. 

Two Scottish national ballads, bearing the name of 
"The Flowers of the Forest," both the composition of 
ladies, are among the curiosities of literature. The first 
of the two versions, bewailing the losses sustained at 
Floddcn, was written by Miss Jane Elliot (1?27-1.S05), 
daughter of Sir Gilbert Elliot, ofMinto. 

The second song, which appears to be on the same 
subject, but was in reality suggested (according to 
Cluimbers) by the bankruptcy of certain gentlemen in 
Selkirkshire, is by Alicia Kuthcrfoid, of Fainialie, who 
was afterward married to -Air. Patrick Cockburn, advo- 
cate, and died in Edinburgh iu 1794. She foresaw and 
proclaimed the promise of Walter Scott. 



THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 

LAMENT FOR FLODDEN. 

I've heard them lilting' at our yowe-milking, 
Lasses a-lilting before the dawn o' day; 

But now they are moaning in ilka green loaning'- 
Tho Flowers of tbo Forest are a' wede away. 



SlngiD-; cheerfully. 



' A broad loue. 



194 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



At bucbts' in the moruiug, uae blithe huls are 
scorning,' ^ 

The Jasscs are louely and dowie' and vac ; 
Nae dafBnV nae gabbiii',' but sighing and gabbing; 

Illi ane lifts her legleu/ and hies her away. 

In hairst, at the shearing,' nae youths now are 
jeering ; 

The baudsters' are lyart' and runklcd" and gray; 
At fair or at preaching nae wooing, nae tleeching" — 

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming, 
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle'" to play ; 

Bnt ilk ane sits drcarie, lamenting her dearie — 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

Dule'° and wao for the order, sent our lads to the 

Border ! 

The English, for ance, by guile wau the day ; 

The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the 

foremost, 

Tlie prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. 

We bear nae niair lilting at our yowe-milking ; 

Women and bairns are heartless and wae : 
Sighing and moaning in ilka green loaning — 

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 



iUvs. Alicia (Uutljcrforir) (Hockburu. 

Mrs. Cockburn (171SJ-1T94) was a native of Fairualie, in 
Selkirkshire. Her father was Robert Rutherford. There 
seems to be some doubt whether her one fine lyric was 
not written prior to tluit of Miss Elliot. See furtlier 
particulars, page 103. 



THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 

I've seen the smiling 

Of Fortune beguiling ; 
I've felt all its favors, and found its decay : 

Sweet was its blessing. 

Kind its caressing ; 
But now 'tis fled — fled far away. 

I've seen the forest 
Adorned the foremost 



With flowers of the fairest, most pleasant and gay ; 

Sae bonny was their blooming. 

Their scent the air perfuming ! 
But now they are withered and weeded away. 

I've seen tlie moruiug 

With gold the bills adorning. 
And loud tempest storming before the mid-day; 

I've seen Tweed's silver streams, 

Shining in the sunny beams. 
Grow drnmly and dark as he rowed on his way. 

O fickle Fortune ! 

Why this cruel sporting ? 
Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day ? 

Nae mair your smiles can cheer nie, 

Nae mair your frowns can fear me : 
For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 



(Dlincv (!?oli)5imtlj. 



1 Pens for sheep. 

^ Joking. 

' Re.iping. 
'» Wrinkled. 
18 Sorrow. 



= Rallying. 
' Cliafflng. 
8 Sheaf-binders. 
" Coaxing. 



3 Dreai-y. 
« Milk-pail. 
" Giizzled. 
'= Ghost. 



The son of a humble Irish curate, Goldsmith (1728- 
1774) was born in Longford County, Ireland. lie re- 
ceived his education at the universities of Dublin and 
Ediubui'gli, and passed a winter at Leyden, where he 
lived chiefly by teaching English. After spending near- 
ly all the money he had just borrowed from a friend in 
buying a parcel of rare tulip-roots for his uncle Conta- 
rine, who bad befriended him, lie left Leyden, "with a 
guinea in his pocket, but one shirt to his back, and a 
flute in his hand," to make the grand tour of Europe, 
and seek for his medical degree. He travelled through 
Flanders, France, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy— of- 
ten trudging all day on foot, and at night playing merry 
tunes on his flute before a peasant's cottage, in the hope 
of a supper and a bed; for a time acting as companion 
to the rich young nephew of a pawnbroker; and iu Italy 
winning a shelter, a little money, and a plate of maca- 
roni by disputing in the universities. 

In 1756 he arrived poor iu London, and made a desper- 
ate attempt to gain a footing in the medical profession. 
After working for awhile with mortar and pestle as an 
apothecary's drudge, he commenced practice among the 
poor of Southwark. Here we catch two glimpses of his 
little flgure — once, in faded green and gold, talking to an 
old school-fellow in the street; and again, in rusty black 
velvet, with second-hand cane and wig, trying to conceal 
a great patch iu his coat by pressing his old hat fashion- 
ably against his side. 

In 1759 he published his "Present State of Literature 
in Europe:" he also began a series of light essays, enti- 
tled "The Bee;" but the "Bee" did not make honey for 
him ; it expired in eight weeks. At Newberry's book- 
store he became acquainted with Bishop Percy, who in- 
troduced him to Dr. Johnson, May 31st, 1761. About 
that time Goldsmith lodged with a Mrs, Fleming. It 
was in her lodgings that, being pressed either to pay 
his bill or to marry his landlady, he applied for help to 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



195 



Dr. Johnson. On that occasion the MS. of "The Vicar 
of Walvctield " was produced. Joliuson was so niueli 
stniclv wilh it tliat he ne;j(>liatcd its sale, and obtained 
fOO fur the worli, whcietjy Goldsniitli was extricated 
from his ditlicullies, and from Mrs. Fleming. 

In 170.5 "The Traveller" was published. Its success 
was immediate, and its author was at once recognized as 
a man of mark in all literary circles. The foUowin;; year 
" The Vicar of Wakelield," which Newberry had not yet 
ventured to publish, appeared, and was welcomed as the 
most delightful of domestic novels. "The Good-natured 
Man," a comedy, was brought out at Covent Garden in 
ITti-S : and in 177.5 Goldsmilli's great dramatic success 
was made in the production of "She Stoops to Con- 
quer," an admirable and well -constructed play, which 
still keeps possession of the stage. The year 1770 saw 
the publication of the most famous poem from his pen, 
"The Deserted Village." 

In maturer age, as in youth. Goldsmith was careless, 
improvident, and unable to keep the money he earned. 
He hung loosely on society, without wife or domestic 
tie. ne received £8.50 for "The History of Animated 
Nature," largely a translation from Buflbn. But debt 
had him in its talons. Still he would give away to any 
needy person the last penny he had in his own pocket. 
His chambers were the resort of a congregation of poor 
people whom he habitually relieved. At last Goldsmith 
grew to be abrupt, odd, and abstracted. The alarm of 
his friends was excited. At that date a literary associ.a- 
tion used to meet at St. James's CotTec-liouse. Garrick, 
Burke, Cumberland, Reynolds, and others were regular 
attendants. A night of meeting having arrived, and 
Goldsmith being late, as usual, the members amused 
themselves by writing epitaphs on him as " the late Dr. 
Goldsmith." When he came, these effusions were read 
to him. On returning home, he commenced his poem 
entitled "Retaliation." It was never completed, for fe- 
ver seized him at his work. A doctor being called in, 
asked, "Is your mind at ease?" "No, it is not," were 
the last words Goldsmith uttered. He was seized wilh 
convulsions on the morning of April 4th, 1774, and died, 
at the age of forty-six. He was £2000 in debt. " Was 
ever poet so trusted before!" exclaimed Johnson. 

Goldsmith is described by a lady who knew him— the 
daughter of his friend. Lord Clare — as one "who was a 
strong republican in principle, and who would have been 
a very dangerous writer if he had lived to the times of 
the French Revolution." His " Deserted Village " shows 
his profound sensibilities in behalf of the poor and un- 
friended. The verse of this exquisite poem is the con- 
ventionally stiff heroic couplet ; but it assumes an case 
and grace in Goldsmith's hands which relieves it of all 
artilicial monotony. 

The monument to Goldsmith in Poet's Corner, West- 
minster Abbey, bears nu inscription in Latin from the 
pen of Dr. Johnson, which says: "He left scarcely any 
style of writing untouched, and touched nothing that he 
did not adorn ; of all the passions (whether smiles were 
to be moved or tears) a powerful yet gentle master; in 
genius sublime, vivid, versatile; in style elevated, clear, 
elegant. The love of companions, the lldelity of friends, 
and the veneration of readers, have liy \UU monument 
honored his memory." 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

.Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of tho plain ! 
Where bciilth and jjlenty chcercil tho laboring 

swain ; 
W^here smiling Spring its earliest visit paiil. 
And partiug Summer's lingering blooms delayed! 
Dear bively bowers of innocence and ease, 
Seats of my youtb, when every sport could please, 
How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 
Where bumble happiness endeared each scene ! 
How often have I paused ou every charm — 
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 
The never-failing brook, tho busy mill. 
The decent church that topped tho neighboring hill, 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. 
For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 
How often have I blessed the coming day. 
When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
And all the village train, from labor free, 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 
■While many a pastime circled in the shade. 
The young conteudiug as the old surveyed ; 
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the grouud. 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went 

round ; 
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired. 
The dancing pair that simply sought reuown, 
By holding out to tiro each other down ; 
Tlio swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
AVliile secret laughter tittered round the place ; 
Tho bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove : 
These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like 

these, 
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
These round thy bowers their cheerful inlluence 

shed, 
These were thy charms — but all these charms are 

fled. 
Sweet, smiling village, loveliest of the lawn ! 
Thy sports are fled, and all Ihy charms withdrawn : 
Amiil thy bowers tho tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain. 
.\nd half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
But, choked with .sedges, works its weary way: 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amid thy desert-walks the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 



196 



CXCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Sunk are thy bowers in sliapeless ruin sill, 
Aud the loug grass o'ertops tlie mouldering wall ; 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand. 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening Ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates aud men decay. 
Princes and lords may flourish or may fade ; 
A breath cau make them, as a breath has made : 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
AVLen once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, e'er England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintained its man; 
For him light labor spread her wholesome store. 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 
His best companions innocence and health, 
And his best riches ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altered : trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose. 
Unwieldy wealth aud cumbrous pomp repose. 
And every want to luxury allied, 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Tliose calm desires that asked but little room, 
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful 

scene, 
Lived in each look, aud brightened all the green ; 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
And rural mirth aud manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! jiareut of the blissful hour ' 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's i>ower. 
Here, as 1 take my solitary rounds, 
Amid thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 
Aud, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew. 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care. 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, 
Amid .these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
Aud keep the flame from wasting, by repose ; 
1 still had hopes (for pride attends us still) 
Amid the swains to show my book-learned skill ; 
Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
Aud tell of all I felt, and all I -saw : 
And, as a hare whom hounds aud horns pursue 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexatious past. 
Here to returu — aud die at home at last. 

O blest retirement! friend to life's decline! 
Retreats fioni care that never must be mine ! 



How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, 
A youth of labor with an ago of ease! 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
Aud, since 'tis hard to' combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
No surly porter stands, iu guilty state. 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate : 
But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 
Sinks to the grave wjth iinperceived decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his iirospeets brightening to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's 

close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; 
There, as I jiassed with careless steps aud slow, 
The mingling notes came softened from below : 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung. 
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young. 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 
The playful children just let loose from school, 
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering 

wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of iiopulation fail. 
No cheerful murinurs fluctuate iu the gale. 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 
But all the bh)oming flush of life is fled : 
All but yon widowed, solitary thing. 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 
She, wretched matron, forced iu age, for bread, 
To strip the brook with mautling cresses spread. 
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn : 
She only left of all the harmless train. 
The sad historian of the iiensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild, 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear. 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year; 
Eemote from towns he ran his godly race. 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wi-shed to change, his 

place ; 
Unskilful he to fawn or seek for power 
By doctrines fa.sliioned to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 



OLIVKU GOLDSMITH. 



I'.IT 



His linnso was kiiowu to all tlio vagrant train — ■ 
He cliiil tluir waiuiriings, Imt relieved tlioir pain ; 
Tlio loiig-reMRinliereil l)eg;j;ar was bis S"^'sf, 
Wlioso beard, descending, swept his agtf'd breast; 
Tlie mined spendtbrift, now no longer proud. 
Claimed kindred tboro, and had his claims allowed ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 
Sat by his lire, and talked the night away; 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how lields wcro 

won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to 

glow. 
And finite forgot their vices in their woe; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus, to relieve the wretched was his pride ; 
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side ; 
Unt in bis duty prompt, at every call, 
He watched and wopt, ho prayed and felt, fur all : 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its now-fledged ofl'spring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, aiul led tho way. 

Ueside the bed where parting life was laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed. 
The reverend champion stood. At bis control 
IJcspair aud anguish tied tlio struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to rai^e, 
Aiul his l.i.st faltering accents whispered praise. 

At cliurch, with meek and nnati'ectcd grace, 
His looks adorned tho venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 
Aud fools who came to scofT remained to pray. 
The service past, arouiul tho pious man, 
Willi steady zeal, each honest rustic ran : 
Kvi'U children followed with endearing wile, 
.\uil plucked his gown to share tho good man's 

smile ; 
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed — 
Their welfare pleased biui, and their cares dis- 
tressed : 
To them his heart, his love, bis griefs, wore given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. 
As some tall clitl', that lifts its awful form. 
Swells from tho vale, .and midwa,v leaves the storm. 
Though round its breast tho rolling clouds are 

spreail. 
Eternal (*unshino settles on its head. 

Besido yon straggling fence that skirts tho way. 
With blossomed furzo unprofitably gay, 
There, in his noisy mansion, Nkilb'il to rule, 
Tho village master taught his littlo school. 



A man severe he was, aud stern to view ; 
I knew him well, aud every truant knew: 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face; 
Full well they laughed with counterreitcd gleo 
At all his jokes (for many a joke had he) ; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round. 
Conveyed tho dismal tidings when he frowned. 

Yet ho was kind, or, if severe iu aught. 
The love ho bore to learning was iu fault : 
The village all declared how much ho knew — 
'Twas certain ho could write, and cipher too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
And e'en the story ran that ho could gauge. 
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill. 
For e'en, though vanquished, ho could argue still ; 
While words of learni^d length and tluindcrijig 

sound 
Amazed tlie gazing rustics ranged aroinid ; 
And still they gazed, and still tho wonder grew 
That one small bead could carry all he knew. 

But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumphed ts forgot. 

Xear yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
Where ouce the sign-post canght the passing eve, 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts 

inspired, 
Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retired ; 
Where village statesmen talked with looks pro- 
found. 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive place : 
The whitewashed wall, tho nicely-sanded floor, 
Tho varnished clock that clicked behind tho door ; 
Tho chest contrived a double debt to pa.v — 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by ilay; 
Tho pictures placed for ornauicut and use, 
The twelve good rules, tho royal game of goose ; 
Tho hearth, except when wiuter chilled the day, 
With aspen boughs aud flowers and fennel gay ; 
Wbilo broken teacups, wisely kept for show, 
Kanged o'er tho chimney, glistened iu .1 row. 

Vain transitory splendors ! could not all 
Reprieve tho tottering mansion from its fall ! 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to tho poor man's heart : 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale. 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more tho smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; 



198 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISS AND AMERICAN POETUY. 



Tliu bost himself no longer shall be fonnil, 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed, 
Shall kiss the cnii to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm than all the gloss of art; 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 
Tlie soul adopts, and owns their tirst-liorn sway ; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant niiud, 
Uneuvied, nnraolested, unconfined. 
But the long jiomp, the midnight masquerade, 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into jiain ; 
And, even -while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. 

Yo friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
'Tis yonrs to judge bow wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
.Proud swells tfbe tide -with loads of freighted ore. 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound. 
And rich men flock from all the world around ; 
Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
Takes np a space that many poor supplied — 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
Sjiace for his horses, equipage and hounds: 
The robo that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
Has robbed the neighboring tields of half their 

growth ; 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
Ai'ound the world each needful product tlies. 
For all the luxuries the world supplies. 
While thus the land adorned for pleasure, all 
In barren splendor feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female, unadorned and ]ihiin, 
Secure to please while youth coufirms her reign, 
Slights every borrowed charm that dress sup- 

jilies, 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; 
But when those eliarnis are past (for charms are 

frail). 
When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress : 
Thus fares the laud by luxury betrayed. 
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed ; 



But, verging to decline, its splendors rise, 

Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 

While, scourged by famine, from the smiling laud 

The mournful peasant leads his humble baud ; 

And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 

The country blooms — a garden and a grave ! 

Where, then, ah, where shall Poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If to some common's fenceless limits strayed. 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
Those feuceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
Aud e'eu the bare-worn common is denied. 

If to the city sped — what waits him there ? 
To SCO profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten tlibu.s.iud baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade. 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; 
Here, while the proud tlifir long-drawu pomp di.s- 

plny. 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way ; 
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign. 
Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train ; 
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the bl.azing square, 
The rattling chariots chi.sh, the torches gl.are. 
Sure, scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
Sure, these denote one universal joy! 
Are these thy serious thonghts ? Ah, turn thine 

eyes 
Where the poor houseless, shivering female lies: 
She, once perhaps iu village plenty blessed, 
Has wept at tales of iuuoceuce distressed ; 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn : 
Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue, fled. 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her bead ; 
And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the 

shower. 
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour 
When idly first, ambitious of the town, . 
She left her wheel aud robes of country brown. 

Do thiup, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train. 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
E'eu now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
At proud men's doors tlioy ask a little bread ! 

Ah no. To distant climes, a dreary scene. 
Where half the convex world iutrudes between. 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go. 
Where wild Altama munuurs to their woe. 
Far different there from all that charmed before, 
The various terrors of that horrid shore: 



OUTER GOLDSMITH. 



199 



Those blazing suus tUat dart :i ilowiiwanl ray, 
.AimI flerci'ly shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
I!nt silent bats in drowsy elusters eling ; 
Those poisonous fields with rank luxniianee erowiied, 
Wliero the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; 
Where croiieUing tigers wait their hapless prey, 
Anil savage men, nune ninrd'rons still than they; 
While ol't in whirls the mad tornado tlics, 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
Far dift'ercnt these from every former scene — 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that part- 
ing day, 
That called them from their native walks away. 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, 
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
For scats like tlieso beyond the western main, 
And, shuddering still to face the distant di'cp, 
Keturncd and wept, and still returned to weep. • 
The gooil old sire the first prei)ared to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept fcu' others' woo ; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 
Ho only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of bis helpless years, 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 
And left .a lover's for her father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
And blessed the cot wlioro every plcusure rose ; 
And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear. 
And clasped them closi', in sorrow doubly dear; 
While her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

O Luxury ! thou cursed by Heaven's decree, 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
IlilVuse their pleasures only to destroy! 
Kingdoms, by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
Ho.Tst of a florid vigor not their own : 
At every draught more largo and large they grow, 
A bloated m;i,ss of rank, unwieldy woe; 
Till, s.ippi'd their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

I"en now the devastation is begun. 
And half the business of destruction done; 
E'en now, mcthinks, as pondering here I stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 



Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail. 
That idly waiting Haps with every gale. 
Downward they move, a melancholy band, 
I'ass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented toil, and hospitable care. 
And kiud connubial teuderuess, are there ; 
And piety with wishes placed above, 
And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade! 
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shanu'. 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame. 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
>Iy shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
Thou source of all my bli.ss, and all my woe. 
That fonnd'st me poor at first, and kecp'st me so; 
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel. 
Thou nur.sc of every virtue, fare theo Avell ; 
Farewell ! and oh, where'er thy voice bo tried, 
Om Torno's clitt's, or Painbaniarca's side, 
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow. 
Or winter wraps tlio i)olar world in snow, 
Still let thy voice, prev.ailing over time, 
Kedre.ss the rigors of th' inclement clime ; 
.\id slighted Truth with thy persuasive strain, 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him that states, of native strength possessed. 
Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
As ocean sweeps the labored mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy, 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 



FROJI "THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT 
OF SOCIETY." 

Of the pinn ot this poem, M:icaulny snys : "An Kn^lish w.in. 
dcrcT, setited on a crng ainonp tlic Alps near the point where 
three great countries meet, Imiks down on the boundless pros- 
pect, reviews fiis long pilgrimage, recalls the variations of 
cccnery, of climate, of government, of religion, of national char- 
acter which he has observed, and comes to the conclusion, just 
or unjust, that our happiness depends Utile on political insli- 
lulitnis, and much on the temper and regulation of our own 
minds." Jobnsou is said to have contributed the Inst ten lines 
of the poem, excepting the last couplet but ouc. 

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow. 
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po ; 
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
Against the. houseless stranger shuts (he door; 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste expanding to the skies ; 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
My heart, und'.ivelh'il, fondly turns to thee: 



200 



CYCLOPEDIA OF sniTISB AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Still to my brotber turns ■with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengtbeuiug cliain. 

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
And round bis dwelling giuiidiau saints attend ; 
Blest be that spot, where clieerful guests retire 
To pause from toil, and trim their evening lire; 
Blest that abode, where want and paiu repair. 
And every stranger finds a ready chair ; 
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned, 
Where all the ruddy family around 
Langb at the jests or pranks that never fail. 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food. 
And learu the luxury of doing good. 

But me, not destined snch delights to share. 
My prime of life in wandering sjjent and care ; 
Impelled with steps unceasing to iiursuo 
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view 
That, like the circle bounding earth aud skies, 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone. 
And iind no spot of all the world my own. 

Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend; 
And jilaoed on high above the storm's career, 
Look downward where a hundred realms apjiear; 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains exteuding wide. 
The .pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 

When thus creation's charms around combine. 
Amid the store, .should thankless pride repine ? 
Saj', should the philosophic mind disdain 
That good which makes each humbler bosom 

vain ? 
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can. 
These little things are great to little man ; 
And wiser be, who.se sympathetic mind 
Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendor 

crowned ; 
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
Ye bending swains, that dress the tlowery vale. 
For nie your tributary stores combine ; 
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine. 

As some lone miser, visiting his store, 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er, 
Hoards after boards his rising raptures fill, 
Y'et still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still;" 
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise. 
Pleased with each good that Heaven to m.an sup- 
plies ; 
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 



And oft I wish, amid the scene to find 

Some spot to real hapjiiness consigned. 

Where my woru soul, each wandering hope at rest. 

May gather bliss, to see my fellows blest. 

But where to find that happiest spot below, 
Who can direct, when all i)retend to know ? 

Jr TV # ?r « * 

Vain, very vain, my weary .search to find 
Tliat bliss which only centres in the mind. 
Why lia\e I strayed from pleasure and repose, 
To seek a good each government bestows? 
In every government, though terrors reign. 
Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, 
How small, of all that human hearts endure. 
That part which laws or kings can. cause or cure! 
Still to ourselves in every place cousigued. 
Our own felicity wo make or find : 
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy. 
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel,' 
To men remote from power but rarely known, 
Leave reason, faith, and cou.science all our own. 



RETALIATION : 

INCLUDING EPIT.\PPIS ON THE MOST DISTINGUISHED 
WITS OF THE METROPOLIS. 

Of old, when Scarron his companions invited. 
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was 

united ; 
If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish, 
Let each guest bring himself — and he brings the 

best dish : 
Our dean" shall be venison, just fresh from the 

plaius ; 
Our Burke .shall be tongue, with a gariii.sh of brains; 
Our Will' shall be wild-fowl of excelleut flavor, 
And Dick' with his pepper shall heighten their savor; 
Our Cumberland's sweetbread its place shall obtain, 
And Dougla.s^ is pudding, substantial and plain ; 
Our Garrick's a salad ; for in him wo see 
Oil, vinegar, sugar, aud saltness agree ; 
To make out the dinner, full certain I am. 
That Ridge° is anchovy, and Eeynokls is lamb ; 

1 George and Luke Dosa were two brothers who headed a 
revolt against the Hungarian nobles in 1514; aud George, not 
Luke, underwent the torture of the red-hot iron crown as a 
punishment for allowing hiini^elf to be proclaimed King of 
Uungary by tlie rebels. lioswel! gives Zeck as their name. 

Danlieus (Robert Franfois) was put to death with frightful 
tortures, in IT.^7, for an attempt to assassinate Louis XV. 

3 Doctor Barnard of Derry. 3 William Blirke. 

< Kicliard Burke. ' Cauou of Windsor. " An Irish lawyer. 



OLIVER aOLDSMITn. 



201 



That llickcy's' a capon ; and, by the same rule, 
Magiianiiiions (ioldsniith a jiooscberry fool. 
At a (liiiiier so vaiioiis, at siuh a repast, 
Who'd not bo a glutton, and stick to the last? 
llcic, waiter, more wine I let mo sit while I'm able, 
Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
Then, with chaos and blunders ('ncirclin>; my head, 
Let me ponder, and tt-U what I think of tlio dead. 

Here lies the good dean, reunited to earth. 
Who mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom with 

mirth : 
If he had any faults, ho has left ns iu donbt — • 
At least, in six weeks, I could not find 'em out ; 
Vet some have declared, and it can't bo denied 'em, 
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to bide 'em. 
Hero lies onr good Edmnnd,^ whose genius was 

sncli, 
Wo scarcely can praise it, or blame it too murh ; 
Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind, 
And to party gave np what was meant for mankind ; 
Though fraught witli all learning, yet straining his 

throat 
' To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote ; 
Who, too deej) for his liearers, still went on refining. 
And thought of convincing, wliile they thought of 

dining ; 
Though eiinal to all things, for all things unfit; 
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; 
For a patriot too cool, for a drndgo disobedient, 
' And too fond of the right to jjursne the expedient. 
Iu short, 'twas his fate, nuemphiyed, or in place, sir, 
To cat mutton cobl, and cut blocks with a razor. 
Here lies honest William, whoso heart was a 

miut, [was in't : 

While the owner ne'er knew half the good that 
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, 
His conduct still right, with his argun\cut wrong; 
Still aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam — 
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home. 
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none; 
What was good was spontaneous ; his faults were 

his own. [at; 

Hero lies honest Kichard, wliosc fate I must sigh 
-Vla.s, that such frolic should now bo so quiet! 
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim! 
Now breaking a .jest, ami now breaking a limb ; 
Xow wrangling and grnmbling to keep np the ball; 
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at .•ill ! 
In short, so provoking a devil was IJick, 
That wo wished liiui lull ten times a day at Old 

Nick ; 



' Au erahieut ntluriicj. 



' Edmund Bnrkc. 



But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, 
As often wo wished to have Dick back again. 

Hero Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, 
The Terence of England, tho mender of hearts; 
A nattering painter, who mado it his caro 
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. 
His g.allants are .all faultless, his women divine, 
And comedy wonders at being so fine ; 
Like a tragedy queen he has dizencd her out. 
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. 
His fools havo their follies so lost in .a crowd 
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; 
And coxcombs, alike iu their failings alone. 
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. 
Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? 
Or wherefore his cLaracters thus without fault? 
Say, was it that vainly directing his view 
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, 
Quito sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 
lie grew lazy at last, aud drew from himself? 

Here Douglas retires, ft-om his toils to relax, — 
The scourge of impostors, tho terror of qyacks. 
Como, all yo quack bards, and yo quacking divines. 
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant 

reclines ! 
When satire atul censure encircled his throne, 
I feared for your safety, I feared for my own ; 
But now ho is gone, and we want a detector ; 
Onr Podds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture, 
Maci>lwrson write bomb.ast, and call it a style, 
Our Townslicud make speeches, and I shall compile ! 
New Laudei-s and IJowcra tho Tweed shall cross over, 
No countryman living their tricks to discover; 
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark. 
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in tho 
dark. 

Hero lies David Garrick, describe me wlio can. 
An abridgment of all that was pheasant in man : 
As an actor, confessed without rival to shine ; 
As a wit, if uot first, in the very first line; 
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 
Like .in ill-judging beauty, his colors he spread 
And bcplastcred with rouge his own natural red. 
On the stage lio was natural, simple, atVecting ; 
'Twas only that when ho was olT ho w.is acting. 
With no rea.son on eartli to go out of his way, 
Hi' turned and lie varied full ten times a day. 
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick 
If they were not his own by finessing and trick ; 
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his )iack. 
For ho knew whcu he pleased he could whistle 
tlieni back. 



ao3 



crCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Of praise a mere glutton, be swallowed what came, 
Ami the puti' of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; 
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, 
Who peppered the highest was surest to please. 
Hut let us be caudid, ami speali out our miud. 
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, ye Woodfalls so grave. 
What a commerce ■was yours ■while you got and 

you gave. 
How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you 

raised, 
While be was be - Eosciused, and j-ou were be- 

praised ! 
But peace to bis spirit, wherever it Hies, 
To act as an augel, and mix witli tlie slcies : 
Tliose iioets, who owe their best fame to his skill. 
Shall still be bis flatterers, go wliere lie will: 
Old Shakspcare receive him with praise and with 

love, 
And Beaumonts and Bens be liis Kellys above. 
Here Hickey reclines, 'a most blunt, pleasant 

creature, 
And slander itself must allow him good-nature ; 
He cherished bis friend, aud be relished a bumper; 
Yet one fault he had, aud that one was a thumper. 
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser? 
I answer. No, no — for he always was wisei'. 
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly Hat? 
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. 
Perhaps he confided in men as they go, 
Aud so was too foolishly honest ? Ah uo ! 
Theu what was his failing ? come, tell it, and 

burn ye ! 
He was — could he help it ? — a special attorney. 

Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my miud. 
He has not left a wiser or better bebiud : 
His pencil 'n'as striking, resistless, aud grand ; 
His manners were gentle, complying, aud bland ; 
Still boru to improve us in every jiart, 
His pencil our faces, bis manners our heart. 
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering. 
When they judged without skill be was still hard 

of bearing ; 
When they talked of their Raphaels, Corregglos, 

and stuff. 
He shifted bis trumpet, and only took snuft'. 
By flattery unspoiled — ■ 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Here Whitefoord reclines, aud, deny it who can, 
Though ho merrUii lived, he is now a grave man. 
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun ! 
. Who relished a joke, and rejoiced in a pnn ; 



Whose temper was generous, ojien, sincere ; 
A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear ; 
Who scattered around wit aud Inimor at will; 
Whose daily ho)is-mots half a column might fill ; 
A Scotchnum, from pride and from prejudice free ; 
A scholar, yet surely uo pedant was he. 

W^hat pity, alas! that so liberal a mind 
Should so long be to newspai)er essays confined ; 
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar. 
Yet content "if the table he set ou a roar;" 
Whose taleuts to fill any station were fit, 
Y'et happy if Woodfall confessed him a ■wit. 

Y'e newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! 
Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes! 
Y'e tame imitators ! ye servile herd ! come. 
Still follow your master, aud visit his tomb. 
To deck it bring ■nitU you festoons of the viue, 
Aud copious libations bestow on bis shrine ; 
TLeu strew all around it — you can do no less — 
Cross-readings, ship-news, aud mistah-cs of the press. 

Merry Whitefoord, farewell ! for iiiji sake I admit 
That a Scot may have humor; I had almost said wit: 
This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, 
"Thou best-humored man, with the worst-humored 
muse.'" 



Percy, Ijishop of Dromore (173S-1S11), was the son of 
a grocer, and a native of Briilg'uorth, in Shropshire. Ho 
was educated at Oxford, and having taken holy orders, be- 
came successively chaplain to the king, a deau, aud then 
a bishop. In 1765 he published his " Reliqucs of English 
Poetry," the work by which he is chiefly known. It was 
largely influential in awakening a taste for natural de- 
scriptions, simplicity, and true passion, in opposition to 
the coldly correct and falsely sentimental style which 
was then predominant in English literature. Percy al- 
tered aud supplemented many of these old pieces, copied 
as they were mostly from illiterate transcripts or the 
imperfect recitation of itinerant ballad-singers. 



THE FRIAR OP ORDERS GRAY.= 

It was a friar of orders gray 
Walked forth to tell his beads, 

Aud he met with a lady fair. 
Clad in a jiilgrim's weeds. 

"Now Christ thee .save, thou reverend friar, 
I pray theo tell to me, 



' Caleb Wtiitefoord, .1 writer for the Advertiser. 

- Composed mostly of fragments of aucieut ballads. 



THOMAS PERCY. 



203 



If ever at yon Iioly shrine 
My (me Idvo tlioii didst see." 

"AthI how should I know your tnic lovo 

From many another one f" 
'• Oil, by his cockle hat and staff, 

And l>y his sandal sboou : 

"Rnt chiefly by his face and mien, 

That were so fair to view ; 
His llaxen locks that sweetly cnrled, 

And eyes of lovely bine." 

'• O lady, ho is de.id and gone ! 

Lady, he's dead and gone ! 
At his head a green-grass turf, 

And at his heels a stone. 

"Within these holy cloisters long 

He langnislied, and ho died, 
Lamenting of a lady's love. 

And 'plaining of her pride. 

'• Here boro him barefaced on his bier 

Six proper youths and tall ; 
And many a tear bedewed his grave 

Within yon kirk-yard wall."' 

'■An<l art thou dead, thou gentle youth? 

-And art thou dead and gone? 
And didst thou die for lovo of me f 

Break, cruel heart of stone !" 

"Oh, weep not, lady, weep not so, 

Some ghostly comfort seek : 
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 

Nor tears bedew thy cheek." 

" Oh, do not, do not, holy friar, 

Sly sorrow now reprove ; 
For I have lost the sweetest yonth 

That e'er won lady's love. 

••And now, alas! for thy sad loss 
I'll evermore weep and sigh ; 

For thee I only wished to live, 
For thee I wish to die."' 

"Weep no more, lady, weep no more, 

Thy sorrow is in vain ; 
For violets plucked, the sweetest shower 

Will ne'er make grow again. 



" Our joys as wingM dreams do fly ; 

Why then should sorrow last f 
Since grief but aggravates thy loss, 

Grieve not for what is past.'' 

"Oh say not so, thou holy friar! 

I pray theo say not so ; 
For since my true love died for me, 

'Tis meet my tears should How. 

"And will he never come again ? 

Will he ne'er come again ? 
Ah ! no, lie is dead and laid in his grave. 

Forever to remain. 

•■ His check was redder than the rose : 
/ ' 

The comeliest yonth was he; 
Bnt he is dead and laid in his grave ; 
Alas, and woe is me !'' 

" Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more ; 

Men were deceivers ever ; 
One foot on sea and one on land, 

To one thing constant never. 

" Hadst thou been fond, ho had been false. 

And left thee sad and heavy ; 
For young men ever were fickle found. 

Since summer trees were leafy." 

"Now say not so, thou holy friar, 

I pray thee say not so ; 
My love he had the truest heart — 

Oh, he was ever true ! 

"And art thou dead, thou mueh-loved youth, 

And didst thou die for me ? 
Then farewell, home ; for evermore 

A pilgrim T will be, 

" Rut first upon my true love's grave 

My weary limbs I'll lay, 
And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf 

That wraps his breathless clay." 

" Yet stay, fair laily, rest awhile 

Beneath this cloister wall ; 
Tlie cold wind through the hawthorn blows. 

And drizzly rain doth fall." 

" Oh, stay me not, thou holy friar, 
Oh, stay me not, I pray ; 



ao4 



CYCLOPJiDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



No drizzly laiu that falls on me 
Can wash my fault away." 

" Yet stay, fair lady, turu again, 

And dry those pearly tears ; 
For see, beneath this gown of gray 

Thy own true love apiiears. 

" Here, forced hy grief and hopeless love, 

These holy weeds I sought. 
And here amid these lonely walls 

To end my days I thought. 

" Bnt haply, for my year of grace 

Is not yet passed away, 
Might I still hope to win thy love. 

No longer would I stay." 

" Now farewell grief, and welcome joy 

Once more unto my heart ! 
For since I've found thee, lovely youth. 

We never more will part." 



iiiljomas lUavton. 

Thomas Warton, the historian of English poetry (1728- 
1790), was the second son of Dr. Walton, of Magdalen 
College, Oxford, who was twice chosen Professor of 
Poetry by his university, and who himself wrote verses 
now happily consigned to oblivion. Joseph (1732-1800), 
the elder brotlier of Thomas, was also a poet in a small 
way, and wrote an " Ode to Fancy," hardly up to the 
standard of a modern school-boy. Thomas began early 
to write verses. His " Progress of Discontent," written 
before he was twenty, and in the style of Swift, is a re- 
markably clever production. It gave promise of achieve- 
ments which he never fiilflUed. He was made poetry- 
professor at Oxford in 1757, and, on the death of White- 
head in 178,5, was appointed poet-laureate. His " His- 
tory of English Poetry" (1774-1778) forms the basis of 
his reputation, and is a valuable storcliouse of facts and 
criticisms. Hazlitt considered some of Warton's sonnets 
"the finest in the language;" but this is wholly uu- 
meritcd praise. Coleridge and Bowles also commended 
them. We select out of his nine sonnets the two best. 



TO MR. GRAY. 

Not that her blooms are marked with beanty's hue, 
My rustic Muse her votive chaplet brings ; 
Un.seeu, luibeard, O Gray, to thee she sings! — 
AVhile slowly pacing through the church-yard dew. 
At curfew-time, beueatb the dark-greeu yew, 
Thy pensive genius strikes the moral strings ; 
Or borne sublime on Inspiration's wiugs, 



Hears Cambria's bards devote the dreadful clew 
Of Edward's race, with murders foul defiled ; 
Can aught my pipe to reach thine ear essay ? 
No, bard divine! For many a care beguiled 
By the sweet magic of thy soothing lay, 
For many a raptured thought, and vision wild. 
To thee this strain of gratitude I pay. 



TO THE RIVER LODON. 

Miss Mitford, in "Onr Village," says of the Lodon : "Is it 
not a beautifal river ? rising level witli its bank?, so clear, and 
smooth, and ijeacefnl, giving back the veidant landscape and 
the bright blue eky, and bearing on its pellucid stream the 
snowy water-lily, the purest of flowers, wliich sits eiuhroned 
ou its own cool leaves, looking chastity itself, like the lady iu 
' Comus.' " 

Ah! what a weary race my feet have run, 
Since lirst I trod thy banks with alders crowned, 
And thought my way was all through fairy ground. 
Beneath thy azure sky, and golden sun : 
Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun ! 
While pensive Memory traces back the round, 
Which fills the varied interval between ; 
Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. 
Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure 
No more return, to cheer my evening road ! 
Yet still one joy remains, that not obscure. 
Nor useless all my vacant days have flowed, 
From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mattire; 
Nor with the Muse's laurel nubestowed. 



jTol)n (fiunniiuiljtam. 



Cunningham (1729-1773), the son of a wine-cooper in 
Dublin, was an actor by profession. "His pieces," says 
Chambers, "are full of pastoral simplicity and lyrical 
melody. He aimed at nothing high, and seldom failed." 



MAY- EVE ; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN. 

The silver moon's enamored beam 

Steals softly through the night. 
To wanton with the winding stream, 

And kiss retlceted light. 
To beds of state, go, balmy sleep — 

'Tis where you've seldom been — 
May's vigil while the shepherds keep 

With Kate of Aberdeen. 

Upon the green the virgins wait, 
In rosy chaplets gay, 



JOUX SCOTT.— WILLIAM rALVOSKn.—Kli.lSMVS D.tnirix. 



205 



Till morn iiiibai-s her golileii gate, 
AikI frivcs tlip promised May. 

Mctliiiilis 1 hoar the iiiaiils iloclare 
The promised May, when seen, 

Not half so frapant, half so fair, 
As Kate of Aberdeen. 

Strike lip the talior's boldest notes, 

We'll ronse tlie noddinjj grove ; 
The ne.sted birds shall raise their thro.tts 

And hail the maid I love. 
And see— the matin lark mistakes. 

He qnits the tnfted green : 
Tond bird I 'tis not the morning breaks, 

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. 

Now lightsome o'er the level mead, 

Wlietv midnight fairies rove, 
I-ike them the jocnnd danee we'll lead, 

Or tnne the reed to love : 
For see, the rosy May draws nigh ; 

She claims a virgin qneen ; 
And hark ! the happy shepherds cry, — 

'• 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen !" 



3oljii Scott. 



Scott (1730-17S3I, of Quaker descent, was the son of 
a dniper in London, who retired to Amwell, where the 
poet spent his days in literary ease. He fondly hoped 
\-o immortalize his native village, on which lie wrote a 
poem, "Amwell" (1T7C;; but of all his works only the 
subjoined lines arc remembered. 



ODE OX HEARING THE DKLM. 

I hate that drnm's discordant sonnd, 
Parading round, and roniid, and ronnd : 
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields, 
.\nd lures from cities and from lields. 
To sell their liberty for charms 
Of tawdry lace and glittering arms; 
And when Ambition's voice commands 
To march, and fight, and fall in foreign laiuls. 

I hate that drum's discordant sonnd, 
Parading round, and round, and round; 
To nie it talks of ravagiMl plains. 
And burning towns, and mined swains, 
And mangled liinl)a, and dying groans, 
And widows' tears, and orphans' inoa:;3 ; 
And all that Misery's hand b(^sto\V3 
To till the catalogue of human woes. 



lUilliam .falcoucv. 



Falconer (1733-ITG9), a native of Edinburgh, was the 
sou of a poor barber, who had two other cluldreu, both 
of whom were deaf and dumb. When very young, Wil- 
liam was apprenticed to the merehautscrvicc, and after- 
ward went as second mate in a vessel which was wreck- 
ed on the coast of Africa ; he and two others being the 
sole survivors. Tliis led to his famous poem of "The 
Shipwreck," which he published in 1702. The DuUc of 
York, to whom it was dedicated, procured for him the 
following year the appointment of midshipman on board 
the lioyal George. He eventually became jiinscr in the 
frigate -iHcoi-a, and was lost in her, on the outward voy- 
age to India, in 1769. "The Shipwreck" has the rare 
merit of being a pleasing and interesting poem, and ap- 
proved b}' all experienced mariners for the accuracy of 
its nautical rules and descriptions. 



FROM "THE .SHIPWRECK." 

And now, lashed on by destiny severe, 
With horror fraught the dreadful scene drew near: 
The ship hangs hovering on the verge of death. 
Hell yawns, rocks rise, and breakers roar beneath 1 

In vain the cords and axes were prepared. 

For now the audacious seas insult the yard ; 

High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade, 

And o'er her burst, in terrible cascade. 

Uplifted on the snrge, to heaven she flies. 

Her shattered top half buried in the skies. 

Then headlong plunging, thunders on the ground: 

Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps resound! 

Her giant bnlk the dread concussion feels, 

And quivering with the wound, in torment reels; 

So reels, couvul.scd with agonizing throes, 

The bleeding bull beneath the murilerer's blows; — 

Again she i>lunges ! hark ! a second shock 

Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock: 

Down on the vale of Death, with dismal cries, 

The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes 

In wild despair; while yet another stroke, 

With deep convnlsioti, reinls the solid o:iIv: 

Till like tlie mine, in whose infernal cell 

The lurking demons of destruction dwell. 

At length asunder torn, her frame divides. 

And crashing spreads in ruin o'er the tides. 



(Evasmus Daruiiu. 

Darwin, the irrandsirc of the more renowned Charles 
Darwin, identified with what is known as the Darwinian 
theory of natural selection in biology, was born in Elton, 



206 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BUITISH AND AMERICAN FOETET. 



Eni^laud, in 17S1, and died in 180:3. He studied at Cam- 
bridge and Ediubuigh, and established himself as a phj-- 
sieiau at Liuhlield. He was an early advoeate of the 
temperance cause. As the author of "The Botanic Gar- 
den," a poem in two parts — Part I., The Economy of 
Vegetation ; Part II., The Loves of the Plants— also of 
"The Temple of Nature," a poem, he obtained distinc- 
tion in literature. Of an original turn of mind, he seems 
to have had glimpses of the theories afterward expanded 
and illustrated by the labor and learning of his grand- 
son. Byron speaks of Darwin's "pompous rhyme." His 
poems were very jjopular in their day, and he received 
£000 for his " Botanic Garden." In it he predicts the 
triumphs of steam in these prescient lines: 

"Soon phnll thy arm, niicouquered Steam ! afar 
Drag the slow barge, or drive the rapid car; 
Or on wide waving wings expanded bear 
The fl.viiig chariot throiigh the field of air." 

By his command of poetical diction and sonorous ver- 
sification, he gave an imposing clTect to much that he 
wrote, and his verses found enthusiastic admirers. The 
eft'cct of the whole, however, is artificial, and his verses, 
though metrically correct and often beautiful in con- 
struction, fatigue by the monotony of the cadence. 

"There is a fashion in poetry," says Sir Walter Scott, 
"which, without increasing ordiininishing the real value 
of the materials moulded upon it, does wonders in facili- 
tating its currency while it has novelty, and is often 
found to impede its reception when the mode has passed 
away." The transitoriness of fashion seems to account 
for the fate of Darwin's poetry. The form was novel, 
the substance ephemeral. As a philosopher, he was 
charged with being too fond of tracing analogies be- 
tween dissimilar objects, and of too readily adopting 
the ingenious views of others without suffleieut incpiiry. 
He was married twice, and had three sons by his first 
wife. A biography of Darwin, from the German of Ernst 
Krause, was published, 1880, in New York. Darwin was 
on the side of the American colonists in their war for 
independence. 



THE GODDESS OF BOTANY. 

From " 1 he Bot.imc Gahden." 

"Winds of tlie novtli ! restrain your icy gales, 
Nor cliill the bosom of tbcso liappy vales! 
Hence in ilaik heaps, ye gathering clouds, revolve ! 
Disperse, ye lightnings, and ye mists, dissolve! 
Hither, emerging from yon orient skies, 
Botanic goddess, bend thy radiant eyes ; 
O'er these soft scenes assume thy gentle reign, 
Pomona, Ceres, Flora, iti thy train ; 
O'er the still dawn thy placid smile etifnso, 
Anil with thy silver sandals print the dews; 
In noon's bright blaze thy vermeil vest nnfold. 
And wave thy emerald banner starred with gold." 

Tims spoke the Genius as he stepped almig. 
And hade these lawns to jieace and truth belong ; 



Down the steep slopes ho led with modest skill 
The willing pathway and the truant rill ; 
Stretched o'er the marshy vale you willowy nioniul. 
Where shines the lake amid the tufted ground ; 
Eaised the young woodland, smoothed the wavy 

green. 
And gave to beauty all the quiet scene. 
She comes! the goddess! through the whispering 

air, 
Bright as the morn descends her blushing car; 
Each circling wheel a wreath of flowers entwines, 
And, gemmed with flowers, the silken harness 

shines ; 
The golden hits with flowery studs are decked, 
And knots of flowers the crimson reius connect. 
And now on earth the silver axle rings, 
And the shell sinks upon its slender springs ; 
Light from her airy seat the goddess hounds. 
And steps celestial press the pausied grounds. 
Fair Spring advancing, calls her feathered quire, 
And tnnes to softer notes her laughing lyre; 
Bids her gay hours on purple pinions move, 
And anus her zephyrs w'ith the shafts of love. 



ELIZA AT THE BATTLE OF MIXDEN. 

FiioM "The Botanic Gaeden." 

Now stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height. 
O'er Miuden's plain, spectatress of the light ; 
Sought with hold eye amid the bloody strife 
Her dearer self, the partner of her life; 
From hill to hill the rushing host pnr.sued. 
And viewed his banner, or believed she viewed. 
Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread, 
Fast by his hand one lisping hoy she led ; 
And otie fair girl amid the loud alarm 
Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm ; 
While round her brow's bright beams of honor dart. 
And love's warm eddies circle ronnd her heart. 
— Near and more near the intrepid beauty pressed. 
Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest; 
Saw on his helm, her virgin hands inwove, 
Bright .stars of gold, and mystic knots of love; 
Heard the exulting shout, "They run! — they rnn I" 
" He's safe !" she cried, " he's safe ! the battle's won !" 
— A hall now hisses through the airy tides 
(Some Fury wings it, and some demon guides). 
Parts the tine locks her graceful head that deck, 
Wounils her fair ear, and sinks itito her neck: 
The red stream issuing from her azure veins. 
Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains. 



CHAIiLES CHURCHILL. 



207 



"All me!" slio ciiod; aiul, sinking on the ground, 
Kissod lier deaf babes, rcgai'dless of the wound : 
"Oil cease not yet to beat, tlion vital uiii, 
AVait, gnsliing life, oh wait my love's rotnni !" — 
Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far, 
Tlio angel Pity slums the walks of war! — 
"Oh spare, yo war-hounds, sjiare their tcuder age! 
On me, on me," she cried, " exhaust your rage !" 
Tlien with weak arms her weeping babes caressed. 
And sighing, hid tliein in her blood-stained vest. 
From tent to tent tho impatient warrior Hies, 
Fear iu his heart, and frenzy in his eyes : 
Klii^a's uaiiio along tho camp he calls, 
•■ Eliza" echoes through the canvas walls; 
CJniek Ihrongli the murmuring gloom his footsteps 

tread, 
O'er groaning heaps, the dying anil the dead, 
Vault o'er tho plain, and in tho tangled Wood, — 
Lo! dead Kliza weltering in her blood! 
Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds. 
With open arms and sparkling eye ho bounds. 
"Speak low," ho cries, and gives his little hand; 
"Mamma's asleep upon the dew-cold sand." 
I'oor weeping babe, with bloody lingers pressed, 
.Vnd tried witli pouting lips her milklcss breast. 
••Alas! we both with cidd and linnger (luake: 
Why do you weep ? Mamma will soon awake." 
— •'She'll wake no more!" tho hapless mourucr cried, 
I'pturued his cye.s, aud clasped his hands, and 

sighed ; 
Stretched on the ground, awhile entranced he lay, 
.\iid prcs.sed w.irni kisses on the lifeless clay ; 
And then upsprung with wild, convulsive start. 
And all tho father kindled in his heart ; 
•' Oh heavens !" he cried, "my first ra.sli vow forgive ! 
Tlicse bind to earth, for these I pray to live!" 
Koniid his cliill li.-ilics he wrapped his crimson vest, 
.Vnd clasped them sobbing to his aching breast. 



(£l)i\vlc5 Cl)urcl)ill. 



The son of a elerirynian in Westminster, Cliurcliill 
(17:il-17e4) was educated at Cambriilgo. His father died 
iu 17.')S, and Charles was appointed liis successor in the 
curacy and lectureship of St. John's at Westminster. 
He now launched into a career of dissipation and ex- 
travagance, and was compelled to resign his situation. 
He assisted Wilkes in editing the Aoi-Wi Ilrilon, and wrote 
a sonicHliat forcible satire directed against tlic Scottish 
nation, aiul entitled "The Prophecy of Famine." But 
his sutirical poem, "The Kosciiul," gave him liis princi- 
pal fame. In this work, crilieisiug the leading actors of 
the (lay, he evinced great vigor aud facility of vei-sillca- 
tion, and a breadth and boldness of personal invective 



that drew instant attention. Ilazlitt says: "Churchill 
is a fine rough satirist. He liad sense, wit, eloquence, 
and honesty." This praise must be qualilled somewhiit, 
for the satirist does not seem to have been actuated by 
high principle in his attacks. He led a discreditable 
life, and died at Boulogne, of fever, in the thirty-fourth 
year of his age. So popular hiul his satires been that the 
sale of them had placed him in easy circumstances. He 
had offered "The Rosciad " for five guineas. It was re- 
fused, and he published it at his own risk, its success 
surpassing his most extravagant hopes. 



KEMORSE. 

Faosr "The Confebence" (1763). 

That Churchill felt compunction for ni.any of his errors is ev- 
ident from the fullowinjj Hues, which woaUl seem to have come 
from the heart. 

Look back ! a thought which borders on despair. 

Which human uatnre must, yet cannot, bear! 

'Tis not the babbling of a bii.sy world. 

Where praise aud censure are at random hurled. 

Which can the meanest of my thoughts contrcd. 

Or shako one settled purpose of my soul : 

Free and at largo might their wild cur.ses roam, 

If all, if all, alas ! were well at home. 

Xo ! 'tis tho tale which angry Conscience tells. 

When she, with more than tragic horror, swells 

Each circumstance of guilt ; wbeu stern, but true. 

She brings bad actions forth into review. 

And, like the dread handwriting on the wall, 

Kids late Kemorse awake at Keason's call ; 

Armed at all points, bids scorpion Vengeance pass. 

And to tho mind holds up Rellection'.s glas.s — 

The mind which, starting, heaves the heartfelt 

groan. 
And hates that form she knows to bo her own. 



YATES, THE ACTOR. 
From "The Rosciad." 

Lo, Yates! — Without the least finesse of art, 
lie gets applause— I wish he'd get his part. 
When hot Impatience is iu full career. 
How vilely "Hark'e! Hark'e!" grates the car! 
Wlicn active Fancy from the brain is .sent, 
Ami stands on tiptoe for some wisheil event, 
I liate those careless blunders wliicli recall 
Sii.spended sense, aud prove it lictioii all. 

Iu characters of low and vulgar mould, 
Where Nature's coarsest features wo behold ; 
Where, destitute of every decent grace, 
Unmannered jests are bliirleil in your face, — 



208 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



There Yates with justice strict atteutiim draws, 
Acts truly from himself, aud gains apjilaiise. 
But when, to jdease himself or charm his wife. 
He aims at something iu politer life ; 
Wheu, bliudly thwarting nature's stubborn plan, 
He treads the stage by way of gentleman, — 
The clown, who no one touch of breeding knows, 
Looks like Tom Errand dressed in Clincher's 

clothes. 
Fond of his dress, fond of his person, grown, 
Laughed at by all, and to himself unknown, 
From side to side he struts, he smiles, he prates, 
Aud seems to wonder what's become of Yates ! 



FOOTE. 

FitoM "The Rosciad." 

By turns transformed into all kinds of shapes. 
Constant to none, Foote laughs, cries, struts, and 
scrapes ; 
# # * * i^ * 

His strokes of humor, aud his burst of sport 
Are all contained in this one -word — distort. 

Doth a man stuttei', look a-squint, or halt ? 
Mimics draw humor out of nature's fault. 
With personal defects their mirth adorn, 
Aud haug misfortunes out to public scorn. 
Even I, whom Nature cast iu hideous mould, 
Whom, having made, she trembled to behold. 
Beneath the load of mimicry may groan, 
Aud tiud that Nature's errors are my own. 



MURPHY. 



From " The Rosciad." 



How few are found with real talents blessed ! 
Fewer with nature's gifts couteuted rest. 
5Iau from his sphere eccentric starts astray; 
All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way. 
Bred at St. Omer's to the shuffling trade. 
The hopeful youth a .Jesuit might have made. 
With various readings stored his empty skull, 
Learned without sense, aud venerably dull ; 
Or, at souie banker's desk, like many more. 
Content to tell that two and two make four. 
His name h.ad stood iu city annals fair. 
And prudent Duluess marked him for a mayor. 
What, then, could tempt thee, iu a critic age. 
Such Idooming hopes to forfeit on a stage ? 
Could it be worth thy wondrous waste of pains 
To publish to the world thy lack of brains? 



Or might not reason even to thee have shown 
Thy greatest praise had been to live unknown 1 
Yet let not vanity like thine despair : 
Fortune makes Folly her peculiar care. 

A vacant throne high placed iu Smithfield view. 
To sacred Diilness and her first-born due ; 
Thither with haste in happy hour repair. 
Thy birthright claim, nor fear a rival there. 
Shuter himself shall own thy justcr claim. 
And venal ledgers putf their Murphy's name; 
While Vanghan or Dapper, call him what you 

will. 
Shall blow the trumpet aud give out the bill. 

There rnle secure from critics and from sense. 
Nor once shall genius rise to give offence ; 
Eternal peace shall bless the happy shore, 
Aud little factious break thy rest no more. 



MRS. CLIVE AND MRS. POPE. 

Froji "The Rosciad." 

In spite of outward blemishes, she shone 

For humor famed, and humor all her own. 

Easy, as if at home, the stage she trod. 

Nor sought the critic's praise, nor feared his rod. 

Original iu sjiirit and in ea.se, 

She pleased by hiding all attempts to please : 

No comic actress ever yet could raise, 

On Humor's base, more merit or more praise. 

With all the native vigor of sixteen. 
Among the merry troop conspicuous seen. 
See lively Pope advance iu jig aud trip, 
Coriuua, Cherry, Honeycomb, and Snip. 
Not without art, but yet to nature true, 
She charms the town with humor, just yet new: 
Cheered by her promise, wo the less deplore 
The fatal time wheu Clive shall be no more. 



QUIN. 

From " The Rosciad." 

No actor ever greater heights could reach 
III all the labored artifice of speech. 

Speech ! Is that all ? And shall an actor found 
A universal fame on partial ground ? 
Parrots themselves speak properly by rote, 
Aud, iu six months, my dog shall howl by note. 
I laugh at those who, wlieu the stage they tread, 
Neglect the heart to compliment the head ; 
With strict propriety their cares confined 
To weigh out words, while passion halts behind. 



CBAELES CRUKCHILL. — WILLIAM COWl'ER. 



SOU 



To syllable-dissectors they appeal ; 

Allow tlioiii accent, cadence, — fools may feel ; 

Hill, spite of all tlie criticising elves, 

TLose who would make lis feel must feel themselves 



GAUKICK. 
From "Toe Rosciad." 

Last, Garrick came: behind Iiini throng a train 
Of snarling critics, ignorant as vain. 

One finds out, — " He"s ofstatnre somewhat low, — 
Vonr hero always should be tall, you know : 
True natural greatness all consists in height." 
Produce your voncher, critic. — "Sergeant Kite." 

Another can't forgive the paltry arts 
liy which he makes his way to shallow hearts : 
Mere pieces of tinesse, tra|>s for applause — 
"Avaunt, unnatural start, alVected jianse !" 

For me, by nature formed to judge with phlegm, 
I cau't acquit by wholesale, nor condemn. 
The best things, carried to excess, are wrong: 
The start may bo too frequent, pause too long ; 
Hut, only used in proper time and place, 
l?everest judgment must allow them grace. 

If bunglers, formed ou Imitation's plan, 
.lust in the way that monkeys mimic man, 
Their copied scene with mangled arts disgrace, 
And jiause and start with the same vacant face, — 
We jiiiu the critic laugh; who.se tricks wo scorn, 
Which spoil the scene they mean them to adorn. 
Hut when from Nature's pure and genuine source 
These strokes of acting flow with goiu^rons force; 
When in the features all the soul's portrayed, 
.\ml p:issions such as Garrick's are displayed, — 
To me they seem from quickest feelings caught; 
liach start is Nature, and each pause is Thought. 

Let wits, like spiders, from the tortured brain 
I'ine-ilraw the eritic-web with curious pain; 
Tlie gods — a kindness I with thanks must pay — 
Have formed me of a co-ii-ser kind of clay; 
Xor stung with envy, nor with spleen disea.sed, 
.\ poor dull creature, still with nature pleased : 
llenrc. to thy praises, (iarrick, I agree, 
.Vnd. phased with Nature, must be pleased with thei'. 

The judges, as the sevcr.il parties came, 
With temper beard, with judgment weighed, each 

claim, 
Anil in their sentence happily agreed ; 
In name of both great Shakspeare thus decreed : 
14 



"If manly sense, if Nature linked with Art, 
If thorough knowledge of the human heart, 
If powers of acting vast and uucoutiued, 
If fewest faults with greatest beauties joined ; 
If strong expression, and strange powers Avhiih Ho 
Within the magic circle of the eye ; 
If feelings which few hearts like his can know. 
And which no face so well as his can show, — 
Deserve the preference, — Garrick, take the chair, 
Nor quit it — till thou place an equal there." 



lllilliam Coiupcr. 



Cowper (1731-lSOO), the son of Dr. Cowpcr, elmplain 
to George 11., was bora at the rectory of Great Berk- 
hamslead, Hertforclsliiie. His father's family was an- 
cient, and his motlier's distantly of roy.il descent. His 
grandfather, Spencer Cowper, was Cliicf-juslice of the 
Common Pleas, and his grand -uncle was Lord High 
Chancellor of England. When about six years old. Cow- 
\n:r lost his mother, whom he always remembered with 
the teiulerest affection. At the age of ten he was re- 
moved from a country school to Westminster, where, be- 
ing coHstitutioually timid and delicate, the rough usage 
he experienced at the hands of the elder boys had a sad 
cfl'cct upon him. 

At the age of eighteen he was articled to an attorney, 
and in 17.54 was called to the bar : he, however, never 
made the law his study. Receiving the appointment of 
Clerk of Journals of the House of Lords, his nervous- 
ness was such that he was plunged into the deepest 
misery, and even attempted suicide. The seeds of in- 
sanity soon appeared; he resigned his appointment, and 
was placed in a private mad-house kept by Dr. Nathaniel 
Cotton, the poet. Here, by kind attention, Cowpcr's 
shattered mind was gradually restored for a time. On 
his recovery, renouncing all London prospects, he set- 
tled in Huntingdon : solitude was bringing back his 
melancholy, when he was received into the Rev. Mr. Un- 
win's house as aboarder, and, iu the society of an amiable 
circle of friends, the "wind was tempered to the shorn 
lamb." On her husband's death in 1767, the poet retired, 
with Mrs. Unwin and her daughter, to OIncy. He found • 
a new friend in the Rev. John Newton, the curate. But 
in 1773 his spirit was again, for about five years, envel- 
oped ill the shadows of his malady ; and he again at- 
tempted suicide. The unwearied cares of Mrs. Uuwiu 
and of Mr. Newton slowly emancipated him from his 
darkness of horror. A deep religious melancholy was 
the form of his mental disease. An awful terror that his 
soul was lost forever, beyond the power of redemption, 
hung in a thick night-cloud upon his life. Three times 
after the first attjick the madness returned. 

While his convalescence was advancing, he amused his 
mind with the taming of hares, the construction of bird- 
cages, and gardening; he even attempted to become a 
painter. At length, at the age of nearly fifty, tlie foun- 
tain of his poetry, which had been all but sealed, was rc- 
uliened. The result was the publication of a volume of 



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CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



poems in 1T83. The sale of the work was slow, hut Cow- 
Ijer's frieiuls were eager in its iM-aise ; and Samuel John- 
son and Benjamin Franlclin recognized in him a trne 
poet. At Olney he formed a close friendship with Lady 
Austen. To her he owed the origin of his "John Gil- 
pin ;" also that of his greatest work, " The Taslc." She 
aslied liim to write some hlank verse, and playfully gave 
him the "Sofa" as a suhject. Beginning a poem on 
this homely theme, he produced the six books of "The 
Task." In it he puts forth his power both as an ethical 
and a rural poet. Mrs. Unwin became jealous of Lady 
Austen's cheerful influence over her friend, aud, to please 
her, Cowper had to ask Lady Austen not to return to 
Olney. 

Dissatisfied with Pope's version of the Greek epics, 
Cowper now undertook to translate Homer into Eng- 
lisli hlank verse; and, by working regularly at the rate 
of forty liucs a day, he accomplished the undertaking in 
a few years, and it appeared in 1791. It is a noble trans- 
lation, but has never had the reputation it deserves. A 
pension of £300 from tlie king comforted the poet's de- 
clining days. But the last and thickest cloud was dark- 
ening down on his mind, and only for brief intervals was 
there any light, until the ineffable brilliance of a higher 
life broke upon his gaze. His last poem was " The Cast- 
away," which, while it shows a morbid anxiety about 
his soul, indicates no decline in his mental powers. 

Cowper was constitutionally prone to insanity ; but 
the predisposing causes were aggravated by his strict, 
secluded mode of life, and the influences to which he 
was subjected. His cousin. Lady Hesketh, was a more 
wholesome companion for him than the curate, John 
Newton ; for cheerfulness was inspired by the one, aud 
terror by the other. Newton was an energetic man, 
who had once commanded a vessel in the slave-trade, 
and, after a life full of adventure, had become intensely 
religious in a form not likely to have a sanative effect 
upon a sensitive and sympatlietic nature. 

The success of Cowper's "John Gilpin" was helped 
by John Henderson, the actor, who chose it for recita- 
tion before it became fimious. Mrs. Siddons heard it 
with delight; and in the spring of 1775 its success was 
the event of the season. Prints of John Gilpin Hilcd the 
shop -windows; and Cowper, who was flnishing "The 
Task," felt tliat his serious work would be helped if it 
were published with his "John Gilpin," of which he 
• says: "I little thought, when I mounted him upon my 
Pegasus, that he would become so famous." 



RUKAL SOUNDS. 
Feoji " The Task," Book I. 

Nor ruriil sights alone, but rural sounds, 
Exhilarate the spirit, ami restore 
The toue of languid Nature. Mighty winds. 
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreailing wood 
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike 
The dash of Ocean on his winding shore, 
And lull the spirit while they fill tlio mind; 
Unnumbered bi-anches waving in the blast, 



And all their leaves fast fluttering all at once. 

Nor less composure waits upon the roar 

Of distant floods, or on the softer voice 

Of neighboring fountain, or of rills that slip 

Throngli the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall 

Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length 

In matted grass, that with a livelier green 

Betrays the secret of their silent course. 

Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, 

Bnt animated nature sweeter still, 

To soothe and satisfy the human ear. 

Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, aud one 

The livelong night : nor these alone, wliose notes 

Nice-fingered Art must emulate in vain ; 

Hut cawing rooks, aud kites that swim sublime 

In still repeated circles, screaming loud ; 

The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl, 

That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. 

Sounds inharmonious in themselves, and harsh, 

Yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns, 

And only there, please highly for their sake. 



AFFECTATION. 

From " The Task," Book II. 

In man or woman, but far most in man. 

And most of all in man that ministers 

And serves the altar, in ray soul I loathe 

All aftectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn ! 

Object of my implacable disgust ! 

What! will a man jday tricks? will he indulge 

A silly, fond conceit of his fair form. 

And just proportion, fashionable mien, 

Aud pretty face, in presence of his God 1 

Or will lie seek to dazzle me with tropes, 

As with the diamond on his lily hand, 

And play his brilliant parts before my eyes, 

When I am hungry for the bread of life ? 

Ho mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames 

His noble office, aud, instead of truth. 

Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock. 

Therefore, avaunt all attitude, and stare. 

And start theatric, practised at the glass ! 

I seek divine simplicity in him 

Who handles things divine; and all besides, 

Though learned with labor, and though much ail- 

mired 
By curious eyes and judgments ill-informed, 
To mo is odious as the nixs.al twang 
Heard at conventicle, where worthy men, 
Misled by custom, strain celestial themes 
Through the pressed nostril, spectacle-bestrid. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



211 



INDUSTRY IN REPOSE. 
Fbou "The Task," Book III. 

How various his einploymonts whom the woikl 

Calls idle, aud who justly in return 

Kstccms that busy world an idler too ! 

I'riciuls, books, a garden, and perhaps his i)en, — 

I trli^htfnl industry enjoyed at home, 

And Nature in her cultivated trim 

Dressed to his taste, inviting him abroad — 

Can he want occnpatiou who has those ? 

Will he be idle who has much to enjoy f 

Me, therefore, studious of lal)orious ease. 

Not slothful; happy to deceive the time, 

Not wivsto it; aud aware tliat human ILfo 

Is but a loan to be repaid with use. 

When Ho shall call his debtors to account 

From whom are all our blessings, — business finds 

Kvcu here ! while sedulous I seeli to improve. 

At least neglect not, or leave unemployed, 

The miud he gave nui ; driving it, though slack 

Too oft, aud much impeded iu its work 

Hy causes not to bo divulged in vain. 

To its just point — tho service of mankind. 

He that attends to his interior self; 

That has a heart, and keeps it; has a mind 

That hungers, a«d supplies it ; and wlio seeks 

A social, not a dissipated life, — 

Has business; feels himself engaged to achieve 

No unimportant, though a silent, task. 

A life all turbulence aud noise may seem. 

To him that leads it, wise, and to bo praised; 

lint wisdom is a pearl with most success 

Sought in still water and beneath clear skies : 

He that is ever occupied in storms, 

Or dives not for it, or brings up instead, 

Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize ! 



"WTCLCOME TO EVENING. 

From "The Task," Book IV. 

Come, Evening, once again, season of peace ! 

Return, sweet Evening, aud continue long! 

Methinks I see thco iu the streaky west. 

With matron step slow moving, while tho Night 

Treads on thy sweeping train ; one hand employed 

In letting fall the curtain of repose 

(In bird and beast, the other charged for man 

With sweet oblivion of the cares of day : 

Not snmptnously adorned, not needing aid, 

1-iko homely-featured Night, of clustering gems ; 



A star or two, just (winkling on thy brow, 
Suffices thee; save that the Moon is thine 
No less thau hers ; not worn, indeed, on high 
With ostentations pageantry, but set 
With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, 
Resi)loudent less, but of an ampler round. 
Come, then, aud thou shalt find thy votary calm, 
Or make me so. Composure is thy gift : 
And, whether I devote thy gentle hours 
'To books, to music, or tho poet's toil ; 
To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit ; 
Or twining silken threads ronnd ivory reels, 
When they command whom man was born to 

please, — 
I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. 



AN ODE: liOADlCEA. 

When the British wariior-qnoen. 
Bleeding from the Roman rods, 

Sought, with an indignant mien, 
Counsel of her country's gods, 

Sago beneath the spreading oak 
Sat the Druid, hoary chief; 

Every burning word he spoko 
Full of rage, aud lull of grief. 

'■'Princess! if our agc^d eyes 

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 

Tis because resentment ties 
W\ the terrors of our tongues. 

"Rome shall perish — write that word 
In the blood that she h.as spilt — 

PerLsh, hopeless and abhorred. 
Deep in ruin as in guilt I 

" Rome, for empire far renowned. 
Tramples on a thousaml st.ates : 

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground — 
Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates ! 

" Other Romans shall arise, 
Heedless of a soldier's name ; 

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, 
Harmony tho path to fame. 

"Then tho progeny that springs 
From the forests of our land. 

Armed with thunder, clad with wings, 
Shall a wider worhl connnand. 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISH AND AMERICAN FOETBT. 



"Eegions Ciesar never knew 

Thy posterity shall sway ; 
Where his eagles never flew, 

None iuviucible as they." 

Such the Itard's prophetic words, 
Pregnant with celestial fire, 

Bending as he swept the chords 
Of his sweet but awful lyre. 

She, with all a monarch's pride. 
Felt them iu her bosom glow ; 

Eushed to battle, fought, and died ; 
Dying, hurled them at the foe. 

"Ruffians, pitiless as proud! 

Heaven awards the vengeance due : 
Empire is on us bestowed, 

Shame and ruin wait for you." 



A WINTEK EVENING IN THE LIBRARY. 

'Tis winter, cold and rude ; 

Heap, heap the warming wood ! 
The wild wind hums his sullen soug to-night ; 

Oh, licar that patteriug shower! 

Haste, boy! — this gloomy hour 
Demands relief; the cheerful tapers light. 

Though now my home around 

Still roars the wintry sound, 
Methinks 'tis summer by this festive blaze ! 

My hooks, companions dear. 

In seemly ranks appear, 
And glisten to my fire's far-flashing rays. 

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast ; 
Let fall the curtaius, wheel the sofa round ! 
And wliile the bubbling and loud-hissing urn 
Throws ui> a steamy column, and the cups, 
Which cheer, hut not inebriate, ■wait on each. 
So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 



ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICT- 
URE OUT OF NORFOLK, 

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM. 

Oh that those lips had language ! Life has passed 
Witli me but roughly since 1 heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 
Tlie same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 



Voice only fails — else how distiuct they say 
"Grieve not, my child — chase all thy fears away!" 
Tlie meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize, 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it !) here sljines on me still the same. 
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear ! 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bidst me honor with an artless song, 
Atteclionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey — not willingly alone. 

But gladly, as the precept were her own ; 
And, while that face renews my filial grief. 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief — 
Shall steep me iu Elysian reverie, 
A momentary dream that thou art she. 

My mother! when I learucd that thou wast dead, 
Sa}', wast thou conscions of the tears I shed ? 
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son — 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? 
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfclt, a kiss ; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls cau weep iu bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day ; 
I saw tlie hearse that bore thee slow away ; 
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! 
But was it such ? — It was. — Wheite thou art gone 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown ; 
Maj' I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. 
The parting word shall pass my lips no more. 
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern. 
Oft gave me promise of thy qnick return; 
What ardently I wished I long believed. 
And, disappointed still, was still deceived — 
By expectation every day beguiled. 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus, many a sad to-morrow came and went. 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
I learned at last submission to my lot ; 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more — 
Childi'eu not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
And where the gardener Robin, day by day. 
Drew me to school along the public way — 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap — \ 

'Tis now become a history little known, 
Tliat once we called the pastoral house our own. 
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair. 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there. 
Still outlives many a storm that has cfi'aced 
A thousand other themes, less deeply traced : 



WILLIAM ton PER. 



2i:{ 



Tliy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
That thi)U mijjhtst know nie sale and warmly laid; 
Thy morning bounties ero I left uiy home — 
Tlio biscuit, or confectionery phini ; 
The fragrant waters ou my cheeks bestowed 
15y thy own hand, till fresh they shono and glowed: 
All this, and, more endearing still than all. 
Thy constant tlow of love, that knew no fall — ■ 
Ne'er rongbencd by those cataracts and breaks 
That humor interposed too often makes ; 
All this, still legible in Memory's page. 
And .still to be so to ray latest ago, 
Adds Joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honors to tlieo as my numbers may ; 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 
Not scorned iu heaven, though little noticed here. 
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore Iho hours 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 
The violet, the pink, the jessamine, 
I pricked them into paper with a pin 

And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
Wouldst softly spe.ak,and stroke my head and smile). 
Could those few pleasant days again appear. 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them 

here ? 
I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might, 
lint no — what here we call our life is such, 
So little to be loved, and thou so much. 

That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast 

The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed), 
.shoots into port at some wcll-havened i.sle, 
Wlicro spices breathe, and brighter sca.sons smile, 
There .sits fpiiescent on the tloods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay, 
Si> (hou, with sails how swift! hast reached the 

shore, 
"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;'" 
Anil thy loved consort, on the dangerous tide 
I >f life, long since has anchored by thy side, 
lint rae, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 
.Vlw.ivs from port withheld, always distre8.sed — 
Mo howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, 
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost ; 

• Slisjhtly misquoted from "The Dispcncnrr" (1690), n pntiri- 
■;il poem by Sir Sniniicl Garlh (1870-1718), iu which occurs the 
rtillowiiig couplet : 

"To die, i8 landin^: on Bome eileut shore. 
Where billows never break, nor tempests ronr." 



And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets rae more distant from a prosperous course. 
Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he ! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; 
liut higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
The sou of p.areuts passed into the skies. 
And now, farewell ! — Time, unrevoked, has run 
His wonted course ; yet what I wished is done. 
By Contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; 
To have renewed the joys that once were mine. 
Without the sin of violating thine; 
And, while the wings of fancy still arc free. 
And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
Time has but hjilf succeeded in his theft— 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe rae left. 



LOSS or THE "ROYAL GEORGE.' 

Toll for the brave ! 

The brave that are no more ! 
All sunk beneath the wave, 

Fast by their native shore! 

Eight hundred of the brave. 
Whose courage well was tried, 

Had made the vessel heel. 
And laid her ou her side. 

A land-breeze shook the shrouds, 

And she was overset : 
Down went the Iloijal George, 

With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave ! 

Biave Kempenfelt is gone ; 
His last sea-fight is fought. 

His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle ; 

No tempest gave the shock : 
She sprang no fatal leak, 

She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in its sheath. 
His fingers held the pen. 



^ The Royal Gf^rfje, of 103 gunp, wliile nnder;:oin^ n p.irtinl 
cnrceiiinj in Portsmouth h:o-bor, was ovcrsoi about 10 a.m., 
August 2'.itb, 17S2. Tlie toUil loss waa believed to be near oue 
thoosaDd souls. 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBICAN POETRY. 



When Kempenfelt went down 
With twice four hunclred men. 

Weigh the vessel up 

Once dreaded by our foes 1 

And mingle with our cup 
The tear that Englaud owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound, 

Aud she may float again, 
Full charged witli England's thunder. 

And plough the distant main : 

But Kempenfelt is gone. 

His victories are o'er ; 
Aud he aud his eight hundred 

Shall plougli tite wave no more. 



TO MARY UN WIN. 

Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings, 

Sueli aid from heaven as some have feigued they 

drew, 
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new 
And nndobased by jiraise of meaner tliiugs, 
TliMt ere through age or woe I shed my wings, 
I may record thy wortli with honor due. 
In verse as musical as thou art true. 
And that immortalizes whom it sings : — 
But thou hast little need. There is a Book 
By seraplis writ with beams of heavenly light. 
On which the eyes of God not rarely look, 
A chronicle of actions just and bright; 
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine ; 
And, since thou own'st that lu'aise, I spare thee 

mine. 



CHARACTER OF LORD CHATHAM. 

From "Table Talk." 

In liim DcmosHicucs was heard again ; 
Liberty taught him her Athenian strain; 
She clothed him with authority aud awe. 
Spoke from his lips, aud in his looks gave law. 
His speech, his form, his action full of grace, 
And all his country beaming in his face. 
He stood as some inimitable hand 
Would strive to nuike a Pant or Tully stand. 
No sycophant or shive, tliat dared oppo.se 
Her sacred cause, but trembled when he rose ; 
Aud every venal .sticliler for the yoke 
Felt himself cruslied at the first word he spoke. 



THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN : 

SHOWING HOW HE WENT FAETHEE THAN HE INTENDED, 
AND CAME SAFE HOJIE AGAIN. 

John Gilpin was a citizen 

Of credit and renown, 
A traiu-band captain eke was he 

Of famous Loudon town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 
" Though wedded we have been 

These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
No holiday have seen. 

" To-morrow is our wedding-day. 

And we will then repair 
Unto tlie Bell at Edmonton 

All iu a chaise and jjair. 

"My sister, and my sister's child. 

Myself, and children three, 
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride 

On horseback after we." 

He soon replied, "I do admire 

Of womaulciud but one, 
Aud you are she, my dearest dear, 

Therefore it shall be done. 

'• I am a liueu-draper bold, 

As all the world doth know, 
And my good frieud the calender 

Will lenil bis horse to go." 

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; 

Aud, for that wine is dear, 
We will be furnished with our own. 

Which is both bright aud clear." 

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; 

O'erjoyed was he to find, 
That, though on pleasure she was bent. 

She. had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought, 

But yet was not allowed 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the chaise was stayed, 

Where they did all get iu ; 
Six precious souls, aud all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



215 



Smack went the whip, lomid went the wheels, 

■Were never folk so gliul ; 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John riilpin at his horse's side 

Seized fast the flowing mane ; 
Auil up ho got, in haste to ride. 

But soon came down again. 

For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, 
His journey to begin, 

When, turning rouud his head, he saw- 
Three cu.stomer3 conic in. 

So down ho came ; for loss of time. 

Although it grieved him sore. 
Yet loss of pence, fnll well he knew, 

Would trouble him much more. 

'Twas long before the customers 

AVere suited to their mind, 
When Betty screaming came down-stairs, 

"The wine is left behind!" 

"Good lack!" quoth he — "yet bring it nic. 

My leathern belt likewise. 
In which I bear my trnsty sword. 

When I do exercise." 

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul !) 

Had two stone bottles found. 
To hold the liquor that ho loved. 

And keep it safe and sound. 

Each bottle had a curling ear. 
Through which the belt he drew. 

And hung a bottle on each side, 
To make his balance true. 

Then over all, that he might be 

Equipped from top to toe, 
His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, 

He manfnlly did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 

Upon his nimble steed, 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones. 

With caution ami good heed. 

But tinding soon a smoother road 

Beneath his well shod feet, 
The snorting beast began to trot, 

Which galled him in his seat. 



So " Fair and softly," John he cried. 

But .John he cried in vain ; 
That trot became a gallop soon. 

In spite of curb and rein. 

So stooping down, as needs he must 

Who cannot sit upright, 
He grasped the mane with both bis hands, 

And eke with all his might. 

His horse, who never in that sort 

Had handled been before. 
What thing upon his back had got 

Did wonder more and more. 

Away went Gilpin, neck or naught ; 

Away went hat and wig ; 
He little dreamed, when he set out. 

Of rnnning such a rig. 

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly 

Like streamer long and gay. 
Till, loop and button failing both, 

At last it flew away. 

Tlien might all people well discern 

The bottles he had slung: 
A bottle swinging at each side, 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children screamed. 

Up flew the wimlows all ; 
And every sonl cried out, "AVell douc !" 

As loud as he could bawl. 

Away went Gilpin — who but hef 

His fame soon spread around; 
" He carries weight ! ho rides a race ! 

'Tis for a thousand pound I'' 

And still as fa.st as he drew near, 

'Twas wonderful to view, 
How in a trice the turnpike men 

Their gates wide open threw. 

And now, as he went bowing down 

His reelving head fnll low. 
The bottles twain behind his b.iek 

Were shattered at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road. 

Most piteous to bo seen, 
Which m.ide his horse's flanks to smoke, 

As thev had basted been. 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF JBJIITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



But still he seemed to carry weight, 

With leatlieru girdle braced ; 
For all might see the bottle-necks 

Still daugliug at his waist. 

Thus all through merry Islington 

These gambols he diil phiy, 
Until he came uuto the Wash 

Of Edmonton so gay ; 

And there he threw the wash about 

On both sides of the way, 
Just like uuto a trundling mop, 

Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton his loving wife 

From the balcony spied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 

To see how lie did ride. 

" Stop, stop, John Gilpin ! — Here's the house — " 

They all at once did cry! 
"The dinner waits, and we are tired:" 

Said Gilpin, "So am I!" 

But yet his horse was not a wliit 

Inclined to tarry there ; 
For why? — his owner had a house 

Full ten miles off, at Ware. 

So like an arrow swift ho flew, 

Shot by an archer strong ; 
So did he fly — which brings me to 

The middle of my song. 

Away went Gilpin out of breath. 

And sore against his will, 
Till at his friend the calender's 

His horse at last stood still. 

The calender, amazed to see 

His neighbor in such trim, 
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate. 

And thus accosted him : 

" What news ? what news ? your tidings tell ; 

Tell me you must and shall — 
Say why bareheaded you are come. 

Or why you come at all ?" 

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 

And loved a timely joke ; 
And thus unto the calender 

In merry guise he spoke : 



" I came because your horse would come : 

And, if I well forbodc, 
My hat and wig will soon bo here. 

They are upon the road." 

The calender, right glad to find 

His friend in merry pin, 
Eeturned hira not a single word, 

Bu* to the house went in. 

Whence straight ho came with hat and wig : 

A wig that flowed behind, 
A hat not much the worse for wear, 

Each comely in its kind. 

He held them up, and in his turn 

Thus showed his ready wit : 
"My head is twice as big as yours, 

They therefore needs must fit. 

"But let me scrape the dirt away, 

That hangs upon your face ; 
And stop and eat, for well you may 

Bo in a hungry case." 

Said John, " It is my wedding-day. 

And all the world would stare, 
If wife should dine at Edmonton, 

And I should diue at Ware." 

So, turning to his horse, he said, 

" I am in haste to dine ; 
'Twas for your pleasure you came here, 

You shall go back for mine." 

Ah, luckless speech, aud bootless boast! 

For which he paid full dear ; 
For, while he spake, a braying ass 

Did sing most loud aud clear ; 

Whereat his horse did snort, as he 

Had heard a lion roar, 
And galloped off with all his might. 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

AVent Gilpin's hat aud wig: 
He lost them sooner than at first, 

For why? — they were too big. 

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 

Her husband posting down 
Into the country f;ir away, 

She pulled out half a crown ; 



WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 



ill 



And tbiis iiuto tbe youth sliu said 

That drove them to the Hell, 
"This shall he yours, wlieu you briug back 

My husband safe and well."' 

The yonth did ride, and soon did meet 

John coming back amain ; 
Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 

By catching at Iiis reiu ; 

But not performing what he meant, 

And gladly would have done, 
The frighted steed ho frighted more, 

And made him faster run. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went post-boy at his heels. 
The post-boy's horse right glad to miss 

The lumbering of the wheels. 

Six gentlemen upon the road, 

Thus seeing Gilpin (ly. 
With post-boy scampering in the rear, 

They raised the hue-and-cry : — 

"Stop thiefl stop thief! — a highwayman!" 

Not one of them was mute ; 
And all and each that passed that way 

Did join in the pursuit. 

.\nd now the turnpike gates again 

Flew opeu iu short space ; 
The tollmen thinking, as before, 

That Gilpin rode a race. 

.\nd so he did, and won it too. 

For he got first to town ; 
Nor stopped till where ho had got up 

He did again get down. 

Now let us sing, Long live the King! 

And Gilpin long live he ! 
And, when he next doth rido abroad, 

May I he there to see ! 



lUilliam 3u['ni5 UlitKlc. 

Mickle (1TS4-1788) was the son of the minister of 
Langholm, in Diimfricssliirc. Not succeeding in trade 
as a brewer, he went to London in 17('4. Here he pub- 
lislicd "Tlie Concubine," a moral poem in the Spense- 
rian stanza. He also tranBlatcd, thoiurh not very faith- 
liilly, the "Lusiad" of Camocns. Mieklc's ballad of 



"Cumnor Hall," which suggested to Scott the ground- 
work of his romance of " Kcnihvortli," is a tame pro- 
duction compared with the cliarniiug little poem of 
"The Mariner's Wife," in regard to which doubt has 
been expressed whether Jlickic was really its author. 
It first appeared as a broadsheet, sold In the streets of 
Edinburgh. Mickle did not Include It in an edition of 
his poems, published by himself; but Allan Cunningham 
claims it for him on the ground tliat a cojiy of the poem, 
with alterations marking tbe text as in process of for- 
mation, was found among Mieklc's papers, and in bis 
handwriting; also, that bis widow declared tliat he said 
the song was his. Beatlic added a stanza, wblcli mars 
its flow, and is omitted iu our version. The poem was 
claimed by Jean Adams, a poor school -mistress, who 
died in 170.5. Chambers thinks that it must, on the 
whole, be credited to Mickle. Dean Trench does not 
feel at liberty to disturb the ascription of this "exqui- 
site domestic lyric " to Mickle. Burns, not too strongly, 
characterized it as " one of the most beautiful songs in 
the Scotch or any other language." 



THE MARINER'S WIFE. 

And are ye sure the news is true, 

And are yo sure he's weel f 
Is this a time to think o' wark f 

Ye jades, fling by yonr wheel. 
Is this a time to spin a thread, 

When Colin's at the door? 
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, 
And see him come a.shore. 

For there's nao luck about the house, 

There's nao luck at a' ; 
There's little pleasure iu the house 
When our gude-raau's awa'. 

And gie to mo my bigonet, 

My bishop's-satin gown ; 
For I maun tell the bailie's wife 

That Colin's in the town. 
My Turkey slippers maun gac on. 

My stockings pearly blue ; 
It's a' to pleasure our gude-man, 

For he's baith leal and true. 

For there's uac luck about the house, etc. 

Rise, lass, and mak' a clean fireside. 

Put on the mnrkle pot; 
Gie little Kate her button gown. 

And Jock his Sunday coat ; 
And mak' their shoon as black as slacs, 

Their hose as white as snaw ; 
It's a' to please my ain gudc-nian, 

For he's been lang awa'. 

For there's nao luck about the bouse, etc. 



218 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



There's twa fat hens upo' the coop, 

Been fcil this month and mair ; 
Mak' Iiaste anil thraw their necks abont, 

Tliat Colin wcel may fare : 
And spread tlio table neat and clean, 

Gar ilka thing look bran- ; 
For who can tell how Colin fared 

When he was far awa'. 

For there's nae luck abont the honse, etc. 

Sae trno his heart, sae smooth his speech, 

His breath like caller air ; 
His very foot has music in't 

As he comes up the stair ; — 
And will I see his face again ? 

And will I hear him speak? 
I'm downrijjht dizzy wl' the thought, — 

In troth, I'm like to greet 1 

For there's nae luck about the house, etc. 

If Colin's weel, and weel content, 

I ha'o nae mair to crave ; 
And gin I live to keep him sae, 

I'm blest aboon the lave : 
And will I see his face again t 

And will I hear him speak? 
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — 

In troth, I'm like to greet ! 

For there's nae luck about the house, etc. 



Soljn f angljonic. 



Langhorne (1735-1779) was a native of AVestmorcland, 
and became a preacher in London. Amiable and liiglily 
beloved in his day, lie is now chiefly known as the trans- 
lator of " PUitarcli's Lives." He seems to have antici- 
pated Crabbe in painting the rural life of England in true 
colors. He wrote "Owen of Carron," a balLid, praised 
by Campbell; also, "Country Justice," both giving evi- 
dences of a refined poetical taste. 



FROM "OWEN OF CARRON." 

On Carron's side the primrose pale, 
Why does it wear a purple hue ? 

Ye maidens fair of Marlivale, 

Why stream your eyes with pity's dew ? 

'Tis all with gentle Owen's blood 

That purple grows the primrose pale ; 

That pity pours the tender flood 
From each fair eve in Marlivale. 



The evening star sat in his eye, 
The sun his golden tresses gave, 

The north's pure morn her orient dye, 
To him who rests in yonder grave ! 

Beneath no high, historic stone, 
Though nobly born, is Owen laid; 

Stretched on the greenwood's lap alone, 
He sleejis beneath the waving shade. 

There many a flowery race hath sprung, 
And fle<l before the mountain gale. 

Since fir.st his simple dirge ye sung; 
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale ! 

Yet still, when May with fragrant feet 
Hath wandered o'er your meads of gold. 

That dirge I hear so simply sweet 
Far echoed from each evening fold. 



Sanies Scattic. 

The son of a small farmer residing at Laurencc-kirk, 
in Scotland, Boattie (173.5-1S03) was educated at Mari- 
schal College, Aberdeen, where in 17(!0 he was appointed 
Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logic. His principal 
prose work, "The Essay on Truth," made some noise 
in its day, but is now little esteemed by pliilosopbical 
critics. George III. conferred on him a pension of £300. 
Beattie's fame as a poet rusts upon "Tlie Minstrel," the 
first part of wliieli was published in 1771. Written in 
the Spenserian stanza, it gracefully depicts tlie opening 
character of Edwin, a young village jioet. Some of the 
stanzas rise to a strain of true lyric grandeur, but the 
general level of the poem is not above the common- 
place. It gave Beattie, however, a high literary leputa- 
tion. He had already corresponded with Gray. He now 
became the associate of Jolmson, Reynolds, Goldsmith, 
and Garrick. In his domestic relations Beattie was un- 
fortunate; his wife becoming insane, and his two sons 
dying at an early age. Sliattered by a train of nervous 
complaints, the unhappy poet had a stroke of paralysis 
in 1790, and died in 1803. By nature he had quick and 
tender sensibilities. A fine landscape or strain of music 
would affect him even to tears. 



NATURE AND HER VOTARY. 

From " The Minstrel." 

Oh how canst thou renounce the boundless store 
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ! 
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, 
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields ; 
All that the genial ray of morning gilds, 



JAMES BEATTIE. 



219 



Ami all that echoes to the soii<; of oven, 
All tli;il tlic immnfaiii's shelterin;;; bosom shields, 
Ami all the dread inagiiincence of Hi^aveii, 
Oh how canst IIkiu rcnonuee, and li"iii' to lie I'nr- 
givcii ! 

Those charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, 
And love, and gentleness, and joy impart. 
lUit these thou must renounce, if lust of wealth 
IVer win its way to thy corrn|ited heart: 
I'or ah ! it poisons like a, scorpion's dart ; 
rrompting the ungenerous wisli, the scllish scheme, 
The stern resolve unmoved by pity's smart. 
The troublous day, and long distressful dream : 
Eetiirn, my roving Muse, resume thy purposed 
theme. 



LIFE AND IMMORTALITV. 

FllOM "TnE MiNSTUEL." 

Oh ye wild groves, oh where is now yonr lileom ! 
(The Muse interprets thus his tender thonglit). 
Yonr (lowers, your verdure, and your balmy gloom. 
Of late so grateful in the hour of drought ! 
Why do the bird.s, that song and rapture brought 
To all your bowers, their mansions now forsake f 
.\li ! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought 7 
I'or now the storm Iiowls mournful through the 

brake, 
And the dead foliage Hies in many a shapeless 

flake. 

Where now the rill, melodious, purr, and cool, 
And meads, with life, and mirth, and beaut}' 

crowned ? 
Ah ! SCO, the unsightly slime, and sluggish pool, 
Have all the solitary vale embrowned; 
I'led each fair form, and mule each melting sound. 
The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray : 
And hark! the river, bursting every mound, 
Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful sway 
Uproots the grove, and rolls the shattered rocks 

away. 

Yet suili the destiny of all on Karlli : 

So nourishes and fades majestic Man. 

Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth. 

And fostering gales awhile the nnrsling fan. 

Oh smile, ye heavens serene ; ye mildews wan, 

Ye blighting whirlwinils, spare his balmy prime, 

Xiir lessen of his life the little span! 

liorno on the swift, thongh silent, wings of Time, 

Old age comes on apace, to ravagi' all the clime. 



And be it so. Let those deplore their doom. 
Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn : 
But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb, 
Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn. 
Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return t 
Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed ? 
Soon shall the orient with ik'W lustre burn. 
And Spring shall soon her vital inlluence shed, 
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead. 

Shall I be left forgotten in the dust. 
When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive? 
Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust. 
Bid him, thongh doomed to perish, hope to live f 
Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive 
With disappointment, peuurv, and pain ? 
No: Heaven's immortal Spring shall yet arrive. 
And man's majestic beauty bloom again, 
Bright through the eternal year of Love's trium- 
phant reign. 



MORNING MELODIES. 



Fkosi "Tue Minstrel.' 



But who (he melodies of morn can tell ? 

The wild brook babbling down the mountain-side; 

The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; 

The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 

In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide 

The clamorous horn along the clitl's above ; 

The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide ; 

The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, 

And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark ; 
Crowned with her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings; 
The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark! 
Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings; 
Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs; 
Slow tolls the village-clock the drow.sy hour; 
The partridge bursts away on whining wings; 
Deep nu)nrns the turtle in sequestered bower, 
And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tour. 

O Nature, how in every charm supremo! 

Whose votaries fca.st on raptures ever new! 

Oh for the voice and fire of seraphim. 

To sing thy glories with devotion due ! 

Blessed be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew, 

From Pyrrho's maze, and Epieurns' sty ; 

And held high converse with the godlike few, 

Who to the enraptured heart, anil ear, and e,ve, 

Teach beauty, virtue, truth, !ind love, and melody. 



220 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BBITISS AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



ARRAIGNMENT OF PROVIDENCE. 

Fnosr " Tue JIinstrel." 

Sball lie, whose biitli, maturity, aud age 
Scarce fill the circle of one summer day, 
Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and rage, 
Exclaim that Nature hastens to decay, 
If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray. 
If but a momentary shower descend ? 
Or shall IVail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay. 
Which bade the series of events extend 
Wide through unnumbered worlds, aud ages with- 
out end ? 

One part, one little part, wo dimly scan 

Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream ; 

Yet daro arraign the whole stupendous plan. 

If but that little part incongruous seem. 

Nor is that part, perhaps, what mortals deem ; 

Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise. 

Oh then renounce that impious self-esteem, 

That aims to trace the secrets of the skies ! 

For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise. 



£atii) Caroline Kcjjpcl. 

Born in Scotland about the year 1735, Lady Caroline 
Kcppel was a daughter of the second Earl of Albemarle. 
Robin Adair was an Irish surgeon, whom she married in 
spite of the opposition of her friends. He became a fa- 
vorite of George III., and was made surgeon -general. 
He died at an advanced nge, not having married a second 
time. Lady Caroline's life was short but liappy. She 
left three children, one of them a son. Sir Robert Adair, 
G.C.B.,who died in 18.5.5, aged ninety-two. There is a 
nd'wete in the style of her song which makes credible licr 
authorship. Beautiful as it is, from the unstudied art, 
it is evidently not the work of a practised writer. It 
was set to a plaintive Irish air. 



ROBIN ADAIR. 

What's this dull town to me? 

Robin's not near, — 
lie whom I wished to see. 

Wished for to hear ! 
Where's all the joy and mirth 
JIade life a heaven on earth 1 
Oh, they're all lied with thee, 

Robin Adair ! 

What made the assembly shine ? 
Robin Adair. 



What made the ball so fine 1 

Robin was there ! 
What, when the play was o'er. 
What made my heart so sore f 
Oh, it was parting with 

Robin Adair ! 

But now thon'rt far from me, 

Robin Adair ; 
But now I never see 

Robin Adair ; 
Yet ho I loved so well 
Still in my heart shall dwell : 
Oh, I can ne'er forget 

Robin Adair ! 

Welcome on shore again, 

Robin Adair ! 
W^elcome once more again, 

Robin Adair ! 
I feel thy trembling hand ; 
Tears in thy eyelids stand, 
To greet thy native land, 

Robin Adair. 

Long I ne'er saw thee, love, 

Robin Adair ; 
Still I prayed for thee, love, 

Robin Adair. 
When thou wert far at sea. 
Many made love to me ; 
But still I thought on thee, 

Robin Adair. 

Come to my heart again, 

Robin Adair ; 
Never to part again, 

Robin Adair ! 
And if thou still art true, 
I will bo constant too. 
And will wed none but you, 

Robin Adair! 



loljn lHolcot. 

Dr. John Wolcot (1738-1819), who, under the name of 
Peter Pindar, gained much notoriety as a satirist, was a 
native of Dodbrooke, in Devonshire, studied medicine, 
and became a practitioner. While residing at Truro he 
detected the talents of the self-taught artist, Opie, whom 
he brouglit to London in 1780. Wolcot had now re- 
course to his pen for his support. His "Lyric Odes to 
tlic Royal Academicians" took the town by surprise. 



JOUX iruLCOT. 



221 



The justice of many of his cnllcisiiis, tlic daring peison- 
alities, and the quaintness of the style, were soniclliing 
60 new tluit the work was liiijlily successful. He now 
began to launch his ridicule at the king, ministers, op- 
position leaders, and authors, among which last were 
(iifford, Boswcll, and Johnson. His popularity lasted 
for nearly forty yeai-s. In 1?J5 he got from his book- 
sellers an annuity of £2.')0, payable half-yearly, for the 
copyright of his works — a contract which resulted in 
heavy loss to the booksellers. Ephemeral in their nat- 
ure, and lacking the vitality of moral purpose, most of 
his writings have sunk into oblivion. After all his sat- 
ires on George III. and Pitt, he accepted a pension from 
llie administration of which Pitt was the head. 



OX DR. JOHNSON. 

I own I like not Johnson's turgid style, 
That gives an inch the iinpoitauco of a mile; 
Casts of niannro <a wagon-load around 
To raise ii simple daisy iVoin tlio ground ; 
I'plifts the clnl) of Hercules — for whatf 
To crush a butterlly, or brain a gnat! 
Creates a whirlwind, from the earth to draw 
A goose's feather, or exalt a straw ; 
Sets wheels on wheels in motion — such a clatter !- 
To force up one poor nipperkiu of water; 
liids ocean labor with tremendous roar 
To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore : 
Alike in every themo his jiompous art — 
Heaven's awful thunder or a rumbling cart! 



EPIGRAM OX SLEEP. 

Thomas Wartoii wrote the following Latin epigram, to be 
pinccd nnder (he statue of Somniis, in the garden t)f Harris, the 
phitologist. In Wolcot'a transhitiuu, the beauty and felicity 
of the original are well conveyed. 

"Somne levi?, qunnqnnm certissima mortis imago 
Cousortem cupio tc tamcu esse tori : 
Alma qnies, optnta, veni, nam sic sine vitA 
Vivere quam suave est ; sic siuc morte mori 1'* 

Come, gentle Sleep ! attend thy votary's juayer. 
And, though Death's image, to my couch repair! 
How sweet, though lifeles.s, yet with Life to lie ! 
Aud, without dying, oh how sweet to die ! 



THE PILGRDIS AND THE PEASE. 

A brace of sinners, for no good. 

Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, 
Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, 

Aud, ill a fair white wig, looked woudrous fine. 



Fifty long miles had tliese sad rogues to travel. 
With something in their shoes much wor.se than 

gi iiv.1 ; 
In short, their toes so gentle to amuse. 
The priest had ordered pease into their shoes : 
A nostrum famous, in old Pojiish times, 
For purifying souls when foul with crimes ; 
A sort of apostolic salt, 
That popish parsons for its powers exalt, 
For keeping souls of sinners sweet, 
Just as our kitchen-salt keeps meat. 
The knaves set off on the same day, 
Peaso in their shoes, to go and pray; 

But very ditt'ereut was their speed, I wot : 
One of the sinners galloped on. 
Light as a bnllet from a gun ; 

The other limped as if ho had been shot. 
One saw the Virgin soon, "Peccavi" cried, 

Had his soul whitewashed all so clever; 
When home again he iiinibly hied, 

Made lit with saints above to live forever. 
In coming back, however, let me say. 
Ho met his brother rogue about half-way. 
Hobbling, with out.stretclied hams and bending 

knees, 
Cursing the souls and bodies of the pea.so ; 
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat. 
And sympathizing with his aching feet. — 
"How now?" the light-toed, whitewashed pilgrim 
broke : 

"You lazy lubber!—" 
"Confound it!" cried the other, "'tis no joke! 
My feet, once hard as any rock, 

Are now as soft as blubber! 
Excnse nic, Virgin Mary, that 1 swear! 
As for Loretto, I shall not get there : 
No ! to the devil my sinful soul must go ; 
For, hang me, if I ba'u't lost every toe. 
But, brother sinner, do explain 
How 'tis that you are not in pain ; 

What power hath worked a wonder for your 
toes, 
While I just like a snail am crawling. 
Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, 

W'Uilo not a rascal comes to case my woes T 
How is't that you can like a greyhound go, 

Merry, as if that naught had happened, burn 
ye f"— 
"Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must 
know, 

That just before I ventured on my journey. 
To walk a little more at ease, 
I took the liberty to boil mi/ pease." 



222 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Sames lUacjoljcvsoii. 

A native of Kingussie, Seotlancl, Macplierson (173S- 
1790) was intended lor tlie Cliurcli, and received liis ed- 
ucation tlierefor at Aberdeen. In 1758 lie published a 
very ambitious but very worthless poem, entitled "The 
Highlander." The next year he published a volume of 
sixty pages, entitled "Fragments of Ancient Poetry; 
translated from the Gaelic or Erse language." It at- 
tracted attention, and a subscription was raised to ena- 
ble him to travel in the Highlands and collect other 
pieces. He chiinied tliat his journey was successful. 
In 1762 he presented the world witli "Fingal," an an- 
cient epic poem in six books ; and, in 1763, "Temora," 
another epic poem in eight books. The sale of these 
productions was immense. That they should have been 
handed down by tradition through many centuries, among 
rude tribes, excited much astonishment. One Ossian was 
the reputed antlior. Many critics doubted; others dis- 
believed ; and a lierce controversy raged for some time 
as to the autheutieity of tlie poems. How much of them 
is ancient and genuine, and how much fabricated cannot 
now be ascertained. The Highland Society were unable 
to obtain any one poem the same in title and tenor with 
the poems published. Maephersou went to London, be- 
came a successful politician, made a fortune, and obtain- 
ed a seat in Parliament. He retired to his native parish, 
and lived about six years to enjoy his wealth. Gray, 
Hume, Home, and other eminent men believed in "Os- 
sian," and even tlie great Napoleou was an admirer of 
it in its translated form. 



OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN. 

O thou that jollcst above, 

Round as the shield of my fathers! 

Whence aro thy beani.s, O suu ! 

Thy everlasting light ? 

Thou coruest forth in tbiue awful beauty ; 

The stars hide themselves in the sky; 

The moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western 

wave ; 
But thou thyself niovcst alone. 
Who can he companion of thy course ? 
The oaks of tlie mountains fall; 
The mountains theni,selves decay ■with years ; 
The ocean shrinlis and gi'ows again ; 
The nioou herself is lost iu heaven, 
But thou art forever the same, 
Rejoieiug iu the brightness of thy course. 
W^hen the world is dark with teniiiests, 
When thunder rolls and lightning flies, 
Thon lookest in thy beauty from the clouds 
And laugliest at the storm. 
But to Ossian tluni lookest in vain, 
For he beholds thy beams uo more, 



Whether thy yellow hair floats ou the eastern 

clouds, 
Or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. 
But thou art jierliaps like me for a season ; 
Thy years will have an end. 
Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds. 
Careless of the voice of the morning. 
Exult then, O suu, iu the strength of thy youth ! 



THE SONCx OF COLMA. 

It is night : I am alone, 
Forlorn ou the hill of storms ! 
The wind is heard in the mountain ; 
The torrent pours down the rock ; 
No hut receives me from the rain, 
Forlorn on the hill of winds! 

Rise, moon ! from behind thy clouds. 
Stars of the night, arise ! 
Lend me some light to the place 
Where my Love rests from the chase aloue- 
His bow near him unstrung ; 
His dogs panting around him ! 
But here I must sit alone 
By the rock of the mossy stream. 
The stream and the wind roar aloud; 
I hear uot the voice of uiy love. 
Why delays my Salgar, 
Why the chief of the hill his promise ? 
Here is the rock, aud here the tree, 
And here is the roaring stream ! 
Thou didst promise with night to be here. 
Ah ! whither is my Salgar gone ? 
With thee I would fly from my father; 
With thee from my brother of pride. 
Long have our race been foes ; 
We are uot foes, O Salgar ! 

Cease a little while, O wind! 
Stream, be thou silent awhile ! 
Let my voice be heard around ; 
Let my wanderer hear lue. 
Salgar, it is Colma who calls! 
Here is the tree aud the rock ; 
Salgar, my Love, I am here ; 
Why delayest thou thy coming? 
Lo ! the calm moon comes forth ; 
The flood is bright in the vale ; 
The rocks are gray on the steep : 
I see him not ou the brow ; 
His dogs come uot before him 
With tidings of his near approach, 
Here 1 must sit alone! 



yjTBAXIEL XILES.— AUGUSTUS MOXTAGUE TOPLADT. 



^'atljanicl Xilcs. 



AMERICAN. 

Xilcs (IToO-lsiS) was a gnindson of Samuel Niles, the 
ininistor of Bniintrec, Mass., who was an autlior of some 
little note. Nathaniel wa.i a ciadiiate of Piiiieoton C'ol- 
leirc ill 177fi, anil Master of Aits of llaivaid in 1772. ITe 

I tied in West Fuiilee, Vermont, where he became Dis- 
1 rict .Judi;c of the United States. He preached occa- 
sionally as a Presbyterian minister, at Norwich, Conn., 
dnrinu the Revolution. He wrote several theological 
treatises, but will be remembeicd chielly by his patriotic 
Ode in Sapphic and Adonic vei-se. It is superior to much 
that was current as poetry in his day. He died at the 
advanced age of eighty-nine. 



THE AMERICAN HERO. 

An Ode, written nt the lime of the American Revolalion, at 
Norwich, Coun., October, li;5. 

Wliy slionUI vain mortals tremble at tbc sight of 
Death and (lest riiet ion in the Held of battle, 
Where blood and carnage clothe tho groiiiid iu 
crimson, 

Soiiuding with death-groans f 

Death will invade ii.s by the means appointed, 
I And we must all bow to the king of terrors ; 
Nor am I anxion.i, if I am preiiarc^d, 
What shape ho comes in. 

Iiilinite Goodness teaches us submission, 
Kids ns be quiet under all his dealings; 
Never repining, but forever praising 
God, our Creator. 

Well may we prai.se him : all his ways are perfect; 
Tliongli a resplendence, inliiiitely glowing, 
Dazzles in glory on the sight of mortals, 
Struck blind by lustre. 

Good is Jehovah in bestowing sunshine, 
Nor less his goodness in the storm and thunder, 
Mercies and judgment both proceed from kindness, 
Inlinito kindness. 

I 111, then, exnit that God forever reigncth ; 
clouds which around him hinder onr perception, 
Hind us the stronger to exalt his name, and 
.Shout louder praises. 

Then to the wisilum of my Lord and M.ister 
I will commit all that 1 have or wish for, 
■~weetly .rs babes sleep will I give my life up. 
When called to yield it. 



Now, Mars, I dare thee, clad in smoky pillars, 
Bursting from boinb-.sliells, roaring from the cannon. 
Rattling in grape-sliot like a storm of hailstones. 
Torturing ether. 

Up the bleak heavens let the spreading flames rise, 
Breaking, like Etna, through the smoky columns, 
Lowering, like Egypt, o'er the falling city. 
Wantonly burnt down.' 

While .ill their hearts quick pali>itato for havoc. 
Let slip your blood-liouud.s, named the British lions ; 
Dauntless as death stares, nimble as the whirlwind, 
Dreadful as demons ! 

Let oceans waft ou all your floating castles. 
Fraught with dcstniction, horrible to uature; 
Then, with your sails tilled by a storm of vengeance, 
Bear down to battle. 

From the dire caverns, made by ghostly miners, 
Let the explosion, dreadful as volcanoes, 
Heavo tho broad town, with all its wealth anil 
people. 

Quick to destruction. 

Still shall the banner of the King of Heaven 
Never advance where I'm afraid to follow ; 
While that jirecedcs me, with an open bosom, 
War, I defy thee ! 

Fame and dear freedom hue me on to battle. 
While a fell despot, grimmer than a deatir.s-licad. 
Stings me with serpents, iiercer than Medusa's, 
To the encounter. 

Life, for my eonutry and the cause of freedom. 
Is but .a trifle for a worm to jiart with ; 
And, if preserved iu so great a contest. 
Life is redoubled. 



Augustus iUoutaguc (Lopltiiiji. 

Toplady, a zealous advocate of Calvinism, was born at 
Farnham, in Surrey, 1740, and died 1778. He was edu- 
cated at Trinity College, Dublin, and became vicar of 
Broad Ilenbury, in Devonshire. He was a strcnuons 
opponent of Wesley. His theological works form six 
volumes ; but bis memory is kept green less by tlicni 
than by a few popular hymns. 



■ A reference to the burning of Charlestown, near Botlon, 
by tbc British. 



224 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



DEATHLESS PRINCIPLE, ARISE! 

Deathless principle, arise ! 
Soar, thou uative of the skies ! 
Peavl of price, by Jesus bought, 
To his glorious likeness -wrought I 
Go, to shine before bis throne, 
Deck Iiis mediatorial crown ; 
Go, his triumphs to atlorn — 
jMaile for God, to God return ! 

Lo, he beckons from ou high ! 
Fearless to his presence fly: 
Tliine the merit of his blood, 
Thine the righteousness of God ! 
Angels, joyful to atteud. 
Hovering, round thy pillow bend ; 
Wait to catch the signal given, 
And escort thee quick to heaven. 

Is thy earthly house distressed, 

AVilling to retain its guest ? 

'Tis not thou, but she, must die — 

Fly, celestial tenant, fly ! 

Burst thy shackles, drop thy clay, 

Sweetly breathe thyself away ; — 

Singing, to thy crown remove, 

Swift of wing, and fired witli love! 

Shudder not to pass the stream, 
Venture all thy care on Him ; 
Him whose dying love and power 
Stilled its tossing, hushed its roar : 
Safe is the expanded wave, 
Geutlo as a summer's eve ; 
Not one object of his care 
Ever suffered shipwreck there. 

See the haven full in view ; 

Love divine shall bear thee through : 

Trust to that propitious gale. 

Weigh thy anchor, spread thy sail ! 

Saints, in glory perfect made. 

Wait thy passage through the shade ; 

Ardent for thy coming o'er. 

See, they throng the blissful shore! 

Mount, their transports to improve ; 
Join the longing choir above ! 
Swiftly to their wish bo given ; 
Kindle higher joy in heaven ! 
Such the prospects that arise 
To the dying Christian's eyes ! 



Such the glorious vista faith 
Opens through the shades of death ! 



ROCK OF AGES, CLEFT FOR ME. 

Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 

Let me hide myself in thee ! 

Let the water and the blood 

From thy riven side which flowed. 

Be of sin the double cure. 

Cleanse me from its guilt and power. 

Not the labor of my hands 
Can fulfil thy law's demands : 
Could my zeal no respite know. 
Could my tears forever flow. 
All for sin could not atone ; 
Thou must save, and thou alone ! 

Nothiug in my hand I bring ; 
Simply to thy cross I cling : 
Naked, come to thee for dress ; 
Helpless, look to thee for grace ; 
Foul, I to the Fountain fly — 
Wash me, Saviour, or I die ! 

While I draw this fleeting breath. 
When my eye-strings break in death, 
When I soar through tracts unknown, 
See thee on thy judgment-throne, — 
Rock of Ages, cleft for me. 
Let me hide myself in thee ! 



Joljii Qtuieu. 



Eweu was born at Montrose, Scotland, in 1741, and 
died at Aberdeen in ISil. Burns says of this song: 
"It is a cliarming display of womanly affection mingling 
with the concerns and occupations of life. It is nearly 
equal to 'There's nae luck about the house.' " 



O WEEL MAY THE BOATIE ROW. 

O weel may the boatie row. 

And better may she speed! 
And weel may the boatie row 

That wins the bairnies' bread! 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 

The boatie rows indeed ; 
And happy be the lot of a' 

That wishes her to speed ! 



JOnX EWEX.—MnS. ANNE RVNTEE.—MUS. GIIAXT OF CAItROX. 



2ib 



I ciiist my Uuo in Largo Bay, 

And lislics I caiiglit nine; 
There's three to boil, and three to fry, 

And three to bait the line. 
The boatio rows, the boatio rows. 

The boatie rows indeed ; 
And happy be the lot of a' 

That wishes her to speed ! 

Oh wcil may tlie boatin row 

That tills a heavy creel,' 
And cleads us a' frae head to feet. 

And buys our parritch meal. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows indeed ; 
And happy bo the lot of a' 

That wish the boatie speed! 

When Jamie vowed ho would bo mine, 

And wau frae me my heart, 
Oh mncklo lighter grew my creel ! 

Ho swore we'd never pai-t. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 

The boatie rows fu' weel ; 
And muekle lighter is the lade 

When love bears up the creel. 

My kurtcli I jmt upon my head. 

And dressed mysel' fu' braw; 
I trow my heart was dowf^ and wao 

When Jamie gacd awa' : 
But weel may the boatie row. 

And Uickj' be her part ; 
And lightsome be the lassie's caro 

That yields an honest heart ! 

Wlu-n Sawnie, .lock, and Janetic 

Are up, and gotten lear,' 
They'll help to gar the boatio row, 

And lighten all our care. 
The boatie rows, the boatio rows, 

The bo.atie rows fu' weel ; 
And lightsome be her licart that bears 

The murlain and the creel ! 

And when wi' ago we are ■worn down, 
And hirpliug round the door. 

They'll row to keep us hale and warm, 
As wo did them before : 

Then weel may the boatio row 
That wins tho bairnies' bread ; 



And h.appy be the lot of a' 
That wish the boat to speed! 



iUis. ^nue £)untcr. 

Mrs. Hunter (1743-1831) was the sister of Sir Evcrarrt 
Home, and wife of John Hunter, celebrated us "the 
greatest man who ever practised surgery." Slie wrote 
songs that Haydn set to music, and in 1800 published a 
volume of her poems. 



INDIAN DEATH-SONG. 

The sua sets in night, and the stars shnu the day. 
But glory remains when their lights fade away : 
Begin, you tormentors! yonr threats are in vain. 
For tho son of Alknomook will never complain. 

Kemeiuber the arrows he shot from his bow, 
Kemember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low : 
Why so slow? Do you wait till 1 shrink from the 

pain ? 
No ; the sou of Alknomook shall never complain. 

Kemember the wood where in ambnsli wo lay, 
And the scalps which we bore from your naliiui 

away : 
Now the flamo rises fast ; you exult in my pain ; 
But tho son of Alknomook can never complain. 

I go to the laud where my father is gone. 
His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son; 
Death comes like a friend to relieve mo from pain ; 
And thy son, O Alknomook ! has scorned to com- 
plain. 

fllrs. errant of Carron. 

sirs. Grant (rimt 174:>-1S14», the author of a song still 
popular, was horn in Ireland, of Scottish parents. She 
married, first her cousin, Mr. Grant of Carron, about the 
year ITlilJ ; and, secondly, Dr. Murray, a physician in 
Bath. The song wc quote was a favorite with liuins. 



' Basket. 



» Sad. 
15 



' L«nrnhig. 



ROY'.S WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCII. 

Koy's wife of Aldivalloch, 

Roy's wife of Aldiv.alloch, 

Wat yo how she cheated mo 

As I cam' o'er tlio braes o' Balloch ? 

Sho vowed, she swore she wad be mine, 
She said .she lo'cd me best o" onie ; 



226 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



But, all ! the lickle, faitliless quean, 

She's ta'en the cavl, and left lier Jobnuie. 
Roy's Tvife of Aldivallocli, etc. 

Oh, she ■was a cauty quean, 

An' weel could dance the Hieland ■svalloch ! 
How liapiiy I had she been mine. 

Or I been Roy of Aldivallocb ! 

Roy's wife of Aldivallocb, etc. 

Her hair sae fair, her eeu sae clear, 

Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonuie ! 

To nie she ever will be dear. 

Though she's forever left her Johnnie. 
Roy's wife of Aldivallocb, etc. 



Qinna Cctitia (7lil(in) 33avbaulb. 

Mrs. Bailniukl (1743-1S2.5) was a native of Kibvvortb, 
Leicestorsliire. Her father, Mr. Aikiu, kept a seminary 
for the etlacation of boys ; and Anna, under liis guidance, 
became a classical scholar. In 1773 slie published a vol- 
ume of poems, which went through four editions in one 
year. Her often quoted "Ode to Spring" would be ad- 
mirable were it not too much an eclio of Collius's '"Ode 
to Eveniug," tlie measure of which it reproduces. In 
1774 slie married tlie Rev. Mr. Barbauld, a French Prot- 
estant, and in 1776 tlicy estublisbed themselves at Hamp- 
stead. " Evenings at Home," tbe joint production of 
herself and lier brother. Dr. John Aikiu, is still a favorite 
work for cliiUlren and yonlb. Jolinson, who hated Dis- 
senters, is credited by Boswell with a remark he per- 
haps regretted: "jMiss Aikin was an instance of early 
cultivation; but how did it terminate? In marrying a 
little Presbyterian parson, who keeps an infant boarding- 
school, so that all her employment now is 'to suclcle 
fools and chronicle small-beer!'" To wliieb, if good 
nature permitted, it might be retorted that this same 
lady's "early cultivation" bad not terminated even in 
her eighty -second year, when she wrote a little poem 
worth all the verse that Johnson ever produced in his 
prime. Of tbe poem entitled "Life," Wordswortli re- 
marked to Henry Crabb Robinson, " Well, I am not 
given to envy other people their good things ; but I do 
wish I had written tliat." But even Wordsworth, like 
Johnson, was not without a flaw of bigotry ; for in a 
letter to Mr. Dyee he says of Mrs. Barbauld: "She was 
spoiled as a poetess by being a Dissenter, and concerned 
with a Dissenting academy." Poor human prejudice! 
A memoir of Mrs. Barbauld by her granduicce, Anna Le 
Breton, was published in Boston in 1878. 



LIFE. 

"Animula, Vagula, Blandula." 

Life I I know not what thou art. 
But know that thou and I must part; 



And when, or how, or where we met, 
I own to me's a secret yet. 
lint this I know: when thou art fled. 
Where'er they lay these limbs, tlii.s head. 
No clod so valueless shall be 
As all that then remains of me. 
Oh, whither, whither dost thou fly, 
Where bend unseen thy trackless course, 

And in this strange divorce, 
Ah, tell me where I must seek this compound I ? 

To tbe vast ocean of empyreal flame. 
From whence tby essence came. 
Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed 
From matter's ba.se encumbering weed? 
Or dost thou, hid from sight, 
W'ait, like some spell-bonud knigbt. 
Through blank oblivions years the appointed hour 
To break tby trance and reassume thy power i 
Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling he? 
Oh, say, what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee? 

Life! we've been long together 
Through pleasant aud through cloudy weather ; 
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear ; 
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; 
Then steal away, give little warniug, 
Choo.se thiue own time ; 
Say not Good-night, — but in some brighter clime 
Bid me Good-morning. 



LINES WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF EIGHTY- 
THREE YEARS. 

Oh, is there not a land 
Where the north-wind blows not? 
Where bitter blasts are felt not? 

Ob, is there not a land 

Between iiolo and pole, 
Where the war-trumpet sounds not 

To disturb the deep serene ? — 

And can I go there 

Without or wheel or sail, — 
Without crossing ford or moor. 
Without climbing Alpine heights, — 

Wafted by- a gentle gale? 

There is a land; — 
And, witliout wind or sail. 
Fast, fast thou shalt bo wafted, 
Which way ever blows the gale. 

Do the hillows roll between ? 



AXXA LETITIA (AIKIX) BAEBAVLD. 



227 



Must I cross tho stormy main ? — 
Green and <niict is the spot. 

Thou uecd'st not quit tlie arms 
That tenderly enfold thee. 



WHAT DO THE FUTIJEES SPEAK OF? 

IS ANSWLI: TO A QIESTION IN THE GUEEK GliAJIMAIt. 

They speak of never-withering shades, 

And bowers of opening joy; 
Tliey promise mines of fairy gold, 

And bliss without alloy. 

They whisper strange euchautiug things 

Within Hope's greedy ears; 
And snre this tuneful voice exceeds 

The music of the spheres. 

They speak of pleasure to tlio gay. 

And wisdom to tho wi.se ; 
And soothe the poet's beating heart 

AVith fame that never dies. 

To virgins lauguishiug in love, 

They speak tho minute nigh; 
And warm consenting hearts they join, 

And paint the rapture high. 

Ill every language, every tongue. 
The same kind things they s.iy ; 

III gentle slumbers speak by night. 
In waking dreams by day. 

Cassandra's fate reversed is theii's ; 

.She, true, no faith could gain, — 
They every p.-issiiig hour deceive, 

Yet are believed again. 



THE DEATH 01' THE VIRTUOUS. 

fircnt liberties have been taken willi lliin piece by compilers 
1 hymn-books. We give the nnthiir's oivii vcreioii. 

Sweet is tho scene when Virtue dies! 

■When sinks a riglitemis soul to rest; 
lliiw mildly beam the closing eyes! 

How gently heaves tho expiring breast! 

So fades a summer cloud away. 

So sinks the gale wln-ii storms are o'er. 

So gently shuts tho oyo of day, 
So dies a wave along tho shore. 



Triumphant smiles the victor brow, 

Fanned by some angel's purplo wing; — 

Where is, O Grave! thy victory now? 
And where, insidious Death ! thy sting f 

Farewell, conflicting joys and fears. 

Where light and shade alternate dwell ! 

How bright the uiichaiigiiig morn appears! 
Farewell, inconstant woild, farewell! 

Its duty done, — as sinks tho clay, 
Light from its load the spirit flies; 

While heaven and earth combine to say, 
''Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies!" 



THE x:nkxowx god. 

To learned Alliens, led liy fame. 
As onco the man of Tarsus came, 

With pity and surprise, 
'Midst idol altars as he stood, 
OVr sculptured marble, brass, and wood, 

He lolled his awful eyes. 

But one, apart, his notice caught. 

That seemed with higher meaning fraught. 

Graved on the wonnded stone ; 
Nor form nor name was there expiessed ; 
Deep reverence filled tho musing breast. 

Perusing, "To tho God unknown!" 

Age after age has rolled away, 
Altars and thrones have felt decay. 

Sages and saints have risen ; 
And, like a giant roused from sleep, 
Mau has explored the pathless deep, 

And lightniugs suatched from heaven ;- 

And many .a shrine in dust is laid, 
Where kneeling nations homage paid, 

liy rock, or fount, or grove ; 
Ephesi.au Dian sees no more 
Her workmen fuse the silver ore. 

Nor Capitoliau Jovo ; — 

E'eu Salem's hallowed courts have ceased 
With solemn pomps her tribes to feast. 

No more tho victim bleeds ; 
To censers filled with rare perfumes, 
Aud vestments from Egyptian looms, 

A purer rite succeeds : — 



228 



CYCLOPJSDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETBT. 



Yet still, where'er presumptous mau 
His Maker's essence strives to scan, 

And lifts his feeble hands, — 
Tliongh saint and sage their i>owers unite. 
To fathom that ah.vss of light, 

Ah ! still that altar stands. 



FOE EASTER SUNDAY. 

Again the Lord of life and light 

Awakes the kindling ray ; 
Unseals the eyelids of the morn. 

And ponrs increasing day. 

Oh what a night was that which wrapped 

The heathen world in gloom ! 
Oh what a snn which broke this day, 

Trinniphant from the tomb ! 

This day be grateful homage paid. 

And loud hosanuas sung ; 
Let gladueas dwell in every heart. 

And praise on every tongne. 

Ten thousand differing lips shall join 

To hail this welcome morn. 
Which scatters blessiugs from its wings. 

To nations yet unborn. 



(!II)arlc0 Pibbtn. 



Dibdin (17-15-1814) was a native of Southampton, Eng- 
land. He was bred for the Church, but took to music 
luul song-ivriting. He appeared on the stage, but did 
not succeed as an actor. In bis dramatic pieces and 
nuisical compositions, however, he Iiit tlie taste of his 
times. His sea-songs are more than a thousand in num- 
ber, and some of them are quite spirited. His sons, 
Charles and Thomas, were also dramatists and song- 
writers, but inferior to the fiither. Thomas Frognall 
Dibdin, the eminent English bibliographer, son of Cap- 
tain Thomas Dibdin, the "Tom Bowling" of Charles's 
songs, was a nephew. Charles was improvident in Ids 
habits, and died poor. 



POOR JACK. 

Go patter to lubbers and swabs, d'ye see ? 

'Bout danger, and fear, and the like ; 
A tight water-boat aud good sea-room give me. 

And it ain't to a little I'll strike. 



Though the tempest topgallant-masts smack smooth 
should smite, 

Aud shiver each spliuter of wood, 
Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and bouse every- 
thing tight. 

And under reefed foresail we'll scud. 
Avast ! nor don't think me a milksop so soft 

To bo taken bj' trifles aback ; 
For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft. 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. 

I heard our good chaplain palaver oue day 

About souls, heaven, mercy, and snch ; 
And, my timbers ! what lingo he'd coil and belay ! 

Why, 'twas all one to me as High-Dutch : 
Cut he said how a sjiarrow can't founder, d'ye see? 

AVithout orders that come down below ; 
And a many fine things that proved clearly to me 

That Providence takes us in tow : 
For, says he. Do you mind me, let storms e'er 
so oft 

Take the top-sails of sailors aback, 
There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft. 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. 

I said to onr Poll (for, d'ye see ? she would cry 

When last we weighed anchor for sea). 
What argufies snivelling and J)iping your eye ? 

Why, what a [young] fool you must be ! 
Can't you see the world's wide, and there's rootn 
for us all. 

Both for seamen aud lubbers ashore ? 
And if to Old Davy I go, my dear Poll, 

Why, you never will hear of me more : 
What then ? all's a hazard — come, don't be so soft ; 

Perhaps I may, laughing, come back ; 
For, d'ye see ? there's a cherub sits smiling aloft. 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. 

D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch 

All as oue as a piece of tlie ship, 
Aud with her brave the world, without offering to 
flinch, 

From the moment the anchor's a-trip : 
As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and euds. 

Naught's a trouble from duty that springs ; 
For my heart is my Poll's, aud my rhino's my 
friend's, 

Aud as for my life, 'tis the King's. 
Even wheu my time comes, ne'er believe mo so soft 

As for grief to be taken aback ; 
For the same little cherub that sits up aloft 

Will look ont a good berth for poor Jack ! 



THOMAS HOLCROFT.— HANNAH MORE. 



229 



(LljomaG fiolcroft. 



Iloleroft (1745-lSOO), autlior of tlic still popular come- 
ily of "The Koad to Kiiin," was boiii in Loiulon, of vi-iy 
luimbic parentage. For a time he worked at his father's 
trade of a shoemaker; then he became a provincial act- 
or, and then a writer of novels. Ho seems to liave found 
his forte in writini; for the stage: between 1778 and lSO(i 
he produced more than thirty dramatic pieces. He was 
a zealoHS rofornier, and an ardent advocate of popular 
rights. The following song is from his novel of " Hugh 
Trevor.'' 



GAFl'EU GRAY. 

Ho! why (lost Ibou shiver aud sliakc, 

Gaffer Gray f 
And why does thy noso look so bine ? 
" 'Tis tho weather that's cold, 
'Tis I'm grown very old. 
And my donblet is not very new ; 
\\VlI-a-(lay !" 

Then lino thy worn doublet with ale, 

(;atVor Gray, 
And warm thy old heart with a glass. 
"Nay, but credit I've none. 
And my money's all gone ; 
Then say how may that come to passt 
W.U-a-day !" 

Hie away to flic house on the brow, 

Gafler Gray, 
And knock at the jolly priest's door. 
"The priest often preaches 
Against worldly riches, 
lint ne'er gives a mite to the poor, 
Well-a-day '" 

The lawyer lives nnder the hill, 

Gafler Gray, 
Wannly fenoed both in back and in front. 
'■He will fasten his lockS; 
And will threaten the stock.s, 
.•^lionld ho ever more find me iu want, 
WcU-a-day !" 

The Kipiirc has fat beeves and brown ale. 

Gafler Gray; 
And tho season will wclcomo you there. 
" His fat beeves, and his beer, 
And his merry new year. 
Arc all for the flush and the fair, 
Well-a-day I" 



Jly keg is but low, I confess. 

Gaffer Gray : 
What then ? Whilo it lasts, man, we'll live. 
''All! tho poor man alone, 
When he hears tho poor moan, 
Of his morsel a morsel will give, 
Well-a-dav!" 



C)anmal) Illorc. 



The daughter of a school -master, Jliss More (174.5- 
1833) w.is a. native of Stapleton, in Gloucestershire. The 
family removed to Bristol ; aud there, in her seventeenth 
year, she published a pastoral drama, "The Searcli after 
Happiness," which passed through three editions. In 
177:3 she made her entrance into London society, was 
domesticated with Garrick, aud made the ac(iuaintanec 
of Johnson aud Burke. In 1777 Garrick brought out 
her tragedy of "Percy" at Drury Laue, from which she 
got £7.50. She now wrote poems, sacred dramas, a pious 
novel, "Ca'lebs in Search of a Wife," etc., till her writ- 
ings tilled eleven volumes octavo. Of "Coelebs," ten 
editions were sold in one year. She made about £30,000 
by her writings. 



THE TWO WEAVERS. 

As at their work two weavers sat. 
Beguiliug time with friendly chat. 
They touched upon the price of meat. 
So high a weaver scarce could eat 1 

" What with my babes and sickly wife," 
Quoth Dick, "I'm almost tired of life: 
So hard we work, so poor we fare, 
'Tis more than mortal man can bear. 

'• How glorious is the rich man's .'^tate ! 
His house so fine, his wealth so great ! 
Heaven is unjust, you must agree : 
Why all to him, aud uoue to me T 

"In spito of what the Scripture teaches. 
In spite of all the pulpit preaches, 
This world — indeed, I've thought so long- 
Is ruled, methinks, extremely wrong. 

" Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 
'Tis all confused, and hard, and strange ; 
Tho good are troubled and oppres.sed, 
Aud all the wicked ixrt- the blessed." 

Quoth John, "Our ignorance is tho cause 
AVhv thus wo blamo our Maker's laws. 



230 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Parts of liis ways alone we know ; 
'Tis all tbat man can see below. 

"Seest fhou that carpet, not half done, 
Which thon, dear Dick, hast well begun ? 
Behold the wild confusion there! 
So rude the mass, it makes one stare ! 

"A stranger, ignorant of the trade. 
Would say. No meaning's there conveyed ; 
For Where's the middle ? where's the border ? 
Thy carpet now is all disorder." 

Quoth Dick, " My work is yet in bits ; 
But still in every part it fits : 
Besides, you reason like a lont: 
Why, man, that carpet's inside out." 

Says J(din, "Tbuii sayst the tliiug I mean, 
An<l now I hope to cure thy spleen : 
This vrorld, which clouds thy soul with doubt, 
Is but a carpet inside out. 

"As when we view these shreds aud end.s, 
We know not wliat the whole inteiuls : 
So, when on earth things look but odd, 
They're working still some scheme of God. 

"No plan, no pattern, can we trace ; 
All wants x>roportiou, truth, aud grace: 
Tho_ motley mixture we deride. 
Nor see the beauteous upper side. 

"But when we reach the world of light, 
Aud view these works of God aright ; 
Then shall we see the whole design, 
Aud own the Workman is Divine. 

"What now seem random strokes will there 
All order and design appear ; 
Then shall we praise what here we spurned, 
For then the carpet will be turned." 

"Thou'rt right," (luolh Dick; "no more I'll grumble 
That this world is so strange a jumble ; 
My impious doubts are put to lligbt. 
For my own carpet sets me right." 



KINDNESS IN LITTLE THINGS. 

Since tritles make the sum of human things, 
Aud half our misery from our foibles springs, — 



Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease, 
And few can save or serve, but all can please, — 
Oh, let the ungentle spirit learn from hence, 
A small unkinduess is a great ofience : 
Large bounties to bestow we wish in vain. 
But all may shun the guilt of giving paiu. 



lllilliam tjajilcij. 



Hayley (1745-1830), the biographer of Cowper, wrote 
poems very popular in their day. His "Triumphs of 
Temper" (1781), though now forgotten, had a large sale. 
He wrote also dramatic pieces and a "Lite of Milton" 
(1796). His ovcr-strainetl sensibility and romantic tastes 
exposed him to ridicule, yet be was an amiable aud ac- 
complished man. His lite of Cowper appeared in 1803. 
Tlie few natural and graceful lines we quote will proba- 
bly outlast all the other effusions of this once much- 
praised versifier. 



THE DEPARTING SWALLOWS. 

Ye gentle birds, that perch aloof. 

And smooth your pinions on my roof. 

Preparing for departure hence, 

Now Winter's angry threats commence! 

Like yon, my soul would smooth her plume 

For longer flights beyond the tomb. 

May God, by whom are seen and heard 
Departing men and wandering bird, 
In mercy mark us for his own. 
And enide us to the land unknown ! 



Cjcctor illiTcncil. 



A native of Scotland, Macneil (1740-1818) was brought 
up to a mercantile life, but did not succeed in it. He 
wrote a talc in verse, depicting the evils of intemper- 
ance ; also several Scottish lyrics. The latter years of 
his life were spent in comfort at Edinburgh. 



MARY OF CASTLE-CARY. 

"Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my aiu thing, 
Saw ye my true love down on yon lea ? 

Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming? 
Sought she the hurnie where flowers the haw- 
tree ? 

Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white. 
Dark is the blue of her soft-rolling ee ; 



HECTOR MACXEIL.— MICHAEL BRUCE. 



231 



Rod, n-d lipr ripo lips, and swooter than roses — 
Wlii'ii; I'Knlil my uio tliiiij; wander fiao me f" 

" I saw nae your woo thing, I saw nac jour aiu 
thing, 

Nnr saw I your true love down on ynn lea; 
lint I met my bounie thing late in the gliianiiu', 

Down hy the burnie where llowcrs the liaw-trce: 
Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk- 
wliito. 

Dark was the blue o' her soft-rolling e'e ; 
IJed were her ripo lips, and sweeter than rosos — 

Sweet were tho kisses that she ga'o to me." 

•■ It was nae uiy wee thing, it was nae my aiu 
thing, 

It was nae iny true love ye met by the tree : 
I'roud is her leal heart, modest her nature ; 

She never lo'ed ony till ance she lo'ed me. 
Her name it is Mary; she's frac Castle-Cary; 

Aft has she sat, when a bairn, ou my knee. 
Fair as your face is, were't fifty times fairer, 

Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to tliec." 

•■ It was, then, your Xlary ; she's fr.ie Castle-Cary ; 

It was, then, your true love I met by the tree. 
I'roud as her heart is, and modest her nature, 

Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me." — 
.Sair gU>omed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek 
grew, 

Wild llaslied tlio (ire frae his red rolling c'e : 
" Ye's me sair this morning, your boasts aud your 
.scorning : 

Defend ye, fause traitor! fn' loudly ye lee!" 

".\wa' wi' beguiling !"' cried the youth, smiling— 

Art' went the bonnet, the lint-white locks llec ; 
The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bo.som shawing, 

Fair stood the loved nuiid wi' the dark rolling e'e. 
" Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing. 

Is it my true love here that I see f" 
"O .lamie, forgi'e nic! your heart's constant to me: 

I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frao thee." 



lllul)acl Ururc. 



bear the maiks of immaturity, and the resemblances in 
thorn to otluT poets arc close aud frequent. With death 
full in his view lie wrote his "Elegy," the best of all his 
proiluelions. It extends to twenty-two stanzas, of which 
we quote the clioiccst. After his dcatli his Bible was 
found upon his pillow, marked down at Jcr. xxii. 10: 
"Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him." His 
poems were lirst given to the world by his college friend, 
John Logan, in 1770. In 1837 a complete edition was 
brought out. 



Bruce (1746-1767) was the son of a humble Scottish 
weaver, and a native of the county of Kinross. He stud- 
ied at the University of Edinburgh, and wa.s soon distin- 
'guishcd for his poetical productions. He kept scliool 
awhile, hut was attacked liy a pulmonary complaint, and 
died before he was twenty-two years old. Ilis poems 



FROM AN ELEGY WRITTEN IN SPRING. 

Now Spring returns; but not to me returns 
Tlie vernal joy my better years have known : 

Dim in my brea.st life's dying taper Imrn.s, 

Aiul all the joys of life with health arc flown. 

Starting and shivering in th' inconstant wind, 
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I w:is. 

Beneath some bhistcd tree I lie reclined. 

And count the silent moments as they pas.s, — - 

The wingdd moments ! whoso unstaying .speed 
No art can stop, or in their conr.se arrest ; 

Whose flight shall shortly count me witli tlie dead, 
Aud lay mo down in peace with them tliat rest. 

Oft morning-dreams presage approaching fate ; 

Ami morning-dreams, as poets tell, are true : 
Led by pale ghost.s, I enter Dcatli's dark gate. 

And liid tlie realms of liglit and life adieu. 

1 hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe ; 

I see the muddy wave, tho dreary shore. 
The sluggish streams that slowly creep below, 

Whieh niort;ils visit, and return no more. 

Farewell, yo blooming fields ! yo cheerful plaius ! 

Enough for me tho church-yard's lonely mound, 
Wlii're melancholy with still silence reigns. 

And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless 
ground. 

There let me wander at tho shut of eve. 

When sleep sits dewy on tho laborer's eyes; 

Tho world and all its bu.sy follies leave. 

And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies. 

Then; let me sleep forgotten in the clay, 

When death shall shut tbeso weary, aching eyes' 

Rest in tho hopes of an eternal day. 

Till the long night is gone, and the last umni 
arise ! 



232 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Sir lllilliam i?oncs. 

The son of an eminent London mathematician, Jones 
(1746-1794) studied at HaiTow, and then at Oxford, where 
he devoted mucli time to tlie Oriental languages. In 
1773 he published a volume of poems, mostly transla- 
tions. In 1774 he was called to the Bar. Though op- 
posed to the American war and the slave-trade, he was 
knighted in 17S3, and appointed a judge of the Supreme 
Court at Fort William, in Bengal. He married the daugh- 
ter of Dr. Shipley, bishop of St. Asaph ; and in his thirty- 
seventh year embarlied for India, never to return. He 
performed his judicial functions with the utmost tideli- 
ty, hut he overstraiued his brain Ijy intense study; and 
in 1784 his health began to fail. His attainments in the 
languages were various and profound. He might have 
won a conspicuous place among the poets, had he not 
been absorbed in philological pursuits. " The activity of 
my mind is too strong for my constitution," he writes. 
He died at the age of forty-eight, beloved as few have 
been, and leaving a character for unalloyed goodness, 
such as few have left. A collected edition of his writ- 
ings was published in 1799, and again in 1S07, with a 
"Life" of the author by Lord Teignmoutli. 



A PERSIAN SONG OF HAFIZ. 

Sweet maid, if thou wouUl-st charm my sight, 

Ami bid these arms thy neck eufokl, 

That rosy cheek, that lily hand 

Would give thy poet more delight 

Thau all Bokhara's vaunted gold, 

Thau all the gems of Samarcaud ! 

Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow, 
And bid thy pensive heart be glad, 
Whate'er the frowning zealots say: 
Tell them their Eden cannot .show 
A stream so clear as Rocnabad, 
A bower so sweet as Mosellay. 

Oh ! when these fair, perfidious maids, 
Whose eyes onr secret haunts infest, 
Their dear destructive charms display, 
Each glance my tender breast invades. 
And robs my wounded soul of rest. 
As Tartars seize their destined prey. 

Speak not of fate: all, change the theme, 

And talk of odors, talk of wine, 

Talk of the flowers that round us bloom : 

'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream ; 

To love and joy thy thoughts confine. 

Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom. 



But ah ! sweet maid, my counsel hear 
(Youth should attend when those advise 
Whom long experience renders sage) : 
While nuusic charms the ravished ear. 
While sparkling cups delight our eyes, 
Be gay, and scorn the frowns of age. 

What cruel answer have I heard ? 

And yet, by Heaven, I love thee still : 

Can aught be cruel from thy lip ? 

Yet say, how fell that bitter word 

From lips which streams of sweetness fill. 

Which naught but drops of honey sip ? 

Go boldly forth, my simple lay, 

Whose accents flow with artless ease. 

Like orieut pearls at random strung ! 

Tliy notes are sweet, the damsels say; 

But oh, far sweeter, if they please 

The nymph for whom these notes are sung. 



TETRASTICH. 

From tue Persian. 

On parent knees, a naked new-born child. 
Weeping thou sat'st, while all around thee suiiled : 
So live that, sinking in thy last long sleej). 
Calm thou mayst smile while aU around thee weep. 



AN ODE IN IMITATION OF ALCiEUS. 

What constitutes a state ? 
Not high-raised battlement or labored mound. 

Thick wall or moated gate ; 
Not cities proud, with spires and turrets crowned; 

Not bays and broad-armed ports. 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; 

Not starred and spangled courts. 
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. 

No : — Men, high-minded men, 
With powers as fiir above dull brutes endued 

In forest, brake, or den, 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude ; 

Men, who their duties know, 
But know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain, 

Prevent the long-aimed blow. 
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain : 

These constitute a state; 
And sovereign Law, that state's collected will, 

O'er thrones and globes" elate 
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill : 



JOHN O'KEEFE.—SUSAXXA BLA3I1BE.—J0HX LOGAN. 



233 



Sniit by her sacred frowu, 
Tlio fieiul, Discretion, like a vapor siuks; 

And e'cu tlio all-dazzling Crown 
Hides bis faint raj-s, and at her bid(lin<; slinnks. 

Siicli was tills lliavi'ii-lovcd isle, 
Than Lesbos fain r, and llie Cretan shore! 

No more shall Freedom smile ? 
Shall Britons langnisb, and bo men no more ? 

Since all must life resign, 
Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 

'Tis folly to decline. 
And steal iuglorions to the silent grave. 



2q\)\\ ®'l\ccfc. 



O'Kcefe (1"4('>-1S33) was a native of Dublin. lie at- 
tempted the stage, but subsequently devoted himself to 
dramatic composition. His hitter days were embittered 
by blindness and pecuniary destitution, but be reached 
the advanced age of eiglity-six. Some of bis grotesque 
pieces still keep possession of the stage. His poems 
were published as a "legacy to his daughters" in 1S34. 
The " Recollections of the Life of John O'Kecfe, wrlt- 
1. 11 by Himself," appeared in 1820; his collected dramas, 

ill iriw. 



I AM A lULVU OF ORDERS GRAY. 

1 am a friar of orders gray, 
-Viid down the valleys 1 take my way ; 
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip — 
(iood store of venison tills my scrip; 
My Iimg bead-roll I merrily chant; 
Wlicn'c-r I walk no money I want; 
.\nd why I'm so plump the reason I tell — 
Who leads a good life is snro to live well. 

What baron or K(|nire, 

Or knight of the shire, 
Lives half so well as a holy friar f 

.\fler supper, of heaven I dream, 

Ihit that is' pullet and clouted cream : 

Myself, by denial, I mortify — 

With a d.-iinty bit of a warden-pie ; 

I'm clollieil ill sackelolh for my sin — 

With old sack wine Fm lined within ; 

A chirping cup is my matin song. 

And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding-dong. 

What baron or squire, 

Or knight of the shire. 
Lives half so well as a holv friar T 



SustTuna Clamivc. 



A native of Cumberland, England, Miss Blamire (1747- 
17!)4) resided some years with a married sister in Perth- 
shire, Scotland, and wrote Scottish songs like a native. 
Her poetical works were published, with a biography by 
Patrick Maxwell, in 1843. 



THE SILLER CROUN. 

"And yo shall walk in silk attire, 

And siller hae to spare. 
Gin ye'll consent to be his bride, 

Nor think o' Donald mair." 
" Oh, wha wad buy a silken goun 

Wi' a iniir broken heart ? 
Or what's to me .a siller cronn, 

(jiu frae my love I part ? 

" The mind wlio.se every wish is pure, 

Far dearer is to me : 
.\nd ere I'm forced to break my faith, 

I'll lay me donn an' dee. 
For I hae pledged my virgin troth 

Brave Donald's fate to share ; 
And he has gi'en to me bis heart, 

AVi' a' its virtues rare. 

" His gentle manners wan my heart, 

He gratefu' took the gift ; 
Could I but think to seek it back, 

It wad be waur than theft. 
The langest life can ne'er repay 

The love he bears to me ; 
And ere I'm forced to break my troth, 

I'll lay 1110 doiin au' dee." 



jJoljit Cogaii. 



Logan (1748-1788) was the son of a Scottish llirmer In 
Mid -Lothian. He became a minister — alienated his 
parishionei-s by writing plays and committing some uii- 
clerieal irregularities — went to London, and wrote for 
the Em/lix/i Review. lie published a volume of sermons, 
characterized by Chambers as "full of piety and fervor." 
His little poem of "The Cuckoo" is the slender thieiid 
by which he is still connected with the recognized poets 
of Britain. Burke admired it so much that, on visiting 
Edinburgh, he sought out Logan to compliment him. 
For a while Logan was thought to have ])ilfercd "The 
Cuckoo" from Michael Bruce; but this charge, as \\i- 
learn from Chambers, was disproved in 187:! by David 
Laing in a tract on the authorship, and Lugiin's claim 
was made good. The internal evidence is in his favor. 



2S4 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



There is nothing in all that Bruce wrote that is susscs- 
tive of the ode; though Trench (1870) favors his claim. 
The ode was a favorite with Wordsworth. 



OUE TO THE CUCKOO. 

Hail, licautcons .stranger of tlie grove, 

Thou jucssenger of Spring ! 
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, 

Anil woods tliy welcome sing. 

What time the daisy decks the green, 

Thy certain voice we hear; 
Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 

Or mark the rolling year? 

Delightful visitant ! with thee 

I hail the time of flowers, 
And hear the sound of music sweet 

From birds among the bowers. 

The school-boy, wandering through the wood. 

To iniU the primrose gay, 
Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear. 

And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea jiuts on the bloom 

Tliou fliest thy vocal vale. 
An annual guest in other lands. 

Another .Spring to hail. 

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 
Thou hast no sorrow iu thy song. 

No Winter in tliy year! 

Oil could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! 

We'd make, with joyful wing. 
Our annual visit o'er the globe, 

Companions of the Spring. 



THE BRAES OF YARROW. 

Thy braes were bounie. Yarrow stream. 

When first ou them I met my lover ; 
Tliy braes how dreary. Yarrow stream, 

When now thy waves his body cover I 
Forever now, O Yarrow stream. 

Thou art to mo a stream of sorrow ; 
For never on tliy banks shall I 

Behold my Love, the flower of Y'arrow ! 



He jiroiuised mo a milk-white steed. 

To bear me to his father's bowers ; 
He promised me a little page. 

To squire me to his father's towers. 
He promised me a wedding-ring, — 

The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow : 
Now he is wedded to his grave, 

Alas ! his watery grave iu Yarrow ! 

Sweet were his words when last we met; 

My jiassion I as freely told him : 
Clasped in his arms, I little thought 

That I should never more behold hiui! 
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost — 

It vanished with a shriek of sorrow ; 
Tlirice did the water-wraith ascend, , 

And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow ! 

His mother from the window loolied. 

With all the longing of a mother; 
His little sister weeping walked 

The greenwood patli to meet her brother .• 
They sought him east, they sought hiiu west. 

They sought him all the forest thorough : 
They only saw the cloud of night. 

They only heard the roar of Yarrow. 

No longer from thy window look — 

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! 
No longer walk, thou lovely maid — 

Alas ! thou hast no more a brother ! 
No longer seek him east or west. 

And search no more the forest thorough ; 
For, wandering iu the night so d.ark, 

He fell a lifeless corpse iu Yarrow. 

The tear .shall never leave my cheek. 

No other youth shall be my marrow ; 
I'll seek thy body in the stream, 

And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow! 
Tlie tear did never leave her cheek. 

No other youth became her marrow ; 
She found his body in the stream, 

And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. 



iWxs. (llljavlottc (iEuvncr) SmitI). 

Daughter of Nicholas Turner, of Stoke House, Surrey, 
Charlotte (1749-180C) married ciiiy and disastrously. 
Mr. Smith was the dissipated son of a West India mer- 
chant, and soon found his way into prison, where she 
spent seven months with him. She suffered poverty. 



MRS. CHAULOTTE (TUIiXEH) SMITIL—HOBEliT GIIAUAM. 



235 



wrote for bread, parted from licr liusbaad, worked for 
licr fiimily, and saw all licr childrca die as they eame to 
maturity. Her poetry is of the sentimental type. Of 
lier sonnets Coleridge liad a grateful rccolleclion. Her 
prose won praises from Hayley, Cowpcr, and Sir Walter 
Scott. 



TO FOETITUDE. 

Xynipli of tbe rock! whoso dauntless spirit braves 
The beating storm, and bitter winds that howl 
Kouud thy cohl breast, and beai-'st tho bursting 

waves 
.\nil the deep tlinndor with unshaken soul! 
< >li eonie, and show how vain the eares that jircss 
On my weak bosom, and how little worth 
Is the false, fleeting meteor, Happiness, 
That still misleads the wanderers of tho earth! 
Strengthened by thee, this heart .shall cease to melt 
0"er ills that poor llnnianity must bear; 
Xor friends estranged or ties dissolved be felt 
To leave regret and fruitless anguish there : 
And when at length it heaves its latest sigh, 
Tliou and mild Hope shall teach me how to die ! 



TO A YOl'XG MAN ENTERING THE WORLD. 

Im> now, iugenuous youth! — Tho trying hour 

Is ciinie : tho world demands that thou shouldst go 

To active life. There titles, wealth, anil power 

May all be purchased ; yet I joy to know 

Thou wilt not pay their price. The base control 

Of petty de.spots in their pedant reign 

Already ha.st thon felt; and high disdain 

<lf tyrants is imprinted on thy sonl. 

Not where mistaken Glory in the (ield 

Rears her red banner be thou ever fonml ; 

lint against proud Oppression raise tho shield 

Of patriot daring. So shall thou renowned 

For tho best virtues live; or, that denied, 

Mayst die, as Hanipilen or as Sidney died! 



THE CRICKET. 

Little inmate, full of mirth. 
Chirping on my linmlde liearlh, — 
Wliercsoe'cr be thine abode. 
Always harbinger of good, — 
Pay nid for thy warm retreat 
AVitli a song most soft and sweet: 
In return thou shalt receive 
Such a song as I can give. 



Thongh in voice and shape they be 
Formed as if akin to thee, 
Thou surpassest, happier far, 
Happiest grasshoppers that are: 
Theirs is but a summer-song ; 
Thine endures the winter long, 
rnitnpaiied, and shrill, and clear, 
Jlelddy thronghont the year. 

Neither night nor dawn of day 
Puts a period to thy lay : 
Then, insect, let thy simple song 
Cheer the winter evening long; 
While, secure from every storm, 
III my cottage stout and warm. 
Thou shalt my merry minstrel be, 
And I delight to shelter thee. 



Robert (Pritljain. 

Graham of Gartmore, Scotland, was born "iT.'iO; died 
1?J7. The song we quote was first published in the 
"Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border" (ISOl). At one 
time Scott attributed it to James Graham, Marquis of 
Montrose. It was evidently suggested by the poem of 
his given on page 103 in this coUcclion. 



OH, TELL JIE HOW TO WOO THEE. 

If doughty deeds my lady please. 

Right soon I'll mount my steed ; 
And strong hi.s arm, and fast his seat. 

That bears frae me the meed. 
1"11 wear thy colors in my cap, 

Thy picture in my heart ; 
And ho that bends not to thine eye 
Shall rue it to his smart. 

Then tell me how to woo thee, love; 

Oh, tell me how to woo thee! 
For thy dear sake, nac care FU take, 
Though ne'er another trow me. 

If gay attire delight thine eye, 

Fll dight me in array ; 
I'll tend thy chamber-door all night, 

And squire thee all the day. 
If sweetest sounds can win ihine ear. 

These sounds I'll strive to catch ; 
Thy voice Fll steal to woo thysel' — 

That voice that none can match. 

Then tell me how to woo thee, lovo, etc. 



236 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



But if foniT love tliy heart eau gaiu, 

I uever broke a vow ; 
Nae ruaiden lays her skaith to me ; 

I never loved but you. 
For you alone I ride the riug, 

For you I wear the blue ; 
For you aloue I strive to slug — 

Oh, tell me how to woo ! 

Then tell me how to woo thee, love, etc. 



fabn ^nnc (Ciniisaiij Darnavb. 

Lady Anne Barnard, daughter of James Lindsay, Earl 
of Balcarrcs, was horn 17.50, married Andrew Barnard in 
1793, and died without issue in 183.5. She wrote the fa- 
mous and pathetic ballad of "Auld Robin Gray" about 
tlie year 1771, but kept the authorship a secret till lS2o, 
when, in her seventy-third year, she acknowledged it in 
a letter to Sir Walter Seott, in wliich she writes that she 
does not comprehend how he guessed the authorship, 
" as there was no person alive to whom she had told 
it." At Uie request of her mother, who often asked 
"how that unlucky business of Jeanie and Jamie end- 
ed," she wrote a continuation; hut, like most continua- 
tions, though ingeniously douc, it is a mere excrescence 
upon the original. Frequent alterations in the text 
seem to have been made, either by the author or by un- 
authorized hands. 



AULD ROBIN GRAY. 

When the sheep are in the fauld, aud the kye's come 

Inline, 
And a' the weary wavld to rest are gaue", 
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my c'e, 
Unkent by my gude-mau, wha sleeps sound by me. 

Young Jamio lo'ed me weel, aud sought mo for his 

bride ; 
But, saving ao crown, ho bad uaetbing else beside : 
To make the crown a pound my Jamie gaed to sea, 
Aud the crown and the jiouud they were baith 

for me. 

He hadna been gaue a twelvemonth and a day, 
When my father br.ak his arm, aud the cow was 

stown aw.ay ; 
My mitber she fell sick — ray Jamie was at sea — 
And auld Robin Gray came a-eourting me. 

My father couldna work, my mitber couldna spin ; 
I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna 
win : 



Auld Rob maintained them baith, aud, wi' tears in 

his e'e. 
Said, "Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye no marry me '?" 

My heart it said nay, and I looked for Jamie back; 
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a 

wrack : 
His ship was a wrack — why didna Jamio dee ? 
Or why am I spared to cry, Wae is me ? 

My father urged me sair : my mither didua speak ; 
But she looked in my face till my heart was like 

to break. 
They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the 

sea ; 
Aud so Robin Gray he was gude-mau to me. 

I hadna Ijeen his wife a week but only four, 
Wheu mournfu' as I sat ou the stane at my door, 
I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it he. 
Till he said, " I'm come barao, love, to marry thee !" 

Oh, sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a' ; 
I gied him ac kiss, and I bade him gang awa'; — 
I wish that I were dead, but I'm nae like to dee ; 
For, though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae 
is me ! 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin ; 
I dareua think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; 
But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be, 
For oh ! Robin Gray, he is kind to me. 



iJoljii ^vumbuU. 



Trumbull (1750-1831), author of "M'Fingal," a bur- 
lesque poem in the style of Butler's "Hudibras," was 
a native of Watertown, Conn. He entered Yale College 
at the age of thirteen, and afterward read law in the of- 
fice of John Adams, in Boston. In 1774 he began the 
composition of "M'Fingal," a poem quite popular in 
its day, but now little read, though manifesting consider- 
able ability. M'Fingal is a type of the American Tories 
who held out for a monarchy. HonorUis is the Whig 
champion of freedom. When the last battle of the Rev- 
olution has been fought, and Toryism is humbled, M'Fin- 
gal escapes out of a window en route to Bostou, and the 
poem is closed. Trumbull wrote " The Progress of Dul- 
ness," a satirical poem, also "An Elegy on the Times." 
In lS:i5 he moved to Detroit, where he died. An edition 
of his works was published in Hartford in 1830. The 
latest edition of "M'Fingal," with notes by J.B.Los- 
sing, was published by G. P. Putnam, New York, 1857. 



JOHX TRVMBULL.—UICHARD BRIXSLEJ SHERIDAN. 



237 



FROM " M-FIXGAL." 

Wln'ii Yankees, skilled in martini rule, 
First put the Hiitisli tniops to school ; 
Iiistriuted them in warlike trade, 
And new mantenvres of parade ; 
The true war-danco of Yankee reels, 
And manual exercise of heels; 
Made them give np, like saints complete, 
The arm of llesh and trust tlie I'eet, 
And work, like Christians undissemhling, 
Salvation out by fear and trembling. 
Taught Percy fashionable races, 
And modern modes of Chevy-chases, — 
From Boston, in his best array, 
(ireat Siiuire M'Fingal took his way. 
And, graced with ensigns of renown, 
Steered homeward to his native town. 

# • » # * n 

Nor only saw he all that was. 
Hut much that never came to pass; 
Whereby all prophets far outwent he; 
Though former days produced a plenty ; 
For any man, with half an eye, 
What staiuls before him may espy ; 
liut optics sharp it needs, I ween, 
To sec what is not to be seen. 
As in the days of ancient fame 
I'rophets and poets were the same, 
And all the praise that poets gain 
Is but for what they invent and feign. 
So gained our squire his fame by seeing 
Such things as never would have being. 

But, as some muskets so contrive it 

As oft to miss the mark they drive at. 

And though widl aimed at duck or plover, 

Hear wide and kick their owners over, 

So fared our squire, whoso reasoning toil 

Would often on himself recoil. 

And BO much injured more bis side,. 

The stronger .irgiiments ho applied ; 

.\s old war elephants, disniayeil, 

Trode down the troops they came to aid, 

.\ncl hurt their own side more in battle 

Than less and ordinary cattle. 

All punishments the world can render 
Serve only to provoke the oflender ; 
The will's ciinlirnii'd by treatment horrid, 
As hides grow harder when they're curried. 



No man e'er felt the halter draw, 
With good opinion of the law; 
Or held in method orthodox 
His love of justice in the stocks; 
Or failed to lose, by sheriff's shears, 
At ouco bis loyalty and ears. 



l1icl)arL> Urinslcn SljcviDan. 

Sheridan (17.51-1816), son of Thomas Sheridan, the lex- 
ieoi;rapher and actor, was bom in Dublin, and educated 
at Harrow. The most brilliaut dramatic writer of his 
times, he has given but faint evidences of the poetical 
gilt. As a parliamentary orator he won high distinction. 
His comedies are the best in the language. Improvident 
and, extravag.int in his way of living, he died in great pe- 
cuniary humiliation, notHitlistanding the admiration he 
had e.\eited by his powers as a dramatist and orator. 



PIAD I A HEART FOR FjVLSEHOOD FRAMED. 
From "Tue Dcenna." 

Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 

X ne'er could injure you ; 
For though your tongue no promise claimed. 

Your charms would make me true : 
To you no soul shall bear deceit, 

No stranger offer wrong ; 
But friends in all the aged you'll meet, 

And lovers in the young. 

For when they learn th.at you have blessed 

Another with your heart. 
They'll bid aspiring pa.ssion rest, 

And act a brother's part. 
Then, lady, dread not hero deceit, 

Nor fear to suffer wrong ; 
For friends in all the aged you'll meet. 

And brothers iu the voung. 



SONG. 

From " The Dl-essa." 

I ne'er could any lustre see 

In eyes that would not look on me; 

I ne'er saw nectar on a lip, 

But where my own did hope to sip. 

Has the maid who seeks my heart 

Cheeks of ro.se, nntoiu-hed by art ? 

I will own the color true, 

When vielding blushes aid their hiu'. 



238 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISU AND AMERICAN POETBY. 



Is her hand so soft aud pure ? 
I must iiress it, to be sure ; 
Nor can I be certaiu tbeu, 
Till it, grateful, press agaiu. 
Must I, with attentive eye, 
Watcb her heaviug bosom sigh ? 
I will do so when I see 
That heavius; bosom sigb for me. 



St. (5covgc iiuclar. 



Tucker (1752-1S37) was born in Bermuda, and edu- 
cated in Virsinia, at William and Mary College. He 
was the stcp-1'atlicr of John Randolph of Roauoke, aud 
■was known chiclly as a jurist. 



DAYS OF MY YOUTH. 

Days of mj' youth, yc have glided away; 
Hairs of my youth, ye are frosted ami gray; 
Eyes of my youth, your keen sight is uo more; 
Cheeks of my youth, ye are furrowed all o'er ; 
Strength of my youth, all your vigor is gone ; 
Thoughts of my youth, your gay visions are flown. 

Days of my youth, I wish uot your recall; 
Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye should fall ; 
Eyes of my youth, ye much evil have seen ; 
CheelvS of my youth, bathed in tears have you bceu ; 
Thoughts of my youth, ye have led me astray; 
Streugth of my youth, why lament your decay? 

Days of my age, ye will shortly bo past ; 
Pains of my age, yet awhile ye can last ; 
Joys of my age, in true wisdom delight ; 
Eyes of my age, be religion your light ; 
Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold sod ; 
Hopes of my age, be ye fixed on your God. 



iLljoiiuxs (!ll)attcrtoii. 

Chattcrtou (17.5^1770), of whom Wordsworth speaks 
as "the marvellous boy, the sleepless soul, that perished 
in his pride," was a native of Bristol, and the son of a 
scliool-mastcr, who was also sexton of St. Mary Redcliflc 
Church, and who died three months before Thomas was 
born. Tlie lad, when five years old, was placed at school 
under a Mr. Love, who sent him home as dull and inca- 
pable of iustructiou. At six he taught himself his let- 
ters from the illuminated capitals of an old French MS. 
He learned to read from a black-letter Bible. In 1700 



he was admitted into Colston's school, Bristol, where he 
continued seven years. During that period he composed 
several of his minor poems. His passion for books was 
the wonder of all who knew him. In 17G7, when four- 
teen, he was apprenticed to a scrivener. He now set 
hhnselfto accomplish a scries of impositions by pretend- 
ed discoveries of old manuscripts. He claimed to have 
eome of a family of hereditary sextons of Redelift'e 
Church, where, in an old chest, these MSS. had been 
found; and he employed his undeniable and wonderfully 
precocious genius in mauufactuiin^' mock ancient po- 
ems, which he ascribed to an old monk of Bristol, whom 
he called Thomas Rowley, and placed in the times of 
Lydgate. His impositions duped many of the citizens 
of Bristol ; but Gray, Mason, Sheridan, Gibbon, Johnson, 
aud Bishop Percy pronounced his pretended discoveries 
to be forgeries. Indeed, a close examination of the dic- 
tion ought to have made this apparent to any good Eng- 
lish scholar. 

In 1770 the boy of seventeen went up to London to 
write for bread and fame. At first he received engage- 
ments from various booksellers with whom he had be- 
fore corresponded. His restless brain was full of sehemes, 
and he wrote home, "I am settled, and in such a settle- 
ment as I can desire. What a glorious prospect !" His 
poetry was much of it of a political and satirical charac- 
ter. He took lodgings in a garret in the house of Mrs. 
Angel, in Holborn. From tlience this friendless boy in- 
dited letters to his mother and sister, and sent small 
presents to them, to comfort them with the thought 
that he was doing well, and to sliow them his love. He 
would live on a crust of bread and a dried sheep's-tongue, 
in order to buy something from his poor earnings to 
send home. 

But his poverty at last became extreme, and his pride 
was as great as his poverty. His sister became insane ; 
and probably there was a taint of insanity in his own 
organization. The baker's wife refused to supply him 
with any more bread until he had paid the 3.<. (ief. already 
owing. This drove him to his garret in a storm of pas- 
sion. He made a final attempt to get employment, but 
it was unavailing. Returning home, he purchased some 
arsenic. That evening he spent bending over the Are in 
Mrs. Angel's parlor, muttering poetry to himself, until 
at last, taking his candle, and having kissed Mrs. Angel, 
he wished her good-night, and retired to his garret. The 
following morning his lifeless body was discovered lying 
on his bed ; the floor covered with shreds of papers. " I 
leave my soul to its Maker," he wrote, " my body to my 
mother and sister, and my curse to Bristol." Bristol 
has nevertlieless raised a monnment to his memory. 
Campbell says of Chattcrtou : "Tasso alone can be com- 
pared to him as a juvenile prodigy. No English poet 
ever equalled him at the same age." At the time of his 
death he was aged seventeen years, nine months, aud a 
few days. 

The arbitrary orthography, in rude imitation of the an- 
cient, used by Chatterton, being a mere att'eet.ation, we 
dismiss it from our few specimens of hiS writings. Tlie 
diction is obviously modem, and there is no longer any 
reason for retaining what was only designed as a means 
of supporting an imposture. 

Archbishop Trench has shown that the whole fabric 



THOMAS CHATTERTON. 



239 



of Cliattcrton's literary fraud could have been blown up 
by calling attention to liis use of the word its. Tliis 
word did not Und its way into tlic language until two 
hundred years after the period of Cliatterton's monk, 
Rowley. It occurs only once in our translation of the 
Scriptures (Lcvit. xxv. 5), and only three times in Sliak- 
epcare. Even Milton, describing SaUm, says 

"Ills form liad not yet lost 
All her ori;;hinl brightness." 

Evidently Chalterton was ignorant of these facts, and 
his use of it.i is alone suflicient to st;inii) his pretended 
antiiiuc.% as spurious. 

"Tlic poems of Chattcrton," says Sir Walter Scott, 
"may be divided into two grand classes: those ascribed 
to Rowley, and those which the bard of Bristol avowed 
to be his own composition. Of tliesc classes, the former 
is incalculably superior to the latter in poetical power 
and diction." 

or tlic Rowley poems the principal arc ; "The Trage- 
dy of Ella," "The Execution of Sir Charles Bawdin," 
"Ode to Ella," "The Battle of Hastings," "The Tour- 
nament," "A Description of Cannyngc's Feast," and 
one or two dialogues. An animated controversy as to 
their authenticity sprang up and raged for a long time. 
Some of the political poems acknowledged by Chatter- 
ton show remarkable maturity and freedom of style, and 
indicate powers akin to those of Swift and Dryden. But 
his imitations of the antique are sujierior to all his other 
attempts, lie has been compared to the mocking-bird, 
whose note of mimicry is sweeter than its natural song. 



mnSTOW TRAGEDY; OR, THE DEATH OF 
SIR CHARLES HAWDIX. 

The feathered songster chanticleer 

Had wound his bnglc-liorn, 
And tolil the early villager 

The coming of the morn : 

King Edward saw the ruddy streaks 

Of light eclipso tlio gray ; 
And lieard tlio raven's croaking throat 

Proclaim the fated day. 

'' Thon'rt right," (piotli he; "for, Ijy the God 

That sit.s enthroned on high ! 
Charles I3awdin, and liis fellows twain, 

To-day shall surely die." 

Then with .i jug of nappy ale 

His knights did on him wait; 
" CJo tell tho traitor that to-day 

Ho leaves tliis mortal state." 

Sir CnnteAnno then bended low, 

With heart brimful of woe; 
He .journeyed to the castle-gatc, 

Ami 1(1 Sir Charles did go. 



But when ho came, his children twain, 

And eke his loving wife, 
With briny tears did wet tho floor, 

For good Sir Charles's life. 

" Oh, good Sir Charles !" said Cauterlonc, 

" Bad tidings do I bring." 
"Speak boldly, man," said brave Sir Charles; 

" What says thy traitor-kiug ?" 

" I grieve to tell : before yon sun 

Does from the welkin fiy. 
He hath upon his honor sworn 

That thou shalt surely die." 

"We all must die," qiiolh brave Sir Charles; 

" Of that I'm not artVared ; 
What boots to live a little space? 

Thank Jesu, I'm prepared : 

" But tell thy king, for mine he's not, 

I'd sooner die to-day. 
Than live his slave, as many are, 

Though I should live for aye." 

Then Canterlone he did go out. 

To tell the mayor strait 
To get all things in readiness 

For good Sir Charles's fate. 

Then Master Canyng sought the king. 

And fell down on his knee ; 
"I'm come," quoth be, "unto your grace. 

To move your clemency." 

"Then," quoth the king, "your talc si>cak out. 
You have been much our friend : 

Whatever your request may be. 
We will to it attend." 

" My noble liege ! all my request 

Is for a noble knight. 
Who, though mayhap he has done wrong. 

Ho thought it still was right : 

" Ho Las a spouse and children twain ; 

All ruined are for aye. 
If that you are resolved to let 

Charles Bawdin die to-day." 

" Speak not of such a traitor vile," 

Tho king in fury said ; 
"Before the evening-star doth shine, 

Bawdin shall lose his head : 



340 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



"Justice does loudly for him call, 

Aud he shall have his meed : 
Speak, Master Cauyiig ! -what thing else 

At present do you need ?" 

" My noble liege !" good Canyng said, 

"Leave justice to our God, 
And lay the iron rule aside ; 

Be thine the olive rod. 

" Was God to search our hearts and reins. 

The best were sinners great ; 
Christ's vicar only knows no sin, 

lu all this mortal state. 

" Let mercy rule thine infant reign, 
'Twill fast thy crown full sure ; 

From race to race thy family 
All sovereigns shall eudure : 

" But if with blood aud slaughter thou 

Begiu thj- infant reign, 
Tby crown upon thy children's brows 

Will never long remain." 

" Canyug, away ! this traitor vile 
Has scorned my power and me ; 

How canst thou then for such a man 
Entreat my clemency ?" 

"My noble liege! the truly brave 

Will valorous actions jirize, 
Kespect a brave aud noble mind, 

Although in enemies." 

" Canyng, away ! By God in heaven. 

That did mo being give, 
I will not taste a bit of bread 

While this Sir Charles doth live. 

" By Mary, and all saints in heaven, 

This sun shall be his last." 
Then Canyng dropped a briny tear. 

And from the presence passed. 

With heart brimful of gnawing grief, 

He to Sir Charles did go. 
And sat him down upon a stool, 

Aud tears began to flow. 

"We all must die," quoth brave Sir Charles ; 

"What boots it how or when? 
Death is the sure, tbe certain fate 

Of all we mortal men. 



" Say why, my friend, thy honest soul 

Ruus over at thine eye ; 
Is it for my most welcome doom 

That thou dost childlike cry ?" 

Quoth godly Canyng, " I do weep 

That thou so soon must die. 
And leave thy sons and helpless wife ; 

'Tis this that wets mine eye." 

" Then dry the tears that out thiue eye 

From godly fountains spring ; 
Death I despise, aud all the power 

Of Edward, traitor-king. 

"When through the tyrant's welcome means 

I shall resign my life, 
The God I serve will soon provide 

For both my sons aud wife. 

" Before I saw the lightsome sun, 

Tliis was appointed me ; 
Sliall mortal man repine or grudge 

Wbat God ordains to be ? 

" How oft in battle have I stood. 

When thousands died around ; 
When smoking streams of crimson blood 

Imbrued the fattened ground : 

" How did I know that every dart, 

Tliat cut the airy way. 
Might not find passage to my heart, 

And close mine eyes for aye ? 

"Aiul shall I now, for fear of death, 

Look wan, and be dismayed ? 
No ! from my heart fly childish fear ; 

Be all the man disjilayed. 

"Ah, godlike Henry! God forefend, 

And guard thee aud thy son, 
If 'tis his will ; but if 'tis not, 

Why then his will bo doue. 

" My honest friend, my fault has been 

To serve God aud my iirince ; 
And that I no time-server am. 

My death will soon couvince. 

" In Loudon city was I born, / 

Of parents of great note ; 
My father did a noble arms 

Emblazon on his coat : 



THOMAS CHATl'EIlTOy. 



341 



'• I innko HO iloubt but bo is gone, 

Wliorc soon I bopo to go ; 
WliiTc wo forever sball bo blessed, 

I'roiii out the reach of woe. 

" llo taught me jastico ami tho laws 

Witb jiity to unite ; 
And eke he taught nie how to know 

Tbo wrong cause from the right : 

'■He taught nie with a prudent hand 

To fei'd the hungry poor, 
Xor h't my servants drive away 

Tho hungry from my door : 

"And none can say hut all my life 

I have his wordis kept ; 
And summed the actions of the day 

Kach night before I slept. 

" I have a spouse ; go ask of her 

If I defiled her bed : 
I have a king, and none can lay 

lilack treason on my head. 

'• In Lent, and on tbe holy eve, 

I'roni Ih'sli I did refrain ; 
Wliy should I then .appear dismayed 

To leave this world of paiu t 

" Xo, Ijapless Henry ! I rejoice 

I sliall not see tby death ; 
Most willingly in tby just cause 

Do I resign my breatli. 

" Ob, fickle people.' ruined land! 

Tbou wilt know peace no moe ; 
Wbile Kiebard's sons exalt tliemselves, 

Thy brooks with blood will tlmv. 

'• .Say, were ye tired of godly peace, 

And godly Henry's reign, 
Tliat you did chop your easy days 

For those of blood and i>ain T 

'• Wbat though I on a sled be drawn. 

Anil mangled by a bind, 
I do defy tbe traitor's power. 

He cannot harm my mind : 

'' Wbat thotigh, uphoistcd on a pole. 

My limbs shall rot in air, 
And no rich monument of brass 

Cbarlcs Uawdiu's namo shall bear ; 
16 



" Yet in the holy Book above, 

Wbich time can't cat away. 
There with tbo servants of tbe Lord 

Jly name shall live for a^e. 

" Tlien welcome, deatb ! for life etcruo 

I leave this mortal life: 
Farewell, vain world, and .ill that's dear, 

My sous and loving wife ! 

"Now death as ■welcome to me comes 

As e'er tho mouth of Jlay ; 
Nor would I even wish to live. 

With my dear wife to stay." 

Quoth Canyng, " 'Tis a goodly thing 

To be prepared to die ; 
And from this world of paiu and grief 

To God in heaveu to lly." 

And now tho bell began to toll. 

And clarions to sound ; 
Sir diaries ho heard the horses' feet 

A-praneiug on tbe ground : 

And just before the ofhcers 

His loving wife came in. 
Weeping uufeigndd tears of woe, 

Willi loud and dismal din. 

" .Sweet Florence ! now, I pray, forbear, 

In rjniet let me die ; 
Pray God that every Cbristiau soul 

Jlay look on death as I. 

" Sweet Florence ! why these briny tears f 

They w.ish my soul away, 
And almost make me wish for life, 

Willi thee, sweet dame, to stay. 

" 'Tis but a journey I shall go 

Uuto tho laud of bliss ; 
Now, as a proof of husband's love. 

Receive this holy kiss."' 

Tlien Florence, faltering in her say. 
Trembling these wordis spoke, 

"Ab, cruel Edward! bloody king! 
My heart is well-nigh broke : 

"Ah, sweet Sir Charles! wby wilt tbou go 

Without tby loving wife f 
Tbe cruel axe that cuts tby neck. 

It eke sball end mv life." 



242 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BliJTlSn AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



And BOW the officers came in 

To bring Sir Cliarlcs away, 
WIio turuM to Lis loving wife, 

Ami thus to lior iliil say : 

" I go to life, and not to death ; 

Trust thou ill God above. 
And teach thy sons to fear the Lord, 

And in their hearts him love : 

" Teach them to run the noble race 

That I, their father, run ; 
Florence ! should death thee talce — adien ! 

Ye officers, lead on." 

Then Florence raved as any mad, 

And did her tresses tear ; 
" Oh stay, my husband, lord, and life !" — 

Sir Charles then dropped a tear. 

Till, tired out wiMi raving lond. 

She fell ui)on the Hoor ; 
Sir Charles exerted all his might, 

And marched from out the door. 

Upon a sled ho mounted then. 
With looks full brave and sweet ; 

Looks that enshone no more concern 
Than any in the street. 

Before him went the councilmen. 

In scarlet robes and gold. 
And tassels spangling in the snu. 

Much glorious to behold : 

The Friars of Saiut Augustine next 

Appeared to the sight. 
All clad ill homely russet weeds. 

Of godly monkish plight : 

111 different jiarts a godly psalm 
Most sweetly they did chant ; 

Behind their backs six minstrels came, 
Who tuned the strung bataunt. 

Then five-and-twenty archers came; 

Each one the bow did bend, 
From rescue of King Henry's friends 

Sir Charles for to defend. 

Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, 

Drawn on a cloth-laid sled. 
By two black steeds in trappings white, 

With plumes upon their bead : 



Behind hira five-aud-twenty more 

Of archers strong and stout. 
With bended bow each one in haud, 

Marched in goodly rout: 

Saint James's Friars marcliM next, 

Each one his part di<l chant ; 
Behind their backs six minstrels came. 

Who tuned tbo strung bataunt: 

Then came the mayor and aldermen, 

In cloth of scarlet decked ; 
And their attending men each one, 

Like Eastern princes tricked : 

And after them a multitude 

Of citizens did throng; 
The windows were all full of heads 

As he did pass along. 

And when he came to the high cross, 

Sir Charles did tnrn and say, 
" O Thou that savest man from sin, 

Wash my soul clean this day !" 

At the great minster window sat 

The king iu mickle state. 
To see Charles Bawdin go along 

To his most welcome fiite. 

Soon as the sled drew nigh enough. 

That Edward he might hear, 
The brave Sir Charles he did stand up, 

And thus his words declare: 

" Thon seest lue, Edward! traitor vile! 

Exposed to infamy ; 
But be assured, disloyal man ! 

I'm greater now than thee. 

" By foul proceedings, murder, blood, 

Thou wearest now a crown ; 
And hast appointed me to die. 

By power not thine own. 

" Thnn thinkcst I shall die to-day; 

I have been dead till now. 
And soon shall live to wear a crown 

For aye upon my brow : 

'■ While thou, perhaps, for some few years, 

Shalt rule this fickle land, 
To let them know how wide flic rule 

'Twixt king and tyrant baud : 



THOilA S CHA TTEE TOX. 



•24:i 



'■ Thy power unjust, tliou traitor-slave ! 

Shall full ou thy own head" — 
From out of hearing of the king 

Di'i)arteil then the sled. 

King Kilward's scnil rushed to his face, 

Ho turned his head away, 
And to liis brother Glouecster 

Ho thus did speak aud say: 

"'ID liini that .so-nnuh-droaded death 

No ghastly tenors bring, 
lieliold the man ! lie spake tlie truth, 

He's greater than a king!" 

"So let him die 1"' Duke Iviehanl sai<I ; 

"And may eacli one our Iocs 
Bend down their necks to bloody axe, 

Aud feed the carrion crows." 

And now the horses gentl}' drew 
Sir Charles up the high hill; 

The axe did glister in tho sun. 
His precious bhuid to spill. 

Sir Charles did up the scatfold go. 

As up a gihled ear 
Of victory, by valorous chiefs 

Oained iu tlie bloody war: 

And to the pcojde lie did say, 

" Itehold you see mo die. 
For .serving loyally my king, 

Jly king most rightfully. 

"As long as Edward rules this land, 

No quiet you will know : 
Yonr sons aud husbands shall be slain, 

And bro(dis wilh blooil shall flow. 

" Voii leave your good and lawful king. 

When iu adversity ; 
Like nu', unto the true cause slick, 

.\nd for tho true cause die." 

Then lie, with priests, upon his knees, 

.\ prayer to God did make, 
liesceehing him unto himself 

His parting soul to take. 

Then kneeling down, he laid his head 

Most seemly on the block ; 
Which fi(nn his body fair at once 

The able iK'adsinan stroke: 



Aud out the blood began to flow. 
And round the scaft'old twine; 

And tears, enough to wash 't away, 
Did flow from each man's eyne. 

Tho bloody axe his body fair 

Into four partis cut; 
And every part, and eke his head. 

Upon a pole was put. 

Om- part did rot on Kynwulph Hill, 

One on the ininstcr-tower. 
And one from off the castle-gate 

Tho croweu did devour: 

Tho other on Saint Powle's good gate, 

A dreary spectacle ; 
His head was placed ou the high cross, 

Iu high-street most nolile. 

Thus was the end of Bawdin's fato : 

God prosjier long our king, 
And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul, 

Iu Heaven God's mercy sing! 



ON RESIGNATION. 

O God, whose thunder shakes the sky. 
Whose eye this atom globe surveys, 

To thee, my only rock, I fly, 

Thy mercy in thy justice praise. 

The mystic mazes of thy will, 
Tho shadows of celestial light. 

Are past the powers of linman skill ; 
But what the Eternal acts is right. 

Oh te;ich me in the trying hour. 
When anguish swells the dewy tear. 

To still my sorrows, own thy power. 
Thy goodness love, thy justice fear. 

If in this bo.soiu aught but thee. 

Encroaching sought a boundless sway, 

Oniniscience could the danger see, 
Aud mercy look the cause away. 

Then why, my soul, dost tlum ecunphiin f 
Why drooping seek the dark recess 1 

Shake ofl" the melancholy chain, 
For God created all to bless. 



344 



CYCLOPEDIA UF JJIlITJSn AXV AMERICAN POETRY. 



But, all ! my breast is liumaii still ; 

Tbc risiug sigli, tlic falling iear, 
My languid vitals' feeble rill, 

The sickness of uiy sonl tleclare. 

Bnt yet, with fortitude resigned, 

I'll thank the iuHictiou of the blow, 

Forbid the sigh, compose my mind, 
Nor let the gush of misery flow. 

The gloomy mantle of the night. 
Which ou my sinking spirit steals, 

AVill vanish at tlie morning light, 

Whieli God, my East, my Snu, reveals. 



yijilip Jrencau. 



AMERICAN. 

Frenean (1752-1833) was of French descent, a native of 
New York. He graduated at Princeton, in the class of 
1771. He wi'otc political satires, such as they were, on 
the Tories, which did good service in tlieir d;iy; and he 
was rewarded by Jetl'erson with an office. Early in tlie 
war he was captured by the British, and confined in one 
of the prison-ships in New York liarbor. After the war 
he commanded a sailing-vessel, and got the title of Ca|)- 
tain. He was an editor at times ; but his newspaper 
speculations do not seem to have turned out profitably, 
and he died insolvent. He was prolilic as a writer of 
verse, and there are several volumes of poems from his 
pen. He lived to the age of eighty, and perished during 
a snow-storm, in a hog-meadow, where he seems to have 
got lost, and which he bad attempted to cross, near Free- 
hold, New Jersey. 



MAY TO APRIL. 

Without your showers 

I breed no flowers. 
Each field a barren waste appears: 

If you don't weep 

My bh)ssoms sleep. 
They take such pleasure in your tears. 

As your decay 

Made room for Slay, 
So I must part with all that's mine; 

My balmy breeze, 

My blooming trees. 
To torrid suns their sweets resign. 

For April dead 

My shades I spread, 



To her I owe my dress so gay; 

Of daughters three 

It falls ou me 
To close our triumphs ou one day. 

Thus to rejiose 

All nature goes ; 
Month after mouth must fiud its doom : 

Time ou the wing. 

May ends the .Spring, 
And Summer frolics o'er her tomb. 



lUilliam Hoscoc. 

Roscoc (1753-1831) brought out, in 179.5, the work on 
which Itis fame chiefly rests, "The Life of Lorenzo de 
Medici." He was born near Liverpool, and received a 
common school education. He became a banker; but 
the house to which he belonged failed, and his private 
property was wrecked. Strictly honorable and scrupu- 
lous, he gave up even his books. 



TO MY BOOKS. 

ON BEING OBLIGED TO SELL MY LIBR.MiY. 

As one who, destined from his friends to part, 
Regrets his loss, but hopes again crewhilo 
To share their converse, and enjoy their smile, 
And tempers as he may affliction's dart : > 
Tlius, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 
Teachers of wfsdom, who could ouce beguile 
Jly tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 
I now resign you; nor with faiuting lieart; 
For, pass a iaw short years, or days, or hours, 
And happier seasous may their dawn unfold, 
And all your sacred fellowship restore ; 
When, freed from earth, uulimited its powers, 
Mind sh.all with mind direct communion hold, 
And kindred sjiirits meet to part no more. 



C3corqc Crabbe. 



Of humble parentage, Crabbc (1754-1833), a native of 
Aldborougb, Suffolk, was educated for the medical pro- 
fession ; but he left it for literature, and went to try bis 
fortune in London. After various efforts to get into 
notice by his poetry, in a state of great destitution he 
wrote to Edmund Burke. Touched by his appeal, Burke 
made an appointment with him, looked at his poems, 
got a publisher for him, advanced him money, gave him 
a room at Bcaconsfield, and suggested bis entering the 
Cliurch, which advice he adopted. After various cliangcs 
he obtained the living of Trowbridge, in Wilts. In 1819 



GEORGE CliADBE. 



245 



he published his " Tales of tlie llall." Murray gave him 
£3000 for these and the eoiivrii;lit of his other poems. 

" Nature's sternest painter, yet tlic best," was the 
somewhat overstrained eompliment bestowed by Lord 
Byron on Crabbe. The En^lisli poor — their woes, weali- 
nesses, and sins — form his almost unvaryini; theme. The 
distinsjuishing feature of his poetry is tlie gmphie mi- 
nuteness of its deseriptivc passages, lie knew how nn- 
true and exaggerated arc most of the pictures of rural 
life that figure in poetry, and he undertook to exhibit it 
in its naked reality. In his style he produees the po- 
etical etTect by language of the most naked simplicity 
almost utterly divested of the conventional ornaments 
of poetry. His chief works, which range in date fiom 
IT.-vJ to 1818, are "The Village," "The Parish Register," 
'•The Borough," "Tales in Verse," "Tales of the Hall." 

In his domestic circumstances Crabbe was fortunate, 
lie married the lady of his choice, and had sons, one of 
wlioni wrote an admirable memoir of him. At three- 
score and ten the venerable poet was busy, cheerful, af- 
fectionate, and eager in charity and kind offices to the 
poor. He was a great lover of the sea, and his marine 
landscapes arc iresh and striking. 



THE SEA IX CALM AND STORM. 

From "The Borocgu." 

VarloiLs and vast, sublime iu all its forms, 

When lulled by zephyrs, or -when roused by storms ; 

Its colors cbauging wben from clouds and sun 

Shades after shades upon the surface run; 

Embrowned and horrid now, and now serene 

111 limpid blue and evanescent grceu ; 

And oft the foggy bauks on ocean lie, 

Lift the fair sail, and cheat the experienced eye ! 

Bo it the summer noon : a, sandy space 
The ebbing tide has left upon its place ; 
Then just the hot and stony beach above. 
Light, twinkling streams in bright confusion move ; 
(For, heated thus, the warmer air ascends, 
And with the cooler iti its fall contends.) 
Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps 
.\n equal motion ; swelling as it sleeps. 
Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand, 
Eaint, lazy waves o'ercrecp the ridgy sand, 
' )r tap the tarry boat with gentle blow. 
And back return in silence, smooth and slow. 
Ships in the calm seem anchored ; for they glide 
< )n the still sea, urged solely by the tide. 

View now the winter storm ! Above, one cloud, 
Hlack and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud ; 
Tlio unwieldy porpoise, through the day before, 
Had rolled in view of boding men on shore; 
.\iid Homctinips hid and somi'limes showed his form. 
Dark as the dond, and furious as the storm. 



All where the eye delights, yet dreads, to roam 
The breaking billows cast the flying foam 
Upon the billows rising— all the deep 
Is restless change — the waves, so swelled and steep. 
Breaking and sinking : and the sunken swells. 
Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells: 
Hut nearer land you may the billows trace, 
As if contending iu their watery chase ; 
May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach. 
Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch ; 
Curled as they come, they strike with furious force, 
And then, rellowing, fake tlieir grating course, 
Kakiiig the rounded Hints, which ages past 
KoUed by their rage, and shall to ages last. 

Ear off, the petrel, in the troubled way, 
Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spr.ay ; 
She rises often, often drops again. 
And sports at ease on the teuipestnons main. 

High o'er the restless deep, above the reach 
Of gniiuer's hope, vast flights of wild-ducks stretch ; 
Ear as the eye can glance on either side. 
In a broad s]iace and level line they glide; 
.\11 ill their wedge-like ligiires from the north. 
Day after day, flight after flight, go forth. 

Inshore their i)assage tribes of sea-gnlls urge. 
And drop for prey within the sweeping surge; 
Oft in the rough, opposing blast they fly 
Ear back, then turn, and all their force apply. 
While to the storm they give their weak, complain- 
ing cry; 
Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast. 
And in the restless ocean dip for rest. 



THE PILGRIMS WELCOME. 

Pilgrim, burdened with thy sin. 
Come the way to Zion's gate ; 
There, till Mercy let thee in. 

Knock and weep, and watch and wait. 
Knock I — He knows the sinner's cry : 

Weep ! — He loves the mourner's tears : 
Watch ! — for saving grace is nigh : 
Wait ! — till heavenly light appears. 

Hark ! it is the Bridegroom's voice ! 

Welcome, pilgrim, to thy rest! 
Now within the gate rejoice. 

Safe and sealed, and bought and blessed ! 
Safe — from all the Iiires of vice. 

Sealed — by signs the chosen know. 
Bought — by love and life the jirice. 
Blessed — the mighty debt to owe. 



a4G 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETBT. 



Holy pilgiim ! what for tbee 

III a world like this remain ? 
From tliy guarded breast shall flee 
Fear and shame, aud doubt aud paiu. 
Fear — the hope of heaven shall fly, 
Shame — from glory's view retire, 
Doubt — in certain rapture die, 
Paiu — in endless bliss expire. 



IT IS THE SOUL THAT SEES. 

From " Tales in Verse." 

It is the soul that sees ; the outward eyes 
Present the object, but the uiiud descries ; 
And thence delight, disgust, or cool indiiferenee rise. 
When minds are joyful, then we look around, 
Aud what is seen is all on fairy ground ; 
Again, they sicken, and on every view 
Cast their own dull and melancholy hue ; 
Or if, absorbed by their peculiar cares. 
The vacant eye on viewless matter glares, 
Onr feelings still upon our views attend, 
Aud their own natures to the objects lend. 
Sorrow and joy are in their influence sure ; 
Long as the jiassion reigns the effects eudure ; 
But Love in minds his various changes makes, 
And clothes each object with the change he takes ; 
His light aud shade on every view he throws, 
Aud on each object what he feels bestows. 



iJocl Bavlou). 

AMERICAN. 

Barlow (1754-1813) was a native of Reading-, Conn. 
He entered Dartmoutli College, but completed liis ecUi- 
cation at Yale. During liis vacations he served in tlie 
army, and was present at the battle of White Plains, 
where he showed much bravery. From college he turn- 
ed to divinity, and qualified himself as a chaplain, in 
which capacity he served for some time. He left the 
Church aud the array, and was admitted to the Bar in 
17S5. In 1788 he went to Enropc, where he remained, 
most of the time in Fiance, seventeen years. In Paris 
he made a fortune in some commercial speculations, and 
purchased the hotel of the Count Clermont de Tonnerre, 
■where he lived in sumptuous style. In 1805 Barlow re- 
turned to the United States, and built a fine house in 
the District of Culumhia, which he called Calorama. He 
was bitterly opposed by the Federalists; whose wrath 
he excited by a published letter in which he denounced 
Adams and Washington. In 1807 appeared "The Co- 
lumbiad," Barlow's principal work, and the most costly 
that had yet appeared in America. It is dedicated to 
the autlior's intimate friend, Robert Fulton, the inventor 



of the steamboat, and contains eleven engravings exe- 
cuted by eminent London artists. It is in the heroic 
rhymed measure, and recalls Pope and Darwin ; but 
tliere is little in it worthy of survival as poetry. He did 
better in "The Hasty Pudding," whicli, though smooth- 
ly versified, is little more tlian an elaborate trifle. It 
was written in Savoy, and dedicated to Mrs. Washing- 
ton. In 1809 he was appointed Minister to France. In 
October, 1813, Bonaparte, then on his Russian campaign, 
invited him to meet him at Wilna. His rapid Jouruey 
across the Continent in severely cold weather broiiglit 
on an inflammation of tlie lungs, to which he raiiidly 
succumbed, dying, on his return to Paris, at a small vil- 
lage near Cracow, December 33d, 1813. His last poem, 
dictated during his last illness to his secretary, was a not 
very happy expression of his detestation of Napoleon. 
It was entitled "Advice to a Raven in Russia." 



FROM "THE HASTY PUDDING." 

Canto I. 

I slug the sweets I know, the charms I feel. 
My morning incense, and my evening meal, 
The sweets of Hasty Pudding. Come, dear bowl. 
Glide o'er my palate, and inspire ray soul. 
The milk beside thee, smoking from the kins, 
Its substance mingled, married in with thine, 
Shall cool and temper thj' superior heat, 
And save the pains of blowing while I eat. 

Oh ! could the smooth, the emblematic song 
Flow like thy genial juices o'er my tougne. 
Could those mild morsels in my numbers chime, 
And, as they roll in substance, roll in rhyme. 
No more thy awkward, unpoetic name 
Should shun the muse, or prejudice thy fame; 
But rising grateful to the accustomed ear. 
All bards should catch it, and all realms revere ! 

A.ssist me first with pious toil to trace 
Through wrecks of time thj' lineage and thy race; 
Declare what lovely squaw, in days of yore 
(Ere great Columbus sought thy native shore). 
First gave thee to the world ; her works of fame 
Have lived indeed, but lived without a name. 
Some tawny Ceres, goddess of her days, 
First learned with stones to crack the well-dried 

maize. 
Through the rough sieve to shake the golden shower. 
In boiling water stir the yellow flour : 
The yellow flour, bestrewed aud stirred with haste. 
Swells in the flood and thickens to a paste, 
Then putfs and wallops, rises to the brim. 
Drinks the dry knobs that on the surface swim ; 
The knobs at last the busy ladle breaks. 
Ami the whole mass its true consistence takes. 



JOEL BARLOW.— MRS. AXXE GRANT. 



247 



C'oulil Imt lier sacrud uauio, uiiUiiowii so loii<j, 
liise, like licT labors, to the sou of song, 
To liiT, to tlifin, \\\ couseorate my lays. 
Ami blow licr piuliliii^ with the lireath of praise. 
If 'twas Oi-lhi whom I smi'; bcfori', 
1 here ascribe her one great virtue more. 
Not tlironj;h the rich Peruvian realms alone 
The fame of Sol's sweet ilaughter should be known, 
Itiit o'er the world's wide eliiuc should live secure, 
I'ar as lii,s rays extend, as long as they endure. 

Dear Hasty Piulding, what nnpromised joy 
I'.xpands my heart to meet thee in Savoy! 
Doomed o'er the world through devious paths to 

roam, 
Kach clime my country, and (':k1i house my home. 
My soul is soothed, my cares have found an end, 
I greet my long-lost, uuforgotteu friend. 

For thee, througU Paris, that corrupted town. 
How long in vain I wandered up and down. 
Where .shameless liaechns, with his drenching hoard, 
(.'idd from his cave usurps the uuirniug board ! 
London is lost in smoke and steeped in tea ; 
Ha Yankee there can lisp the name of thee ; 
The nncouth word, a libel on the town, 
Woulil call a i>roclamatiou from the crown. 
From el i UK'S oblique, that fear the sun's full rays, 
Chilled in their fogs, exclude the generous uuiizc ; 
A grain, whose rich, luxuriant growth requires 
Short gentle showers, and bright ethereal fires. 

But here, though distant from our native shore, 
With mutual glee we meet and laugh once more; 
The same! I know thee by that yellow face, 
That strong complexion of true Indian race, 
Which lime can never change, nor soil impair, 
Xor Al|)ine snows, uor Turkey's morbid air ; 
For endless years, through every mild domain. 
Where grows the maize, there thou art sure to 
reign. 
• •••«« 

There arc who strive to stamp with disrepute 
The luscious food, becan.se it feeds the brute ; 
In tropes of high-strained wit, while gaudy prigs 
Compare thy nursling, man, to pampered )>igs ; 
With sovereign scorn I treat the vulgar jest. 
Nor fear to share thy bounties with the beast. 
What though the generous cow give me to quaff 
The milk nutritious: am I tlien a calff 
Or can the genius of the noisy swine. 
Though nursed on pudding, claim a kin to mine? 
Sure tiic sweet song I fashion to thy praise, 
Huns more melodious than the notes they raise. 

My 8oug resouuding in its grateful glee. 
No merit claims: I prai.se myself in thee. 



I My father loved thee through his leugth of days, 
For thee his fields were shaded o'er with maize ; 
From thee what health, what vigor he possessed. 
Ten sturdy freemen from his loins attest; 
Thy constellation ruled my natal morn. 
And all my bones were made of Indian corn. 
Delicious grain ! whatever form it take. 
To roast or boil, to smother or to bake, 
In every dish 'tis welcome still to me, 
But most, my Hasty Pudding, most in thee. 



iUrs. vlniiE (!?rant. 

Mrs. Giant, commonly styled "ot Lagnan," to distin- 
guish her fiom licr contemporary, Mrs. Giaut of Carrou, 
was born in Glasgow, 17.55. Her father, Duncan JIae- 
vicar, was an officer in the army. While a child, she 
accompanied her parents to America; and they settled 
for a tune in the State of New York. In 17(!S she re- 
turned with her family to Scotland. She niari-ied James 
Grant, a young clergyman, in 1779. He died in ISOl ; and 
in 1S03 she publislied a volume of poems. In 1800 ap- 
peared her "Letters from the Mountains," which passed 
throngh several editions. Slie reached her eightyfourtli 
year, retaining her faculties to the last. Her correspond- 
ence was published, in three volumes, by her son, Jolni 
P. Grant, in 1S44. The song we quote was written on 
the occasion of tlic Marquis of Huntly's departure for 
Holland with his regiment, in 179'.). 



OH, WHERF, TELL ME WHERE! 

"Oh, where, tell me where is your Highland laddie 
gone T 

Oh, where, tell me where is your Highland l.iddio 
goue V 

'•He'.s gone with streaming banncr.s, where noble 
deeds are done. 

And my sad heart will tremble till he eonn> safe- 
ly luune." 

"Oh, where, tell me where, did your Highhmd lad- 
die stay ? 

Oh, where, tell mo where, did your Highland laddie 
stay ?'' 
j " lie dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapiil 
Spey, 

And many a blessing followed Lim the day ho went 
away. 

He dwelt beneath tUo holly-trees, beside the rapid 
Spey, 

And many a blessing followed bim the day he went 
awav." 



248 



crCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



"Ob, what, tell me wbat, does your HigUlaud laddie 

wear ? 
Oh, what, toll uio what, does your Highland laddie 

wear ?" 
"A honuet with a lofty idiime, the gallant badge 

of war, 
And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall 

wear a star ; 
A bonnet with ,i lofty plume, the gallant badge of 

war, 
And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall 

wear a star." 

"Snijpose, ah, suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound 

Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your 
hopes confound?" 

"The pipe would play a cheeriug march, the ban- 
ners round him tly. 

The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in 
his eye ; 

The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners 
round him lly ; 

And for his king and country dear with pleasure 
he would die !" 

"But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's 
bonny bounds ; 

But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bon- 
ny bounds. 

His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious 
wounds ; 

Wide, wide, through all our Highland bills, his 
warlike name resounds : 

His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious 
wounds ; 

Wide, wide, through all our Highland hills, his 
warlike name resounds." 



liniliam eiffor^. 



GitTord (175G-1S2G) was a native of Asliburton, in Dev- 
onshire. His parents were poor, and at tliirtecn he was 
a pcmiiless orphan. His godfather first sent him to eca 
as cabin-boy in a coasting-vessel, and then .ipprenticed 
him to a shoemaker. He was a lad of eager intellect, 
with a taste for verse and for mathematics. Through 
the efforts of a Mr. Cookesley, he was placed at school, 
and when twenty-two years old was sent to Oxford. In 
1791 lie wrote "The Baviad," a satire ridiculing some of 
the small poets of the day, who, under tlie signatures of 
Anna Matilda, Edwin, Orlando, Delia Crusca, etc., gained 
a transient notoriety. The game was hardly worth the 
candle; but the satire was read and praised, and had a 



transient reputation. The name of Bavius for a dunce 
is taken from Virgil's line : 

"Qui Bavium nou oilit amet tua carmiua, Msvi." 

"The Mreviad" followed "The Baviad," hut is infe- 
rior to it in spirit. Gilford attacked Wolcot in an 
" Epistle to Peter Pindar," and Woleot replied witli 
"A Cut at a Cobbler." This led to a personal collision, 
in which Gifl'ord would have got tlie worse of it but for 
the interference of a bulky Frencliman who happened to 
be present, and who turned Woleot out of the reading- 
room, where the scene occurred, into the street, throw- 
ing his wig and cane after him. 

Gilford's "small but sinewy intellect," it has been 
said, "was well employed in bruising the butterflies of 
the Delia Cruscan school." He afterward edited the 
Anti- Jacobin (see "Canning"), translated Juvenal, and 
in 1S08 became editor of the Quarterly Review, in which 
he labored to keep alive among the English aristocracy 
a feeling of dislike toward the United States. As a lit- 
erary critic, he was merciless and bitter. Southey says 
of him: "He had a heart full of kindness for all living 
creatures except authors ; t/tcin he regarded as a fish- 
monger regards eels, or as Izaalc Walton did slugs, 
worms, and frogs." GifTord seems to have had a tender 
place in his heart for Ann Davies, a faithful attendant 
who died in his service, and in wliose memory he wrote 
some pallietic, but rather faulty and commonplace, lines, 
entitled "The Grave of Anna." As a poet his claims to 
remembrance are very slender. 



TO A TUFT OF EARLY ATOLETS. 

Sweet flowers! that from your bumble beds 

Thus prematurely dare to rise, 
And trust your unprotected heads 

To cold Aquarius' watery skies ! 

Eetire, retire ! These tei)id airs 
Are not the genial brood of Blay ; 

That suu with light malignant glares, 
And flatters only to betray. 

Stern winter's reign is not yet jiast : 
Lo ! while your buds prepare to blow. 

On icy pinions comes the blast. 

And nips your root, and lays you low. 

Alas for such ungcntlo doom ! 

But I will shield yon, and supply 
A kindlier soil on which to bloom, 

A nobler bed on which to die. 

Come, then, ere yet the morning ray 

Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, 

And drawn your balmiest sweets away ; 
Oh, come, and grace my Anna's breast ! 



WILLIAM GIFFOUD.— WILLIAM SOTHEUY. — WILLIAM BLAKE. 



249 



FROM "THC BAVIAD.' 

Soiiio lovo tlio verso that like Maria's Hows, 
No rubs to stagger, ami uo sense to pose ; 
Wliich read aud read, yoii raise your eyes iu doubt, 
And gravely wonder — what it is about. 
These faney '■ liell's Poet ics," only sweet. 
And intercept his hawkers in the street; 
There, smoking hot, inhale Mit YendaV strains, 
And the rank ianie of Tony I'a-squiri's brains. 
Others, like Kenible, on black-letter pore. 
And what they do not understand, adore ; 
Buy at V!i.st sums the trash of ancient days, 
Aud draw on prodigality for praise. 
These, when some lucky hit or lucky price 
Has blessed them with "The Boke of gode Advice," 
For ekes aud algates only deign to seek. 
And live upon a whilom for a week. 

.\n(l can we, when such mope-eyed dolts are placed 
By thoughtless fashion on the throne of taste — 
Say, can we wonder whence such jargon flows. 
This motley fustian, neither verso nor prose, 
This old, new language which defiles our page. 
The refuse and the scum of every age ? 

Lo, Beaufoy tells of Afric's barren sand. 
In all the Uowery phrase of fairy-laud : 
There Fezzan's thrum-capped tribes — Turks, Chris- 
tians, Jews — 
Accommodate, ye gods, their feet with shoes! 
There meagre shrubs inveterate mountains grace. 
And brushwood breaks the amplitude of space. 
I'erplexed with terms so vague and undefined, 
I blunder on, till, wildered, giddy, blind, 
Where'er I turn, on ehuuls I seem to tre.id ; 
Aud call for Mandevillc to ease my head. 

Oh for the good old times when all was new. 
And every hour brought prodigies to view ! 
Our sires in unaffected language told 
Of streams of amber, and of rocks of gold : 
Full of their theme, they spurned all idle art, 
An<l the plain tale w.as trusted to the heart. 
Now all is changed ! We fiiuH- and fret, poor elves, 
Less to display our subject than ourselves. 
Whate'er wo paint — a grot, a (lower, a bird — 
Heavens! bow wo sweat! laboriously absurd! 
\V<uds of gigantic bulk and uncouth sound 
In rattling triads the long sentence bound ; 
While points with points, with periods periods jar. 
And the whole work seems ouo continued war! 



' The ii;>nic. reail bnckuard, of .Mr. Tim Ailiicy, one of the 
poctni<(ers of the diiy. 

"Gentle dalness ever loves a Joke." 



lUilliam Sotljcbii. 



Sotlieby (1757-lSH), an accomplislied scholar, poet, 
and translator, was a native of London. He was of good 
family, and educated at Harrow school. At tlic age of 
seventeen he entered the army, but quitted it in 1780, 
purchased a place at Southampton, and resided there ten 
years. In KS'J he published a translation of Wieland's 
"Oberon," which was a success. He now wrote poems, 
translations, aud tragedies iu great profusion. His trans- 
lations were the chief source of his fame: that of Virgil's 
"Gcorgics" is one of the best in the language; those of 
the "iruid" and "Odyssey" have their peculiar merits. 
Wieland, the German poet, is said to have been eliarnied 
with the version of his "Oberon." Byron said of Solhe- 
by that he imitated everybody, and occasionally sur- 
passed his models. 



STAFFA— VISITED 1829. 

StafTa, I scaled thy summit hoar, 
I jiassed beneath thy arch gigantic. 

Whose pillared cavern swells the roar, 

When thunders on thy rocky shore 
The roll of the Atlantic. 

That hour the wind forgot to rave, 

The surge forgot its motiou ; 
Aud every pillar in thy cave 
Slept in its shadow on the wave, 

1,'nripplcd by the ocean. 

Then the past age before me came. 

When, 'mid the lightning's sweep. 
Thy isle, with its basaltic frame. 
And every coluniu wreathed with flame, 

Burst from the boiling deep. 

When, 'mid lona's wrecks ineanwliilo 

O'er sculptured graves I trod, 
Where Time bad strewn each mouldering aisle 
O'er saints and kings that reared the pile, 

I hailed the eternal God: 
Vet, StalVa, nu>re I felt his presence iu thy cave 
Than w here lona's cross rose o'er the western wave. 



lllilliam ClaKc. 

Extraordinary as an artist and a poet, Blake (17.57- 
18\W) was the sou of a London hosier. Ai'prcnticed at 
fourteen to an engraver, be became a diligent aud enthu- 
siastic student. At twenty -six he married Catherine 
Boutelier, wlio survived him, and was a most devoted 
and attaclicd wife. He produced a series of designs and 
poems winch arc quite unique in the peculiar spirit of 



250 



CYCLOPMDIA OF BItlTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



their conception, but replete witli beauties of a higli or- 
der. Tlie designs are drawn, and tlie poems written, 
upon copper, witli a secret composition (disclosed to 
liim, as lie says, by the spirit of his brother Robert) ; and 
when the uncovered parts were eaten away by aqua-for- 
tis, the rest remained as if in stereotype. His wife work- 
ed off the plates in the press ; and he tinted the impres- 
sions, designs, and letter-press with a variety of pleasing 
colors. 

Blake thought that he conversed with the spirits of 
the departed great— with Homer, Moses, Pindar, Virgil, 
Dante, Milton, and many others ; and that some of them 
sat to him for their portraits. He produced a great vari- 
ety of works, many of which now command high prices. 
The principal are "The Gates of Paradise," "Ulrizen," 
"Illustrations of Young's 'Night Thoughts,'" "Jeru- 
salem," and "Illustrations to the Book of Job." Blake 
got from his strange, fanciful illustrations but little 
worldly gaiu. He was often extremely poor. Fond of 
children, he retained a child's heart to the last. Mr. 
Ruskiu says of his poems: "They are written with ab- 
Bolutc sincerity, with inlinite tenderness, and, though in 
the manner of them diseased and wild, are in verity the 
words of a great and wise mind, disturbed, but not de- 
ceived, by its sickness ; nay, partly exalted by it, and 
sometimes giving fortli in fiery aphorism some of the 
most precious words of existing literature." 



NIGHT. 

Tho snu ilcsceuding in the west, 
The evening star doth shine ; 
The birds are silent iu their nest, 
And I must seek for mine. 
The moon, like a. flower 
In heaven's high bower, 
With silent delight 
Sits and smiles on the night. 

Farewell, green iields and happy groves, 

Where flocks have ta'en delight ! 
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move 
The feet of angels bright ; 
Unseen, they pour blessing, 
And joy without ceasing. 
On each bud and blossom, 
On each sleeping bosom. 

They look in every thoughtless uest. 

Where birds are covered warm ; 
They visit caves of every beast. 
To keep them from all harm ; 
If th^y see any weeping 
That should have been sleeping. 
They pour sleep on their head. 
And sit down on their bed. 



Wliini wolves and tigers howl for Jirey, 

They pitying stand and weep, 
>Seeking to drive their thirst away, 
And keep them from the sheep ; 
But if they rush dreadful. 
The angels, most heedful. 
Receive each mild spirit. 
New worlds to Inherit. 



THE TIGER. 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night. 
What imnuirtal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes f 
On what wings dare he aspire ? 
What tho hand dare seize thy lire ? 

And what shoulder, and what art. 
Could twist tho sinews of thy heart ? 
And when thy heart began to beat. 
What dread hand formed thy dread feet ? 

AVhat the hammer ? what the chain ? 
In what furnace was thy brain f 
What the anvil ? what dread grasp 
Pare its deadly terrors clasp ? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did He smile his work to see 1 
Did Ho who made the lamb make thee f 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright. 
In tho forests of the uight, 
W'hat immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? 



ON ANOTHER'S SORROW. 

Can I see another's woe. 
And not be in sorrow too ? 
Can I see another's grief. 
And not seek for kind relief? 
Can I see a falling tear. 
And not feel my sorrow's share ? 
Can a father see his child 
Weep, nor be with sorrow tilled ? 



WILLIAM BLAKE.— THOMAS TAYLOR. 



251 



Ciiu a mother sit and liear 
Au infant groan, an infant fear f 
No, uo! iiover can it bo! 
Never, never can it bo! 

An<l can III' who smiles on all 
Hoar tlio wron with sorrows small, 
lloav the small bird's grief and care. 
Hoar the woes that infants bear, — 
And not sit beside the nest, 
Ponriiig pity in their breast ! 
And not sit the cradle near. 
Weeping tear on infant's tear ? 
And not sit, both night and day, 
Wiping all onr tears a«ay ? 
Oh no ! never can it be ! 
Never, never can it be ! 

lie doth give his joy to all ; 
lie becomes an infant small ; 
He becomes a mau of woe ; 
He doth feel the sorrow too. 
Think not thon canst sigh a sigh, 
And thy Maker is not by; 
Think not thon canst woop a tear. 
And thy Maker is not near. 
Oh, ho gives to ns his joy, 
That onr gi'iefs he may destroy : 
Till onr grief is lied and gone, 
Ho doth sit bv ns and moan. 



INTRODUCTION TO " SONGS OF INNOCENCE." 

I'iping down the valleys wild, 
Piping songs of pleasant glee, 

On a <li)nd I saw a child ; 
And ho, langhing, said to me : 

"Pipe a song abont a lamb." 
So I piped with merry cheer. 

"Piper, pipe that song again." 
So I piped ; he wept to hear. 

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; 

Sing thy songs of happy cheer." 
So I snng the same again. 

While ho wept with joy to hear. 

" Piper, sit thee down and write. 
In a book that all may road — " 

So he vanished from my sight ; 
And I plucked a hollow reed, 



And I made a rnral pen. 

And I stained the water clear. 

And I wrote my Lapi)y songs. 
Every child may joy to hear. 



<r:ijomas (iixijlor. 

Taylor (1758-1835) w.is .1 native of London, where, at 
an early age, he was sent to St. Paul's School. He be- 
came an accomplished classical scholar, and devoted his 
spare hours to the study of Plato and Aristotle. To tlic 
end of Ills life he gave sis hours a day to study. Pover- 
ty and its attendant annoyances were no obstacle. He 
translated the writings of all the untranslated ancient 
Greek philosophers, and through the generous aid of 
friends was enabled to publish works that must have 
cost more than £10,000, and upon the whole yielded no 
pecuniary profit. He is described as "a sincere friend 
and a delightful companion." But Taylor was a Plato- 
uist and polytheist. lie characterized the Christian re- 
ligion as a " barbarized Platonisni ;" and maintained that 
the divinities of I'lato are the divinities to be adored : 
that we should be taught to C.1II God, Jupiter; the Vir- 
gin, Venus; and Christ, Cupid I This "literary lunacy" 
did not prevent his being held in high esteem by many 
influential friends. He wrote an "Ode to the Rising 
Sun," a remarkable production, and having the passion- 
ate impetus of a sincere adoration; for Taylor believed 
what he was writing, and pours forth real idolatry to the 
sun : Apollo was to him a living power in the universe. 
An English critic says of the poem: "The frequently 
repeated and splendidly etrective 'See!' Wiis the true 
inimitable suggestion of sincere emotion, as is proved 
by the otherwise inartificial character of the poem. The 
alliteration with which the verses abound is evidently 
the unconscious effect of passion ; the music is occasion- 
ally exquisite." 



ODE TO THE KISING SUN. 

See I how with thundering fiery feet 
Sol's ardent steeds tho barriers beat. 

That bar their radiant way; 
Yoked by tho circling hours they stand, 
Inipntiont at the god's command 

To boar the car of day. 

See! led by >Iorn, with dewy feet, 
Apollo mount.s his gohlen seat, 

Replete with sevenfold fire;' 
While, dazzled by his cominoring light, 
Heaven's glittering host and awt'nl night 

Submissively retire. 



> That iK, with his own prnper Arc, nud with the drc uf the 
olbcr |>laucl8. 



252 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BBITISH AXD AMEIilCAN POETRY. 



See! clothed with majesty aud strength, 
Through sacred light's wide gates, at length 

The god exulting spring : 
While lesser deities around, 
And demon powers his praise resonud, 

And hail their matchless king ! 

Tbrongh the dark portals of the deep 
The foaming steeds now furious leap. 

And thunder up the sky. 
The god to strains now tunes his lyre, 
Which nature's harmony inspire, 

And ravish as they fly. 

Even dreadful Hyle's sea profound 
Feels the enchanting conquering sound, 

And boils with rage no more ; 
The World's dark boundary, Tartarus hears. 
And life-inspiring strains reveres. 

And stills its wild uproar. 

Aud while through heaven the god sublime 
Triumphant rides, see reverend Time 

Fast by bis chariot run : 
Observant of the fiery steeds. 
Silent the hoary king proceeds, 

And hymns bis parent Sun. 

See ! as he comes, with general voice 
All Nature's living tribes rejoice, 

And own bim as their king. 
Even rugged rocks their beads advance, 
And forests on the mountains dance, 

And hills and valleys sing. 

See! while bis beauteous glittering feet 
In mystic measures ether beat, — 

Enchanting to the sight, 
Psean,' — whoso genial locks diftnse 
Life-bearing health, ambrosial dews,— 

Exulting springs to light ! 

Lo ! as he comes, in Heaven's array, 
And scattering wide the blaze of day. 

Lifts high his scourge of fire, — 
Fierce demons that in darkness dwell, 
Foes of our race, and dogs of Hell, 

Dread its avenging ire. 

Hail! crowned with light, creation's king! 
Be mine the task thy praise to sing, 

» A name of Apollo. 



And vindicate thy might; 
Thy honors spread through barbarous climes, 
Ages unborn, and impious times, 

And realms involved in night ! 



(Plhabctl) tjamilton. 

A native of Scotland, Miss Hamilton was born 1758, 
and died 1816. Slie wrote "The Cottagers of Glen- 
buruie," praised by Jclfrey and Scott, and said by the 
latter to be "a picture of the rural habits of Scotland, 
of striking and impressive fidelity." There liavo been 
several versions of the following little poem. 



MY AIX FIRESIDE. 
I. 
I hae seen great anes, and sat in great ha's, 
Mang lords and fine ladies a' covered wi' braws ;' 
At feasts made for princes, wi' princes I've been, 
Whare the grand shine o' splendor has dazzled 

my een ; 
But a sight sae delightfn' I trow I ne'er spied 
As the bounie, blithe blink o' my ain fiieside. 

My ain fireside, ray ain fireside, 
O there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. 



Aince mair, Gudo bo thank't, round my ain heart- 
some ingle, 
Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially mingle; 
Nae forms to compel me to seem wae or glad, 
I may laugh when I'm merry, and sigh when I'm sad ; 
Nae falsehood to dread, aud nae malice to fear, 
But truth to delight me, aud friendship to cheer : 
Of a' roads to happiness ever were tried. 
There's uane half so sure as ane's ain fireside. 

My ain fireside, my ain fireside, 
O there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. 



When I draw in my stool on my cosy beartbstane, 
My heart loups sae light I scarce ken 't for my ain; 
Care's down on the wind, it is clean out o' siglit, 
Past troubles they seem but as dreams of the night. 
I hear but kcnd voices, kend faces I see. 
And mark saft affcctiou glint foud frae each o'e : 
Nae fletchings" o' flattery, nae boastings of pride, 
'Tis heart speaks to heart at ane's ain fireside. 

My ain fireside, my ain fireside, 
O there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. 



Fine clothes. 



3 BlaDdishments, coasiugs. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



253 



Uobcrt Burns. 

Tlic son of a jioor fanner, Burns was born in tliu jjar- 
isli of AUoway, near Ayr, Scotland, on the 3olli of Jan- 
uary, 17Sy. He died at Dumfries, on tlic 21st of July, 
1790, as;ed tliirty-scvcn years and six months. Going to 
school at six years of a;jc, he had acquired at eleven a 
fair amount of clemeulary education. It was all his 
pood father could give him : and subsequently, a " fort- 
night's Frencli" and a summer quarter at land-surveying 
completed all tlic instruction the poet ever got, beyond 
what he w.as able to pick up from a few books that lay 
on his humble shelf 

The lirst edition of Burns's poems was published at 
Kilmarnock in IT.SO. The little volume went off rapidly; 
and he found himself with some twenty guineas in his 
pocket, after paying all expenses of the edition. He ar- 
ranged to try his fortune in tlie West Indies; he was on 
the point of sailing for Jani.aiua; he had bid farewell to 
the "bonnic banks of Ayr" in his touching song, "The 
gloomy night is gathering fast," when a word of praise 
from Dr. Blackloek, himself a poet, caused him to alter 
his plans, and proceed to Edinburgh. Here he was cord- 
ially received ; his book had unlocked the lirst Edin- 
burgh mansions to the peasant bard. A second edition 
of his poems \*as issued, by which he cleared nearly 
£500. He now sent £300 to help his brother Gilbert at 
Mossgiel, took a farm of his own at Ellisland in March, 
17.S7, and live months afterward married Jean Armour, 
by whom he had had twin sons. 

The farm being unfruitful, he tried to supplement it 
with a place in the Excise, with a salary of £70 a year. 
This poorly repaid him for the time its duties cost, and 
the dangers of that unsettled, convivial life, to which his 
excitable nature was thus exposed. After struggling for 
more than tliree years with the stubborn soil of Ellis- 
land, aud vainly trying to raise good crops while he 
looked after whiskey-stills, he gave up the farm, and in 
17U1 went to live at Dumfries upon his slender income 
as a ganger. A third edition of his poems, enriched with 
his inimitable "Tam O'Shanter," came out two years 
later. But bis life was nearing its close ; he could not 
shake off the grip of his too convivial habits, and sad 
days of poverty and failing liealth came to their end for 
him before he had well reached his prime. Those who 
had neglected him in life then found themselves a day's 
plciisure by making a great show of his funeral. Twelve 
thousand came to follow the poet to his grave. 

" It is impossible," says Chambers, " to contemplate 
the life of Burns without a strong feeling of affectionate 
admiration and respect. His manly integrity of char- 
acter — which as a peasant he guarded with jealous dig- 
nity— aud his warm and true heart, elevate him, in our 
conceptions, almost as much as the native forte and 
beauty of his poetry. Some errors and frailties threw 
a shade on the noble and affecting image, but its higher 
lineaments were never destroyed." 

As a lyrical poet. Burns is unsurpassed in all literature. 
So quick and genial were his sympathies, that he was 
easily stirred to lyrical melody by wliatcvcr was good 
and beautiful, whether in external nature or in the hu- 
man heart aud life. His CDCrgy and truth— the down 



right earnestness of his emotions aud convictions — stamp 
the highest value on his writings. 

The doctrine of the immortality of the soul, as appears 
from his letters, formed the strongest and most soothing 
of Burns's beliefs. Most of his poems arc written in 
Lowland Scotch ; but he often rises to an English style, 
noble, impressive, and retiued. " Viewing him merely as 
a poet," says Campbell, "there is scarcely another re- 
gret connected with his name than that his productions, 
with all their merit, fall short of the talents which he 
possessed." A touching reference to one clement of 
success, iu which he himself was lacking, is made in the 
following stanza from a serio-comic epitaph : 
" Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole. 
Or daililiug grabs this cnrihly hole. 

In low pursuit, — 
Know, prndcnt, cautious self-control 
Is wisdom's root."' 

One noble trait of Bnrns's character is m.anife5t in the 
fact that, though he died iu abject poverty, he did not 
leave a farthing of debt. His physical frame correspond- 
ed to the qualities of his mind. Ills expressive, thought- 
ful face, above all his kindling eyes, were in keeping with 
the lineaments of his genius, the prominent qualities of 
wliich were earnestness and intousity. 



THE COTTER'S SATURD.VY XIGHT. 

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ., OF AYR. 

" Let not ambition mock their nsefnl toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscarc ; 
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The sliort but simple aunals of the poor." 

Gc.vy. 

My loved, my hoiiorcil, much respected fiieud ! 

No mercenary biird his homage pays ; 
Witli honest pride I scorn each selfish end ; 

>Iy dearest meed a, friend's esteem aud praise ! 
To yon I slug, iu sim])le Scottish lays, 

The lowly train iu life's sequestered scene; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways : 

What Aiken iu a, cottage would have beeu ; 
Ah I though his worth unknown, far happier there, 
I wccu. 



November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugli ; 

The shortcuiug winter day is uear a close ; 
The miry be.tsts retreating frae the pleugh, 

The blacki'uiug traius o' craws to their repo.se : 
The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end. 
Collect.^ his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the moru iu ca.se aud rest to spend, 
Aud weary, o'er the moor, his course does banic- 
ward bend. 



254 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath tho shelter of an a.g<5il tree ; 
Th' expectant wee things, tocldliu', stacher' 
through 

To meet their ilad,wi' flichterin'^ noise an' glee. 
His wee bit ingle, bliukin' bonnily, 

His clean hcarth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 

Docs a' his weary, carking cares beguile, 
Au' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. 

Belyve^ the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out, among the farmers rouu' : 
Some ca' the plengh, some herd, some tentie' rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown. 

Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee. 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for others' weelfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos" that he sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle au' her shears, 

Gars" auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's an' their mistress's eomniand, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
"An' mind their labors wi' au eydent' hand, 
Au' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk' or 
play : 
An' oh, bo sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's jiath ye gang astray, 
Implore his counsel and assisting might: 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord 
aright!" 

But hark ! a rap conies gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meauing o' the same. 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor. 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
Tho wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 



1 Stasg 
1 Cami 
' Dili'-eut 



us. 



2 Fluttering. 
e Dally. 



3 By-aiul-by. 
« Makes. 



With heart - struck, anxious care, inquires his 
name, 
While Jeuny hafflins' is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleased the mother hears it's nao wild, worth- 
less rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome Jeuny brings him ben ; 

A strappan youth ; he taks the mother's eye ; 
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'cu ; 

The father cracks' of horses, ploughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'eiilows wi' joy. 
But blate' and laithfu',' scarce can weel be- 
have : 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What makes the youth sao bashfu' an' sac 
grave ; 
Weel pleased to thiuk her bairn's respected like 
the lave." 

happy love! vs'here love like this is found! 
O heartfelt raptures I bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round. 

And sage experience bids me this declare : 
" If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure 
spare. 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale. 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the even- 
ing gale." 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, -with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? 
Curse on his perjured arts! dissembliug smooth ! 

Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? 
Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction 
wild ! 

But now tho supper crowns their simple board: 
The halcsome parriteh," chief o' Scotia's food; 

The soupe their only hawkie' does aftord, 
That 'yout the hallan" snugly chows her cood : 

Tho dame brings forth, in complimental mood, 
To grace the lad, her weel-haiued° kcbbuck,'" 
fell," 



Bashful. 

Potrirtge. 

Well-saved. 



■ Half. 


2 Talks. 


4 Hesitatiug. 


' Other people. 


' Cow. 


8 Porch. 


10 Cheese. 


" Biting. 



ROBERT lilRXS. 



All' aft he's pressed, an' aft he calls it giiid f 
The fnij^al wilic, •;ariiiloiis, will tell 
How 'twas a towmoud' aulil,siu' lint was i' the bell.^ 

The cliccrfii' supper done, wi' serious faee, 

They round the iiij^Io form a circle wide; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal sr^'O't 

The liig lia' Hible, nnee his father's pride : 
His bonnet reverently is laid aside, 

His lyart liafl'ets' wearing thin an' bare : 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales* a portion with judicious care; 
And, '-Let us worship (jodl" he says, with solemn 
air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dnnilee's wild, warbling measures rise. 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; 
Or noble Klgin beets' the heavenward llaine. 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickhd ears no heartfelt raptures raise: 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amali'k's nngracioiis progeny; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic tire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme. 

How guiltless blood for guilty man wsis shed ; 
How Ho who boro in heaven the second name 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 
How his first followers and servants sped; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; 
How he who lone in Patmos banisli<;d 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, 
And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by 
Heaven's command. 

Then, kni-cling ilown, to heaven's Eternal King 
The saint, the father, and the husband prays; 

Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing''' 
That thus they all shall meet in future days ; 



* A twelvcmniilfa. 

* Gray locks. 

* Adds foel to Arc. 



' Since the flax was in flower. 

* ChoOMJB, 

* Pope's "Windeor Forest." 



There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear ; 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal 
sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method and of art, 
When men disiday to congregations wide 

Devotion's every grace, except the heart ! 
The Power, incensed, the pageant w ill desert. 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole: 
But hajily in some cottage far apart. 

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul. 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enroll. 

Then lioniewaril all take olT tlioir several way : 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest; 
The parent pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request 
That lie who stills the raven's clamorous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in tlowcry pride. 
Would, iu the way his wisdom sees tlie best. 

For them and for their little ones provide, 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
spring.s, 

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings; 

"An honest man's the noblest work of God:" 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind. 
What is a lordling's pomp ? A cumbrous load. 

Disguising oft the wretch of humankind. 
Studied iu arts of hell, in wickeduess refined ! 

O Scotia ! Diy de.nr, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

lie ble.s.sed with health and peace and sweet 
content ! 
And oh ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets Vie rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their niuch-lovcd 
i.slc. 

O Thou, who poured the patriotic tiile 

That streamed through Wall.ace's undanntcd 
heart, 



256 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Who <larcil to nobly stem tyrauuiu pvido, 
Or uobly die, the second glorious jiart — 

(The patriot's God peculiarly tbou art, 

His friend, iuspirer, guardian, and reward!) 

Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert ; 
Bnt still the patriot and the patriot bard 
lu brisht siiecessiou raise, her ornament and guard ! 



A PEAYER UNDER THE PRESSURE OF 
VIOLENT ANGUISH. 

O thou Great Beiug ! what thou art 

Surpasses mo to know ; 
Yet sure I am that kuonu to thee 

Are all thy works below. 

Thy creature here before thee stands, 
All wretched and distressed, 

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 
Obey thy high behest. 

Sure, tbou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
Oh free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be 

To suit some wise design, 
Then man my soul with firm resolves 

To bear aud not repine ! 



EPISTLE TO A Y'OUNG FRIEND," MAY, 1780. 

I lang hao thought, my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have seut you. 
Though it should serve nae other end 

Thau just a kind memento; 
Bat how the subject theme may gang 

Let time and chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

Ye'll try the world fu' soou, my lad ; 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind au unco squad, 

And mncklo they may grieve ye. 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

E'eu when your end's attain<Sd ; 

' Addressed to Andrew Aiken, son of Robert Aiken, to whom 
*'The Colter's Saturday Ts'i::lU" was dedicated. Andrew died 
iu 1S31 at Riga, where he held the office of English consul. 



And a' your views may como to naught 
Where every nerve is strainiid. 

I'll no s.ay men are villains a': 

The real, hardened wicked, 
Wha hae n.ae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricked. 
But och ! mankiud are unco weak, 

An' little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake, 

It's rarely right adjusted! 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should nae censure; 
For still the important end of life 

They cquallj' may answer : 
A man may hae an honest heart. 

Though poortith' hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak a neebor's part, 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 

Aye free, alV ban' your story tell. 

When wi' a bosom erouy; 
But still keep something to yonrsel 

Y'e scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 

Frae critical di.ssectiou ; 
Bnt keek through every other man 

W^i' sharpened, sly inspection.^ 

The sacred lown' o' wecl-placed love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove. 

Though naething should divulge it! 
I waive the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard of concealing ; 
But och ! it hardens a' within, 

And iietrifies the feeling! 

To catch Dame Fortune's golden smile. 

Assiduous wait upon her; 
Aud gather gear by every wile 

That's justified by honor; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge. 

Not for a train-attendant, 
Bnt for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 



I Poverty. 

^ Here Burns was in error, and recommended what a geuer- 
ons nature like liis own would have siirunk from — sell-conceal- 
ment .at the expense ofother.'i. Probably he felt that prudence 
in checking his own impulsive feelings was what he lacked. 

3 Flame. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



257 



Tliii foar o' lull's :i liaiigmairs wliip, 

To liaiul the wictrli in oriler ; 
liiit wlicio yii IVil ymw lioiuir }:''l') 

Lot that aye be yoiii- boiilcr : 
Its sli<;litost touches, iustaut iiaiise — 

Debar a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely \uH-\t its laws, 

Uncaring consuriueuccs. 

The great Creator to revoro 

Mnst sure become the creature ; 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

Anil e'en the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range 

l!e complaisance extended ; 
An atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity oti'endcd ! 

AVlicM ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

K<dlgion may be blinded; 
Or if she gie a random sting, 

It may bo little minded ; 
Rut when on lifo we're tempest-driven, 

A conscience but a cauker, 
A correspondence lixcd wi' heaven 

Is sure a noble anchor ! 

Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 

Your Iieart can ne'er bo wanting : 
May prudeucc, fortituile, and truth 

ICrect your brow undannting! 
In jiloughman phrase, ''(iod send yon speed" 

Still daily to grow wiser ; 
Aiul may you better reck the redo' 

Thau over did th' adviser. 



BANNOCKBURN. 

ROIIERT BnCCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Burns mndc another vereiou of this poem, infei'ior, wc think, 
to the original, wbicli we ;jive. 

Scots, wlia liao wi' Wallace bled ; 
Scots, wham Bruce has aftcn led! 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victory! 

Now's the day, and now's the hour; 
Sit the front o' battle lower; 
See approach proud Kdward's power — 
Chains and slavery! 



Wlia will be a traitor knave f 
Wlia can fill a coward's grave f 
Wha sae base as bo a slave 1 

Let him turn and lice ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly tlraw, 
Frcemau stand, or freeman fa', 
Let him follow me. 

By oppression's woes and pains! 
By your sons in servile chains! 
We will drain our dearest veins. 
But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall iu every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Let us do or die ! 



TO A MOLTJTAIX DAISY. 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE ri.Ol'GH IN APRIL, 178G. 

Wee, modest, crimsou-tipp^'d flower, 
Thou's met ine iu an evil Iionr; 
For I inauu crush amang the stoure' 

Thy slender stem : 
To spare thee now is past my power, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet. 
The bonnie lark, companion meet, 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy wcct, 

Wi' speclilcd breast, 
Wliin upward springing, blithe to greet 

The piiri>ling east! 

Canld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Aniiil the storm ; 
Scarce reared above the parent earth 

Thy tender form ! 

The Haunting Howers our gardens yield 
High sheltering woods and wii's mauu shield; 
But thou lieneath the random bield' 

O' clod or staiie 
Adorns the histie' stibble-ficld. 

Unseen, alaue. 



' Ilccd the advice. 
17 



' DllKt. 



' Protection. 



• Drv. 



258 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Tliy siiawy bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lifts thy uiiassumiug head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed. 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid. 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betrayed. 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soiled is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of sirujile bard. 

On life's rough ocean luckless starred ! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore. 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

Aud whelm him o'er! 

Such fate to sniferiug worth is given, 

Who long with vrauts aud woes has striven, 

By human pride or cunuiug driven 

To misery's brink. 
Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaveu, 

He, ruined, sink ! 

E'en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate. 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Euiu's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight. 

Shall be thy doom ! 



FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 

Is there, for honest poverty 

That hangs his head, and a' that ? 
The coward slave, we pass him by ; 

We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Our toils obscure, and a' that : 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp. 

The man's the gowd for a' that ! 

What though on hamely fare we dine. 
Wear hoddin gray,' and a' that ? 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
A man's a man for a' that ! 

> Coarse woollen cloth. 



For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that : 

The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 
Is king o' men for a' that! 

Yo see yon birkie,' ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, aud stares, aud a' that : 
Though hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a cuof* for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

His ribbon, star, and a' that : 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that! 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboou his might : 

Guid faith, he mauna fa"* that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Tlieir dignities, aud a' that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 

Aro higher rank' than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may — 

As come it will for a' that — 
That sense aud worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree,'' and a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that. 

It's comin' yet for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that ! 



HIGHLAND MAKY. 

Ye banks, aud braes, aud streams around 

Tlio castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Y'our waters never drumlie !" 
Tliere simmer first unfanld her robes, 

Aud there the langest tarry! 
For there I took the last fareweel 

0' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk. 
How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 

As underneath their fragrant shade 
I clasped her to my bosom ! 

The golden hours on angel wiugs 
Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 



■ A conceited fellow. " A fool. 

= Attempt. •> So in MS., but usually piinteil ranks. 

'- Supremacy. " Muddy. 



kobeut jiiiiys. 



•A'.y 



For dear to mo as light and life 
Was my sweet Iliglilaiid Mary. 

Wi' nioiiy a vow and locked embrace 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But oh! fell death's untimely fiost, 

That nipped my llower sac early! 
Now green's the sod, and eauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

<) pale, palo now those rosy lips 

I aft bae kissed sae fondly! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on mo sae kindly! 
Ami mouldering now in silent dust 

Tljat heart that loed mo dearly ! 
lint still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



BONNIE LESLEY. 

O saw ye bonnio Lesley 

As she gaeil o'er the border f 

She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread lier conquests further. 

To see her is to lovo Iut, 
And lovo l)nt her forever ; 

For nature niado lier wliat she is, 
And never made anither! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Tliy subjects we, before theo ; 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The deil he could na scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee ; 

He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
.\nd say, " I canna wrang thee." 

The powers aboou will tent thee ; 

Slisfiirtuno sha' na steer thee; 
Tlion'rt -like themselves, sae lovely 

Tinit lU they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Ketnrn .igain, fair Lesley, 

Kotnru to Caledonio ! 
Tliat wo may brag wo bae a lass 

Tliere's nanu again sae bonnie. 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brought to mind f 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days o' lang syno f 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne ; 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 



For auld lang syne. 



We twa hae run about the braes. 

And pu't the gowans fine ; 
But we've wandered mony a weary foot 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, etc. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn 

Fr.ao morniu' sun till dine ; 
But seas between us braid hae roared 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, etc. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere,' 

And gie's !i hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught' 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, etc. 

And surely ye'U bo your pint-stowp. 

Ami surely FU bo mine ; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld laug sync, my dear, etc. 



TO MAUY IN HEAVEN. 

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray. 

That lovcst to greet the early morn, 
Again tliou usherest in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary! dear departed shade! 

Where is thj' place of blissful rest f 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid f 

Hear'st thou the groans that vend his breast T 

Thart sacred hour can I forget. 

Can I forget tlic hallowed grove. 
Where by the winding Ayr wo met. 

To live one day of parting lovo 1 



Compauiun. 



2 Drnu?ht 



260 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BIUTJSH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Eteruity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Tliy image at onr last embrace — 

All! little tbouglit we 'twas our last! 

Ayr, gnrgliug, kissed bis pebbled sbore, 

O'erbnng with wild woods, thickening green; 
The fragrant birch aud hawthorn boar 

Twined amorous round tlie rajitured scene ; 
The flowers spraug waiitou to be pressed, 

The birds sang love on every spray, — 
Till too, too soon the glowing west 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, 

Aud fondly broods with raiser care ! 
Time but the iinpressiou stronger makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groaus that rend his breast? 



AE FOND KISS. 

Ae fond kiss, aud tlicu we sever ! 
Ae fareweel, aud tlieu forever! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
AVarring sighs aud groaus I'll wage thee. 
Wlio shall say that Fortune grieves liim, 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me — uae cheerful twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naetliing could resist my Nancy; 
But to see her was to love her. 
Love but her, aud love forever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly. 
Had wo never loved sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
AVe had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Faro thee weel, thou iirst aud fairest! 
Fai-e thee weel, thou best aud dearest! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, Enjoyment, Love, and Pleasure ! 
Ae fond kiss, aud then we sever! 
Ae fareweel, alas ! forever! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring siyhs and groans I'll wage thee. 



JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first accjuent, • 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonuie brow was brent ; 
Bnt now your brow is held, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw. 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill tbegither; 
And niony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' aue anithcr : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand-in-hand we'll go, 
Aud sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson ray jo. 



DUNCAN GRAY. 

Duncan Gray cam here to woo. 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't; 
On blithe Yule night when we were fou, 

Ha, lia, the wooing o't. 
Maggie coost' her head fu' high. 
Looked askleut and unco skcigh,'' 
Gart^ poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleeehed,' and Duncan prayed, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,' 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 

Duncan sighed baith out and in, 

Grat" his ecu baith bleer't and bliu', 

Spak o' lowpin" ower a linn. 

Ha, hn, the wooing o't. 

Time and chance are but .a tide. 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 

Slighted love is sair to bide. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 

Shall I, like a fool, quoth be. 

For a haughty hizzie die ? 

She may g.ie to — Fr.ance for mo ! 
Ha, ba, the wooing o't. 



' Cnst. = Coy. 

= Compelled. ^ Plntlered. 

<• A well-kuowu rocliy Islet in the Fiith of Clyde. 

8 Wept. ' Le.iping. 



ROBERT liVRSS. 



261 



How it comes let doctors tell, 

Ha, ba, tbe wooing o't ; 

ilcg grew sick — as he grew lical, 
Ha, ba, the wooing o't. 

Something in her bosom wrings, 

For relief a sigh she brings ; 

And oh, her eeu they spak sic things ! 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, tlio wooing o't ; 

Maggie's was a i>itcons c;use. 

Ha, ha, tho wooing o't ; 

Dnncau couldua ho her death, 

.Swelling pity smoorcd his wrath ; 

Now they're eronso' and canty baith. 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



SOMEBODY. 

My heart is sair, I darena tell, 

My heart is sair for somebody ; 

I conld wake a winter night 

For tho sake of somebody ! 

Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 

Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 

I conld range the world around 

For the sake o' somebody. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

O sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free. 
And send mo safe my somebody! 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-Iiey! for somebody! 
I wad do— what wad I not f — 
For the sake o' somchodv. 



A RED, HED KOSE. 

O my luve's like a red, red rose. 

That's newly sprung in June ; 
O ray hive's like the melodle 

That's sweetly played in tnuo. 
As fair art thou, my bonnio lass. 

So deep in luve am I ; 
Aud I will luve thee still, my dear. 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 



Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
And tho rocks melt wi' tho sun : 
I will luvo theo still, my dear. 
While the sands o' lifo shall run. 
.\nd fare thee wecl, my only luvo ! 

And faro thee wcel awhile ! 
And I will come again, my luve, 
Though it were ten thousand mile. 



' liri-k. 



THE BANKS 0' DOON. 

Yf banks and braes o' bonnio Doon, 
How can yo bloom sae fresh and fair f 

How cau ye chant, yo little birds, 
And 1 sae weary, fn' o' care ? 

Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird. 
That wantons through the liowcring thorn : 

Tliou minds mo o' departed joys. 
Departed never to return. 

Aft hae I roved bj- bonnie Dnon, 

To see the rose and woodl)ino twine; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve. 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
WV lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fauso luver stole my rose. 

But ah I he left the thorn wi' me. 



AFTON WATER. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes. 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stockdove whoso echo resounds through tho 

glen, 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den. 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, 
Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills, 
Tliero daily I wander as noon rises high. 
My flocks aud my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in tho woodlands the primroses blow; 
There oft as niilil evening weeps over (he lea, 
Tho swoet-sccuted birk shades my Mary aud me. 



262 



CTCLOPJIDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Thy crystal stream, Aftou, how lovely it glides, 
And -wiuils by the cot where my Mary resides ; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear 
wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green liracs. 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of luy lays ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmnring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



loljit illaijnc. 



Jobn Mayne {1759-183G) was a native of Dwmfries, 
Scotland. After such an education as be could get at 
tlic g-rammar-school of his native town, be entered tbc 
printing-office of tlie Dumfries Jovrital as a type-settei'. 
In 1781 be published bis song of "Logan Braes," of 
which Burns afterward composed a new, but inferior, 
version. M.aync wrote "The Siller Gun," a descriptive 
poem, the latest edition of which contains five cantos. 
In 1787 he settled in London. Allan Cunningham said 
of him : "A better or warmer-hearted man never ex- 
isted." 

LOGAN BRAES. 
By Logan streams that riu sao deep 
Fn' aft wi' glco I've herded .sheep ; 
Herded sheep, and gathered slaes, 
Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes. 
But, wae's my heart ! thae days are ganc. 
And I wi' grief may herd alane ; 
While my dear lad maun face his fixes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan hraes. 

Nae mair at Logan kirU will he 
Atween the preachings meet wi' me ; 
Meet wi' rac, or, whan it's mirk. 
Convoy me hame frao Logan kirk. 
I wee! may sing thae days are gane ; 
Frae kirk and fair I come alane ; 
AVhile my dear lad mann face his faes. 
Far, far frao me and Logan braes. 

At e'en, when hope amaist is gane, 
I dannder' out, and sit alane ; 
Sit alane beneath the tree 
Where aft ho kept his tryst wi' me. 
O conld I see thae days again, 
My lover skaithless, and my ain ! 
Beloved hy friends, revered hy faes. 
We'd live in hliss on Logan braes. 

' To w.iUi Ibougbtle.'^sly. 



i)t\i\\ iUaria lUiUtams. 

Miss Williams (1763-1S37) was a native of the North of 
EnglanJ, and was ushered into public notice when she 
was eighteen by Dr. Kippis. She published "Edwin and 
Elfrida," a poem; "Peru," a poem; and other pieces, 
afterward collected in two volumes. In 1790 she settled 
in Paris. There she became intimate with Madame Ro- 
land and the most eminent of the Girondists ; and in 1794 
was imprisoned, and nearly shared their fate. She es- 
caped to Switzerland, but returned to Paris in 1796, and 
resided there till her death. She shared the religious 
opniions of the "Theophilanthropists," who were pure 
Theists. The one exquisite hymn by which she is known 
has been freely adopted, however, by all Cliristian sects. 
In 1833 she collected and repuldished her poems. Of 
one of her sonnets she says: "I commence the sonnets 
with that to Hope, from a predilection in its favor for 
which I have a proud reason : it is that of Mr. Words- 
worth, who lately honored me with his visits while at 
Paris, having repeated it to mo from memory after a 
lapse of many years." 



SONNET TO HOPE. 

Oh, ever skilled to wear the form we love. 
To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart, — 
Come, gentle Hope ! with one gay smile remove 
The lasting sadness of an aching heart. 
Thy voice, benign enchantress ! let me hear ; 
Say that for nie some jileasures yet shall bloom ; 
That Fancy's radiance, Friend.sbip's precious tear. 
Shall soften or shall chase misfortune's gloom. 
Bnt come not glowing in the dazzling ray 
Which ouco with dear illusions charmed my eye ; 
Oh, strew no more, sweet flatterer, on my way 
The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die ! 
Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast. 
That asks not happiness, but longs for rest. 



TRUST IN PROVIDENCE. 

While thee I seek, protecting Power, 

lie my vain wishes stilled ; 
And may this consecrated hour 

With better hopes he filled. 

Thy love the powers of thought hestowed ; 

To thee my thoughts would soar : 
Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed ; 

That mercy I adore ! 

In e.aeh event of life, how clear 
Thv ruling hand I see! 



AyOliEir CUEllltY.—GEOKGE COLMAX, TUE YOUNGER. 



263 



Ench blessing to luy soul moro <lear 
Because conferred by thee! 

lu every joy that crowns my days, 

In every pain I bear, 
My heart shall lind delight in i)raisc, 

Or seek relief in prayer. 

When gladness wings my ftivored lionr, 
Thy love my thonghts shall fdl ; 

Kesigncd, when storms of sorrow lower, 
My sonl shall meet thy will. 

My lifted eye, without a tear, 
The gathering storm shall see ; 

My steadfast heart shall know no fear ; 
That heart shall rest on thee ! 



^uiircw (£l)crrj). 

Horn in LimcricU, Ir1;muI, Andrew Cheri-y {17G3-1813) 
was an actor and dramatic author of second-rate aljili- 
tics ; but he made one conspicuous hit in his well-known 
song of the " Bay of Biscay," whicli, defective as it is in 
literary merit, is wedded to music that keeps it alive. 
Braham used to sing it with thrilling eUcct. 



THE BAY OF Bl.SCAY. 

Loud roared the dreadful thunder, 
The rain a deluge showers ; 

The clouds were rent asunder 
By lightning's vivid powers : 

The night both drear and dark, 

Our poor devoted bark, 

Till next day there sho lay, 

In the Bay of Biscay, O ! 

Now dashed upon the billow, 
Her opening timbers creak : 

Each fears a watery pillow : 
None stops the dreadfid leak. 

To cling to 8lii)pery shrouds 

Each breathless seaman crowds. 

As sho lay till the day 

In the Bay of Bi.scay, O ! 

At length the wished-for morrow 
Broke through the hazy sky; 

Absorbed in silent sorrow, 
Each heaved a bitter sigh: 

The dismal wreck to view 

Struck horror to the crew, 



As she lay, on that day, 
In the Bay of Biscay, O ! 

Her yielding timbers sever. 
Her pitchy seams are rent. 

When Heaven, all bounteous over, 
Its boundless mercy sent : — 

A sail in sight appear.s ! 

We hail it with three cheers ! 

Now we sail with the gale 

From the Bay of Biscay, O ! 



©corgc CColmau, tlje Uoungcv. 

The son of George Colman, the Elder, author of "The 
Jealous Wife," and other successful plays, George the 
Younger (1763-1830) early gave his attention to the writ- 
ing of plays. He produced several which still keep their 
place on the stage: "The Iron Cliest" (ITOO); "The 
Heir at Law" (1797); "The Poor Gentleman" (1S02); 
"John Bull" (180.5) ; with numerous minor pieces. Col- 
man wrote poetical travesties and light farcical pieces in 
verse, which wcie collected and published (180"J) under 
the title of " Broad Grins." 



SIR MARMADUKE. 

Sir Marmaduke was a hearty knight — 

Good man ! old man ! 
He's painted standing bolt upright, 

With his hose rolled over his knee ; 
His periwig's as white as chalk. 
And on his fist be holds a hawk ; 

And he looks like the head 
Of an ancient family. 

His dining-room was long and wide — 

Good man ! old man ! 
Ilis spaniels lay by the fireside ; 

And in other parts, — d'ye see f 
Cross-bows, tobacco-pipes, old hats, 
A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats; 

And be looked like the head 
Of au ancient family. 

He never turned the poor from tho gate — 

Good man ! old man ! 
But was always ready to break tho pate 

Of his country's enemy. 
What knight could do a better thing 
Than serve the poor and fight for his kingf 

And so may every head 
Of an ancient familvl 



264 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BIUTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



CFgcrton I3rnligc0. 



Sir Samuel Ei;ertou Brytlgcs (1763-1837) first saw the 
light at the manor-house of Woottou, between Canter- 
bury and Dover. By his mother, an Egerton, he claimed 
to liave inherited tlie most illustrious blood of Europe. 
Having entered Queen's College, Cambridge, he left it 
without a degree. He tried tiie law, was admitted to the 
Bar, but made no mark as a lawyer. In 178.5 he publisli- 
ed a volume of poems ; and in 1814 his volume of " Ocea- 
sional Poems" appeared. His "Bertram," a poem, was 
given to the world in 1815. Byron writes of him as "a 
strange but able old man." He was immensely proud 
of liis noble ancestry, sensitive, and nioibidly an.xious lor 
literary fame, as some of his sonnets show. The latter 
part of his life, having involved himself in pecuniary em- 
barrassments, he resided cliiefly at Geneva. His sonnet 
upon "Eelio and Silence" was pronounced by Words- 
worth the best sonnet in the language ; and Southey 
said he knew of none more beantifully imaginative — 
commendation that now must seem extravagant and in- 
appropriate. Brydgcs was too selfconscious, introspec- 
tive, and jealous of what he thought his dues, to warble 
any "native wood-notes wild." His long poems have 
little poetic value ; but he shows imaginative power, 
and some of the high gifts of the poet. He edited with 
much ability an edition of Milton, which was rcpublislied 
in New York, and is still in demand. 



ECHO AND SILENCE. 

lu eMying course vlien leaves began to fly, 

And Antnmn in lier lap the store to strew, 

As 'mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo, 

Thro' glens iintrod, and woods that frowned ou high, 

Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy ! 

And lo, she's gone ! — lu robe of dark-green lino 

'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew. 

For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky ! 

In shade afl'righted Silence melts away. 

Not so her sister. — Hark ! for onward still, 

With far-heard step, she takes her listening way, 

Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill. 

Ah, mark the merry maid in mockfnl play 

With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill ! 



THE APPROACH OF COLD AVEATHER. 

One morn, what time the sickle 'gan to play. 
The eastern gates of heaven were open laid, 
When forth the rosy Hours did lead a maid, 
From her sweet eyes who shed a softened ray. 
Blusbiiig and fair she was; and from the braid 
Of her gold locks she shook forth perfumes gay : 



Yet languid looked, and iudoleutly strayed 
Awhile, to watch the harvest borne away. 
But now, with sinews braced, and aspect hale-, 
With buskined legs, and quiver 'cross her flnug ; 
With hounds and horu, she seeks the wood and vale ; 
And Echo listens to her forest song. 
At eve she flies to hear the poet's tale. 
And "Autumn's" name resounds his shades among. 



WRITTEN AT PARIS, 5IAY 11, 1826. 

High name of poet! — sought in every ago 

By thousands — scarcely won by two or three, — 

As with the thorns of this sad pilgrimage 

My bleeding feet are doomed their war to wage, 

With awful worship I have bowed to thee ! 

And yet, perchance, it is not Fate's decree 

This mighty boon should be assigned to me. 

My heart's consuming fever to assuage. — 

Fountain of Poesy! that liest deep 

Within the bosom's iuuermost recesses. 

And rarely burstest forth to human ear. 

Break out! — and, while profoundly magic sleep 

With pierceless veil all outward form oppresses, 

Let me the music of thy murmurs hear. 



WRITTEN AT LEE PRIORY, AUGUST 10, 1826. 

Praise of the wise and good ! — it is a meed 
For which I would lone years of toil endure ; 
Which many a peril, many a grief would cure ! 
As onward I with weary feet proceed, 
My swelling heart continues still to bleed ; 
The glittering prize holds out its distant lure, 
But seems, as nearer I approach, less sure. 
And never to my prayer to be decreed ! — 
With anxious ear I listen to the voice 
That shall pi-onouuce the precious boon I ask ; 
But yet it comes not, — or it comes iu doubt. 
Slave to the passion of my earliest choice, 
From youth to a,ge I ply my daily task, 
And hope, e'en till the lamp of life goes out. 



lUilliam £tsle JJoiulcs. 

But for the praise bestowed by Coleridge and Words- 
worth on the sonnets of Bowles— praise which seems a 
little overstrained a century later— he would hardly he 
entitled to a place among British poets of note. Born 
in the county of Wilts in 1703, he died in 1850. He 



WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.— JOJXXA BAILLIE. 



205 



was cdiicatod at Oxford, studied for the ministry, was 
niiule I'rebi-iuliiry of Siilisbiiry, 1804, and incumbent of 
BrenihiU, Willsbiro, 1.S05. Ho wa3 a voluminous writer 
bolli of prose and jioelry. Ilallam says: "Tlie sonnets 
of Bowles may be reckoned among the tlrst-fruits of a 
new cm in poetry." Bowles liad a controversy witli By- 
ron and Campbell on llie writings of Pope, and took the 
irround tliat Pope was no poet. Many pamphlets were 
issued on botli sides, and tlie question was Icll where 
the combatants found it. Pope's must always be a great 
name in English literature. 



THE TOUCH OF TIME. 

Time ! who know'st a louient liaml to I.iy 
Softest on Sorrow's wound, and slowly tlicMCC 
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) 

The; faiut pang stcalcst unperccivcd away! 
On tlico I rest my only liopo at last, 
Anil tliink, when tliou hast dried the bitter tear 
That Hows iu vain o'er all uiy soul held dear, 

1 nmy look back on every sorrow past, 

Aud meet life's peaceful eveuing with a smile; 
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour. 
Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower 
Forget fid, though its wings arc wet the while: — 
Vet ah, how much must that poor heart endure 
Which hopes from thee, and thee aloue, a cure ! 



THE BELLS OF OSTEXD. 

WRITTEN 0.\ A liK.M'TlFfl. .MORXIXO, AVirAX A STOUM. 

Xo, I never, till life and its shadows shall end, 
Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of 0.stcnd ! 
The day set in darkness; the wind it blew loud, 
Aiul rung, as it pas.sed, through e.-K-h niunnnring 

shroud. 
My forehead was wet with the foam of the spray, 
My heart sighed iu secret for those far away ; 
When slowly the morning advanced from the east. 
The toil and the noise of the tempest had cca.sed : 
The peal, from a land I ne'er saw, seemed to say, 
"Let the stranger forget every sorrow to-day!" 

Yet the short-lived emotion was mingled with pain : 
I thought of those eyes I .slionld ne'er see again ; 
I thought of the ki8,s, the last kiss which I gave; 
And a tear of regret fell unseen on the wave. 
I thought of the sehenies fond atVection had planned. 
Of the trees, of the towers, of my own native land. 
Hut still the sweet sounds, as they swelled to the air, 
Seemed tidings of plea.sure, though uionnifnl, to 
bear ;. 



And I never, till life aud its shadows shall end, 
Can forget the sweet sound of the bells of Ostend ! 



SOXXET, OCTOBER, 17Q2. 

Go, then, and join the roaring city's throng! 
Mo thou dost leave to solitude aud tears. 
To busy fantasies, aud boding fears. 
Lest ill betide thee. But 'twill not bo long, 
Aud the hard season shall be past : till then 
Live happy, sometimes the forsaken shade 
Kenu'uiliering, aud these trees now left to fade ; 
X'or 'mid the busy scenes and "hum of men" 
Wilt thou my cares forget : in heaviness 
To nie the hours shall roll, weary and slow. 
Till, mournful autumn past, and all the snow 
Of winter pale, the glad hour I shall bless 
That shall restore theo from the crowd again. 
To the green hamlet iu the peaceful plain. 



SOXXET: OX THE KIVKK KHIXE. 

'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow 
(Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine) 
Streamed the blue light, when on the sparkling 

Rhino 
Wo bounded, and the white waves round the prow 
In murmurs parted. Varying as we go, 
Lo, the woods open, and the rocks retire, 
.Some convent's ancient walls or glistening spire 
'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow. 
Here dark, with furrowed aspect, like despair, 
Frowns the bleak cliff; there on the woodland's side 
The .shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide ; 
While Hope, enchanted w ith the scene .so fair. 
Would wi.sh to linger many a summer's day, 
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. 



iJoauiut Daillic. 

Miss Baillic (17Gi-lS.">l) was the daughter of a Scottish 
minister, and was born in Bothwell, county of Lanark. 
Her latter jcars were spent at Ilampstcad. She wrote 
"Plays of the Passions," of which "De Montforl" is, 
perhaps, the best, and which made for her quite a litera- 
ry reputation in her day. The lines on "Fame" form 
the conclusion of a narrative poem, entitled "Christo- 
pher Columbus." According to Ballantyne, she was at 
one time pronounced "tlic highest genius" of Great 
Hi itain by Sir Walter Scott. Her dramatic aud poetic 
works, with a Life, were published in 1853. 



26G 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



TO A CHILD. 

Whose imp ;irt thou, with dimpled cbeek, 

And curly pate, and merry eye, 
Aud arm and shoulders roiiud, aud sleek, 

Aud soft, aud fair ? thou urchiu sly ! 

What boots it -rrho, ^vith sweet caresses, 
First called thee his, or squire or hind ? — 

Since thou in every wight that passes 
Dost now a friendly playmate find. 

Thy downcast glances, grave, but'cnnuing, 

As fringed eyelids rise aud fall, — 
Thy shyness, swiftly from me running, — 

'Tis infautiuc coquetry all ! 

But far afield thou hast not flown, 

With mocks and threats, half lisped, half spoken, 
I feel thee pulling at my gown, 

Of right good-will thy simple token. 

Aud thou must laugh and wrestle too, 

A mimic warfare with me waging, 
To make, as wily lovers do, 

Thy after kiuduess more engaging. 

The wilding rose, sweet as thyself, 

Aud new-cropped daisies are thy treasure : 

I'd gladly part with worldly pelf. 

To taste again thy youthful pleasure. 

But yet, for all thy merry look. 

Thy fri-sks and wiles, the time is coming 

When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook. 
The weary spell or horn-book thumbing. 

Well, let it bo ! Through weal and woo 
Thou kuow'st not now thy future range; 

Life is a motley, shifting show, 

Aud thou a thing of hope and change. 



FAME. 



Oh, who shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty name, 
While in that sound there is a charm 
The nerve to brace, the heart to warm. 
As, thinking of the mighty dead, 
The young from slothful couch will start, 
Aud vow, with lifted bauds outspread, 
Like them, to act a noble part ? 



Oh, who shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty name. 
When, but for those, our mighty dead, 
All ages past a blank would be, 
Sunk iu obliviou's murky bed, 
A desert bare, a shipless sea i 
They are the distant objects seen, — 
The lofty marks of what hath been. 

Oh, who shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty n.ame, 
When memory of the mighty dead 
To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye 
The brightest rays of cheering shed 
That point to immortality ? 

A twinkling speck, but fixed aud bright, 
To guide us through the dreary night. 
Each hero shines, and lures the soul 
To gain the distant, hajipy goal. . 
For is there one who, musing o'er the grave 
Where lies interred the good, the wise, the brave ; 
Can poorly think beneath the mouldering heap 
That noble being shall forever sleep ? 
" No," saith the generous heart, and proudly swells, 
"Though his cered corse lies here, with God his 
spirit dwells." 



iiljomas UusscU. 



Russell (17C3-178S) was a native of Beaminster, Dor- 
setshire, lie studied for the Church, but died young. 
After his death appeared "Sonnets aud Miscellaneous 
Poems, by the late Thomas Russell, Fellow of New Col- 
lege, Oxford, 1789." Southey spoke of him in exagger- 
ated terms as "the best English sonnet-writer;" and 
Bishop Mant says, "there are no better sonnets in the 
English language than Russell's." Wordsworth also 
praised him. Of the sonnet, "To Valclusa," H. F. Gary, 
in his "Notices of Miscellaneous English Poets," siiys : 
"The whole of this is exquisite. Nothing can be more 
like Milton than the close of it." 



TO VALCLUSA. 

What though, Valelnsa, the fond bard be fled 
That wooed his fair iu thy sequestered bowers. 
Long loved her living, long bemoaned her dead, 
Aud hung her visionary shrine with flowers? 
What though no more he teach thy shades to mourn 
The hapless chances that to love belong. 
As erst, when drooping o'er her turf forloru, 
He charmed wild Echo with his plaintive song? 



SAMUEL ROGEliS. 



267 



Yet still, eiiamorctl of tlio tciiJer tale, 
Pale rassion liaiiiits thy grove's roijiantic gloom, 
Yet still soft music lireatlies in every gale, 
Still uudeoayed tlio fairy-garlamls Mooni, 
Still heavenly iiicenso lills each fragrant vale, 
Still Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's tomb. 



SONNET. 

CouUl then the Babes from you unsheltered cot 

Implore thy passing charity in vain f 

Too thoughtless Youth ! what though thy happier 

lot 
Insnlt their life of poverty and pain ! 
What though their Maker doomed them thus forlorn 
To brook the mockery of the taunting throng, 
Beneath the Oppressor's iron scourge to mourn. 
To mouru, but not to murmur at his wrong! 
Vet when their last late evening shall decline. 
Their evening cheerful, though then- day distressed, 
A Hope perhaps more heavculy-bright than thine, 
A Grace by thee unsought, and unpossessed, 
A Faith more fixed, a Kapture more divine 
Shall gild their passage to eternal Uest. 



Samuel Rogers. 



Rn!;eis (17C:3-18.")5) was tlic son of a banker, resident 
near London. In 1770 lie entered the banking-house as 
a clerk. Once, when a boy, lie resolved to call on Dr. 
Jolinson in Bolt Court, but his courage failed him as lie 
placed his hand on the knocker, and they never met. In 
17JS2 Rogci-s published " The Pleasures of Memory." Its 
success was remarkable. In 17015 his father died, and 
Samuel, inherithig a large fortune, had ample leisure for 
literature. At his residence in St. James's Place, he de- 
lighted to gather round him men eminent in letters and 
art. In 1S:>0 he published a superb edition of his poem, 
" Italy," illustrated with engravings after draw iugs done 
for him by Stotliard, Turner, and other artists. Kogers 
was a careful and fastidious writer. His "Italy" has 
passages of high artistic merit, and will long make his 
place good among British poets. A certiiin (jiiaint sar- 
casm characterized some of his sayings. The late Lord 
Dudley (Ward) had been free in his criticisms on the 
poet, who retaliated with this epigrammatic couplet: 

"W.inl has no heart, Ihcy sny : but I deny it; 
He haa a heart— ho gets bin speeches by It." 

On one occasion Rogers tried to extort from his neigh- 
bor, Sir Philip Francis, a confession that he was the au- 
thor of "Junius ;■' but Fnincis gave a surly rebnlT, and 
Rogers remarked that if he was not JuiiiuK, he was at 
least BrulM. The poet's recipe for long life was, " tcni- 



pcranec, the bath and flesh-brush, and don't fret." He 
thus, in his "Italy," refers to himself: 

"Natnre denied him much. 
Bat gave him at his birth what most he values : 
A ])assi(uiate love for music, eculpture, paiutiog, 
For poetry, the langunge of the gods. 
For all things here, or grand or beuntiful, 
A selling Ban, a lake among the mouuluins. 
The light of an ingenuous countenance. 
And, what transcends them all, a noble action." 

Rogers died in his ninety -third year, his life having 
ranged over four successive generations in the history 
of English literature. 



THi: OLD ANCESTKAL MANSION. 
Fkom "The Fleasches op Memoet." 

Mark yon old mansiou frowning through the trees, 
Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. 
That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade, 
First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed. 
The mouldering gate-way strews the grass-grown 

court. 
Once tho calm scene of mauy a simple sport ; 
When nature pleased, for life itself was now, 
And tho heart promised what tho fancy drew. 

See, through the fractured i)cdinient revealed 
Where nio.ss inlays the rudcly-.seulpturcd shield, 
The martin's old, hereditary nest: 
Long may tho ruin spare its hallowed gnest! 

As jars tho hinge, what sullen echoes call ! 
O haste, unfold the hospitable hall! 
That hall, where ouee, in antiquated state. 
The chair of Justice held tho grave debate. 

Now stained with dews, with cobwebs d;irkly 
hung. 
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; 
When round you ample board, in duo degree, 
Wo sweetened every meal with social glee. 
Tho heart's light laugh i>ursned the circling jest, 
And all was sunshiuc in each little breast. 
'Twas hero wo chased the slipper by tho sound ; 
And turned tho blindfold hero round and round. 
'Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy ring ; 
And fancy Uuttered on her wildest wing. 
Giants and genii chained each wondering car; 
And orphan-sorrows drew tho ready tear. 
Oft with tho babes wo wandered in tho wood. 
Or viewed the forest feats of Robin Hood: 
Oft fancy-led, at niidniglifs fearful hour, 
With startling step avo sealed the lonely tower; 
O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, 
Murdered by ruOian hands, when smiling in its sleep. 

Yo household deities! who.se gnardiau eye 
Marked each pure thought, ero registered on high; 



268 



CYCLOPJSDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Still, still ye walk tbe consecrated ground, 
And breatlje tlie soul of Inspiration round. 

As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, 
Eacli cbair awakes the feelings of a friend. 
The storied arras, source of fond delight. 
With old achievement charms the 'wiklered sight ; 
And still, with heraldry's rich hues impressed, 
Ou the dim window glows the pictured crest. 
The screen unfolds its mauy-colored chart, 
The clock .still poiuts its mor.al to the heart. 
Tliat faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear, 
When soft it spoke a jiromised pleasui'e near : 
And has its sober hand, its simple chime, 
Forgot to trace the feathered feet of time ? 
That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought. 
Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive 

thought ; 
Those muskets cased with venerable rnst ; 
Those once -loved forms, still hreathing through 

their dust, 
Still from the frame, in mould gigantic cast, 
Starting to life — all whi.spcr of the past! 

As through the garden's desert jiaths 1 rove, 
Wliat fond illusions swarm in every grove ! 
How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, 
We watched the emmet to her grainy nest; 
Welcomed the Avild-bee home on weary wing. 
Laden with sweets, the choicest of tbe spring ! 
How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive rhyme, 
The bark now silvered by the touch of time ; 
Soared in the swing, half pleased and half afraid. 
Through sister elms that waved their summer 

shade ; 
Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat. 
To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat! 



HOPES FOR ITALY. 

Frosi " Italy." 

Am I in Italy? Is this the Miucius? 

Ai-e those the distant turrets of Verona? 

And shall I sup where Juliet at the mask 

Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by him ? 

Such questions hourly do I ask myself; 

And not a finger-post by the ro.adside 

"To Mantua" — "To Ferrara" — but excites 

Surprise, and doubt, and self-congratulation. 

.0 Italy, how beautiful thou art! 
Yet could I weep — for thou art lying, alas ! 
Low in the dust; and they who come, .admire thee 
As we admire the beautiful in death. 
Thine \\as a dangerous gift, the gift of beauty. 



Would thou hadst less, or wert as once thou wast. 
Inspiring awe in those who now enslave thee ! 
— But why despair? Twice hast thou lived already, 
Twice shone among the nations of the world, 
As the sun shines anu)ng the lesser lights 
Of heaven; and shalt again. The hour shall come, 
When they who thiuk to bind the ethereal spirit, 
Who, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey. 
Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike again 
If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess 
Their wisdom folly. E'en now the flame 
Bursts forth where ouce it burnt so gloriously. 
And, dying, left a splendor like the day. 
That like the day dift'used itself, and still 
Blesses the earth — the light of genius, virtue. 
Greatness in thought aud act, contempt of death. 
Godlike example. Echoes that have slept 
Since Athens, Lacedsmou, were themselves. 
Since men invoked " By those in Marathon !" 
Awake along the ^Egean ; and the dead. 
They of that sacred shore, have heard the call. 
And through the ranks, from wiug to wing, are seen 
Moving as once they were — instead of rage 
Breathing deliberate valor. 



A^ENICE. 

From " Italy." 

There is a glorious City in the Sea, 

The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets. 

Ebbing aud flowing, and tbe salt sea-weed 

Clings to the marljle of her palaces. 

No track of men, no footsteps to and fro, 

Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea, 

Invisible ; and from the land we went. 

As to a floating city — steering in. 

And gliding up her streets as in a dream. 

So smoothl}-, silently — by many a dome 

Mosque-like, and many a stately portico. 

The statues ranged along an azure sky ; 

By many a pile in more than Eastern splendor, 

Of old the residence of merchant-kings ; 

Tlie fronts of some, though time had shattered them. 

Still glowing with the richest hues of art. 

As tliough the wealth within them had run o'er. 



EOJIAN RELICS. 

From " Italy." 

I am in Rome ! Oft as the morning r.ay 
Visits these eyes, waking, at once I cry, 



SAMUEL liOGESS.—JOHX JUASOX GOOD.— JAMES GBABAME. 



269 



WUcnco this excess of joy f What has befallen mot 
And from within a thiillin<; voice replies, 
Thou art in Komo ! A tlionsand busy thonglils 
Itnsli on my mind, a thousand images; 
And 1 spring up as girt to run a race ! 

Thou art iu Rome ! the city that so long 
Hoigned ahsolnte, the mistress of the world: — 
Tliou art in Kome ! the city where the Gauls, 
Kntrring at sunrise through her open gates, 
And, through her streets silent and desolate, 
Marching to slay, thought they saw gods, not men ; 
Tlie city that l>y temperance, fortitude, 
And love of glory, towered above the clouds, 
Tlicn fell — but, falling, kept the highest seat, 
And in her loneliness, her pomp of woe, 
Where uow she dwells, withdrawn into the wild. 
Still o'er the mind maintains, from ago to age, 
Her empire undiminished. 

There, as though 
Grandeur attracted grandeur, arc beheld 
All things that strike, ennoble — from the dcjillis 
Of Egypt, from the classic fields of Greece, 
Her grove-s, her temples — all things that inspire 
Wonder, delight ! Who would not say the furnis 
Most perfi'ct, most divine, had by consent 
Flocked thither to abide eternally. 
Within those silent chambers where they dwell 
In happy intercourse ? 

And I am there ! 
All I little thought I, when in school 1 sat, 
A .schoid-boy on his bench, at early dawn 
• ilowing with lioman story, I should live 
To tread the Appiau, once au avenue 
Of nionnnients most glorious, palaces, 
Iheir doors sealed up and silent as the night, 
The dwellings of the illustrious dead; — to turn 
Toward Tiber, and, beyon<l the city-gate, 
I'onr out my inipremeditated verse. 
Where on his mule 1 might have met so oft 
Horace himself; — or climb the Palatine, 
Dreaming of old Evandcr and liis guest, — 
Dreaming and lost on that proud eminence, 
I.ongwhile the .seat of Home, hereafter found 
Less than enough (so monstrous was the brood 
Engendered there, so Titan-like) to lodge 
One in his madness;' ami, the summit gained, 
Inscribe my name on some broad aloe-leaf. 
That shoots ami spreads within those very walls 
While Virgil read aloml his tale divine, 
While his voice faltered, and a mother wept 
Tears of delight ! 

• Nero. 



3ol)u iUixson (&001). 



Good (1701-1837) was born at Epping, in Essex, and 
was ail indefatigable worker. He was apprenticed as a 
surgeon, and afterward settled in London as a surgeon 
and apolhceaiy. His "Book of Nature" (1820) was a 

great success. 



THE DAISY. 

Not worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep. 
Need we to prove a God is here ; 

The daisy, fresh from Nature's sleep, 
Tells of his hand in lines as clear. 

For who but He that arched the skies, 
And pours the day-spring's living liood, 

Wondrous alike in all ho tries. 

Could raise the daisy's piirpli; bud. 

Mould its green eup, its wiry stem, 
Its fringed border nicely spin. 

And cut the gold-emboss6d gem, 
That, set iu silver, gleams within. 

And fling it, unrestrained and free. 
O'er hill, and dale, and desert sod. 

That man, where'er ho walks, may see, 
In every step, the stamp of God f 



jJamcs (!?ral)aiiic. 

Graliame (17G.5-1811), a native of Glasgow, exclmngcd 
the profession of a barrister for that of a curate iu the 
Church of England. Amiable, modest, pious, his poe- 
try consists of a drama, " Mary, Queen of Scots ;" "The 
Sabbath," the best of his poems; "The Birds of Scot- 
land;" "British Gcorgics," etc. His style is moulded 
on the model of Cowper. 



SABBATH MORNING. 

Fbom "The Sabbath." 

How still the morning of the hallowed day! 
Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed 
The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song. 
The scythe lies glittering iu the dewy wreath 
Of tedded gra.s8, mingled with fading flowers, 
That yester-raorn bloomed waving in the breeze. 
Sounds the most faint attract the ear, — the hum 
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, 



270 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEHICAN POETRY. 



Tbe distant bleating midway up tbe hill. 
Calmness sits throned on you iinraoving cloud. 
To him who wanders o'er the ui>laud leas, 
The blaclcbird's note comes mellower from the dale, 
And sweeter from tbe sky the gladsome lark 
Warbles his heaven-tuned song ; tbe lulling brook 
Miirnmrs more gently down the deep-worn glen ; 
While from you lowly roof, whose curling smoke 
O'crmounts the mist, is heard, at intervals, 
Tbe voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. 



A WINTER SABBATH WALK. 

FROii "TuE Sabbath." 

How dazzling white the snowy scene ! deep, deep 
The stillness of tlie winter Sabbath-day, — 
Not even a footfall heard! Smooth are the fields, 
Each hollow pathway level with tbe jilain : 
Hid are tbe bushes, save that here and there 
Are seen tbe topmost shoots of brier or broom. 
High-ridged, the wbirl(5d drift has almost reached 
Tbe powdered key-stone of tbe church-yard porch. 
Mute hangs the hooded bell ; the tombs lie buried ; 
No step approaches to the house of prayer. 

Tbe fliclcering fall is o'er : tbe clouds disperse. 
And show the sun hung o'er tbe welkin's verge. 
Shooting a bright bnt ineflectual beam 
On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time 
To visit Nature in her grand attire : 
Though perilous the mountainous ascent, 
A noble recompense tbe danger brings. 
How beautiful the plain stretched far below, 
Unvaried though it be, save by you stream 
With azure windings, or the leafless wood I 
But what the beauty of the plain, compared 
To that sublimity which reigns enthroned. 
Holding joint rule with solitude divine, 
Among yon rocky fells that bid defiance 
To steps the most adventurously bold ? 
There silence dwells profound ; or, if the cry 
Of high-poised eagle break at times the calm, 
Tlie mantled echoes no rcsjiouse return. 

But let me now explore the deep-sunk dell : 
No footprint, save the covey's or the flock's, 
Is seen along tbe rill, where marshy springs 
Still rear tbe grassy blade of vivid green. 
Beware, ye shepherds, of these treacherous haunts, 
Nor linger there too long ! Tbe wintry day 
Soon closes ; ami full oft a heavier fall, 
Heaped by tbe blast, fills up the sheltered glen. 
While, gurgling deep below, the buried rill 
Mines for itself a snow-coved way. Oh, then. 



Your helpless charge drive from the tempting spot, 
And keep them on the bleak hill's stormy side. 
Where night-winds sweep the gathering drift away. 
So tbe great Shepherd leads tbe heavenly flock 
From faithless pleasures full into tbe storms 
Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast, 
Until at length the vernal sun looks forth, 
Bedimmed with showers : then to the pastures green 
He brings them, where the quiet waters glide. 
The streams of life, tbe Siloab of tbe soul. 



A PRESENT DEITY. 

From "The Sabbatu." 

O Nature ! all thy seasons please the eye 
Of him who sees a present Deity in all. 
It is his presence that diffuses charms 
Unspeakable o'er mountain, wood, and stream. 
To think that He who bears the licavenly choirs 
Hearkens complacent to the woodland song ; 
To think that He who rolls yon solar sphere 
Uplifts tbe warbling songster to the sky; 
To mark his presence in the mighty bow 
That spans the clouds as in the tints minute 
Of tiniest flower ; to hear his awful voice 
In thunder speak, and whisper in tbe gale ; 
To know and feel his care for all that lives, — 
'Tis this that makes the barren waste appear 
A fruitful field, each grove a paradise. 

Yes ! place me 'mid far-stretching woodless wilds, 
Where no sweet song is heard ; tbe heath-bell there 
Would please ray weary sight, and tell of thee ! 
There would my gratefully uplifted eye 
Survey tbe heavenly vault by day, by night. 
When glows the firmament from pole to pole ; 
There would my overflowing heart exclaim, 
"The heavens declare the glory of the Lord, 
The firmament shows forth his handiwork !" 



(Harolina, Baroness Nairnc. 

Carolina Olipbant, afterward Baroness Nuirne (1766- 
1845), was born in tlie county of Pei-tli, Scotland, and 
wrote several lyrical pieces, still populiir. She was cel- 
ebrated for ber beauty, talents, and estimable character. 
Sbe married ber second -cousin, Major Nairne, who, in 
18:Ji, was restored to his rank in the peerage, ami became 
Lord Nairne. A collection of ber poems, edited by Dr. 
Charles Rogers, with a memoir, was published in 1S68. 
There is a shorter version of "Tbe Land o' tbe Leal." 



CAUOLINA, BARONESS NAIKXE.—EOBEliT BLOOMFIELD. 



271 



THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 

I'm woariii' :nv:i'. .Inliii, 

Like .sii:i\v-\viv:itlis in tliaw, John ; 

I'm wcariu' awa' 

To tbe lauii o' tlie leal. 
There's nao sorrow there, John ; 
There's neither cauld nor care, John ; 
The (lay is aye fair 

I' the land o' the leal. 

Our honnio bairn's there, John ; 
She was baith guile and fair, John ; 
And oh, wo grudged her sair 

To the land o' the loal. 
But sorrow's scl' wears past, John, 
And joy's a-corain' fast, John, 
The joy that's aye to last 

I' the land o' the leal. 

Sao dear's that joy was bought, John, 
Sao free the battle fought, John, 
That sinfu' man e'er brought 

To tbe land o' the leal. 
O dry your glistening e'e, John ! 
My soul langs to be free, John, 
And angels beckon nio 

To tho laud o' the kal. 

O baud ye leal and true. .John ; 
Your day it's weariu' through, John, 
And I'll welcome you 

To the land o' tho leal. 
Now faro yo weel, my aiu John! 
This warld's cares are vain, John ; 
We'll meet, and we'll be fain, 

r tho land o' the leal. 



WOULD YOU I!K YOUNG AG.UN f 

Am: "Aiken Aroox." 

Would you be young again T 

So would not I ! 
One tear to memory given, 

Ouward I'd hie. 
Life's dark flood forded o'er, 
All but at rest on shore. 
Say, would yon plunge once more, 

Willi liouie so nigh f 

If you might, would you now 
Ketrace your way f 



Wandir through stormy wilds, 

Faint and astray 1 
Night's gloomy watches fled, 
Morning all beaming red, 
Hope's smiles around us shed, 

Heavenward — away ! 

Where, then, are those dear ones. 
Our joy and delight ? 

Dear aud more dear, though now 
Hidden from sight ! 

Where they rejoice to be, 

There is tho land for mo : 

Fly, time, fly speedily! 
Come, life and light ! 



Uobcrt Cloomficlb. 

Bloomtleld (1766-1823), an English pastoral poet, was 
a native of Honington, in Suffolk. He was tbe youngest 
son of a tailor, who died beforo Robert was a year old. 
At the age of eleven the hid was employed as a farmer's 
boy, and next as a shoemaker in London. Wliile work- 
ing with others in a garret, he composed mentally, ar- 
ranged and re -arranged, his poem of "The Farmer's 
Boy," comprising some sixteen hundred lines, witliout 
committing a line to paper. Having procured paper, 
he "had nothing to do," be said, "but to write it down." 
It was printed in the year 1800, under the patronage of 
C'apcl Loirt, aud 26,000 copies were sold in three years. 
Through imprudent liberality to poor relations, and an 
unfortunate adventure in the book business, tlie poet's 
hist days were darkened by poverty, ill-health, and dis- 
tress. He left a widow aud four children. In all that 
he wrote there is an artless simplicity, an exquisite sen- 
sibility to the beautiful, and an unerring rectitude of 
sentiment, worthy of all praise. In " Tlie Soldier's 
Home," a trite subject is dignified by tlie touching 
fidelity to nature in every part. It has all tlio neatness, 
truthfulness in detail, and perfect simplicity of a chef- 
d'oeuvre by Teniers. 



THE SOLDIER'S HOME. 

My untried Muse shall no high toun assume, 
Nor strut in arms — farewell my cap and jdunie ! 
Brief be my verse, a task within my power; 
I tell my feelings in one happy hour : 
But what an hour was that ! when from tho main 
I reached this lovely valley once again ! 
A glorious harvest filled my eager sight. 
Half shocked, half waving in a se.i of light : 
Ou that poor cottage roof where I was born. 
The suu looked down as in life's early moru. 
I gazed around, but not a soul appeared; 
I listened ou the threshold, nothing heard; 



272 



CrCLOPJiDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



I called my fatber thrice, but no oue came ; 
It was uot fear or grief that shook my frame, 
But au o'erpoweriug sense of peace aud home, 
Of toils gone by, perhaps of joys to come. 
The door invitingly stood o])eii wide ; 
I shooli my dust, aud set my staff aside. 

How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air, 
And take possession of my father's chair ! 
Beneath my elbow, on the solid fiarae, 
Appeared the rongli initials of ray name, 
Cnt forty years before! Tlie same old clock 
Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock 
I never can forget. A short breeze sprung, 
And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue. 
Caught the old dangling almanacs behind, 
Aud up they flew like banners in the wind ; 
Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went. 
And told of tweuty years that I had spent 
Far from my uative land. That instant came 
A robin on the threshold ; though so tame, 
At first he looked distrustful, almost shy. 
And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye. 
And seemed to say — past friendship to renew — 
"Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you f ' 
Through the room ranged the imprisoned humble- 
bee. 
And boomed, and bounced, and struggled to be free ; 
Dashing against the panes with sullen roar. 
That threw their diamond sunlight on the floor; 
That floor, clean sanded, where my fancy strayed. 
O'er undnlating waves the broom had made ; 
Eemiuding me of those of hideous forms 
That met ns as wo jiassed the Cape of Storms, 
Where high aud loud they break, and peace comes 

never ; 
They roll aud foam, and roll and foam forever. 
But here was peace, that peace which home can 
yield ; 
The grasshopper, the partridge in the field. 
And ticking clock, were all at once become 
The substitute for clarion, fife, aud drum. 
While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still, 
On beds of moss that spread the window-sill, 
I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen 
Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green, 
And guessed some infant hand had placed it there, 
And prized its hue so exquisite, so rare. 
Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose; 
My heart felt everything but calm repose : 
I conld not reckon nunutes, hours, nor years, 
But rose at once — rose, and burst into tears ; 
Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again, 
And thought upon the past with shame aud pain. 



I raved at war and all its horrid cost. 
And glory's quagmire, where the bravo are lost. 
On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused. 
And cursed the murdering weapons I had used. 

Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard. 
One bespoke age, and oue a child's appeared. 
In stepped my father with convulsive start, 
And in an instant clasped ilie to his heart. 
Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid ; 
And stooping to the child, the old man said: 
" Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again : 
This is your uncle Charles, come home from Spain.'' 
The child approached, and with her fingers light 
Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight. 
But wliy thus spin my tale — thus tedious be ? 
Happy old soldier! what's the world to mc ? 



Hicljarb aifrc^ lUillikcn. 

Milliken (1767-1815) was a native of the county of 
Cork, Ireland. He seems to have been the originator 
of a humorous vein of verse, afterward cultivated witli 
success liy Mahony and other Irish poets. Tliere are 
several versions of the following comical extravaganza. 



THE GROVES OF BLAEXEY. 

The groves of Blarney, they look so charming, 

Down by the purling of sweet silent brooks ; 
Being banked with posies that spontaneous grow 
there, 

Planted in order in the rocky nooks. 
'Tis there's the daisy, and the sweet carnation. 

The blooming pink, and the rose so fair ; 
The daffadowndilly, likewise the lily, — 

All flowers that scent the sweet, open air! 

'Tis Lady Jcffers owns this plantation, 

Like Alexander, or like Helen fair ; 
There's no commander in all the nation 

For emulation can with her compare. 
Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder 

Conld ever plunder her place of strength ; 
But Oliver Cromwell, he did her pomniel. 

And made a breach in her battlement. 

There's gravel-walks there for speculation 
And conversation in sweet solitude : 

'Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or 
The gentle plover iu the afternoon. 

And if a lady should be so engaging 

As to walk alone in those shady bowers, 



mCHARD ALFRED illLLIKEX.—JOHN BOOKBAM FEERE. 



273 



'Tis tbcro licr courtier ho may transport her 
Into some fort, or all uinlergnmiid. 

For 'tis there's a cave where no daylight enters, 

Uut bats and badgers are forever bred ; 
lieing mossed by natui-', that makes it sweeter, 

Tlian a eoach-and-six, or a feather-bed. 
'Tis tliore the lake is, well stored with perches, 

And comely eels in the verdant mud; 
Resides the leeches and groves of beeches. 

Standing in order for to guard the flood ! 

'Tis there's the kitchen hangs many a llitcli in, 

With the maids a-stitcliing upon the stair; 
The bread and biske', the beer and whiskey. 

Would make you frisky if you were there. 
Tis there you'd sco Peg Murphy's daughter 

A-washing praties foreneut the door, 
With IJiiger C'leary and Father lloaly. 

All blood-relations to my Lord Donoughniore. 

I'here's statues gracing this noble place in, — 

All heathen gods and nymphs so fair ; 
Ijiild Xi'ptune, riutareli, and Xieodemus, 

All standing naked in the open air. 
Tliere is a boat on the lake to float on, 

And lots of beauties which I can't entwine; 
Uut were I a preacher or a classic teacher. 

In every feature I'd make 'cm shine. 

There is a stone there that whoever ki.sses. 

Oh, ho never misses to grow eloquent ; 
'Tis ho may clamber to a lady's chamber. 

Or become a member of Parliament : 
A clever spouter he'll soon turn out, or 

.\n out-and-outer, to bo let alone : 
I'ou't hope to hinder him, or to bewilder liini, 

Sure he's a pilgrim from the Blarney Stone! 
Sii now to liuisU this brave nanatiou 

Which my poor genius could not entwine : 
lint were I Homer or N'l'bnchadnezzar, 

'Tis in every feature I would make it shine. 



JJoljn tjoolxljain Jrcvc. 

Frcrc (17C5H846) was a native of Norfolk, lie entered 
the diplomatic ecrviec of Enjjland, and was minister to 
Spain in ISOS. At one time be contributed to the Eto- 
nian, with .Moultrie and Praed. He is commended by 
Scott .ind Bvron. In isn Mr. Murray published a small 
poetical volume, under the eccentric title of "Prospec- 
tus and Specimen of an Intended National Work by Wil- 
liam and Robert Whistlecrnft, of Stowraarket, in Suffolk, 
IS 



Harness and Collar Makers : intended to comprise the 
most interesting particulai-s rclatini; to King Arthur and 
his Round Table." For many years Mr. Frere resided in 
Malta, in the enjoyment of a handsome pension for dip- 
lomatic services; and in Malta he died, on the 7th of 
January, 18i6, aged seventy-seven. In 1871 his works in 
prose and verse, and a memoir by his nephews, were 
published in two volumes. 



THE PROEM. 

I've often wished that I eonld write a book, 
Such as all English people might peruse: 

I never should regret the pains it took ; 

That's ju.st the sort of fame that I should choose. 

To sail about the world like Captain Cook, 
I'd sling a cot up for my favorite Muse ; 

And we'd take verses out to Deniarara, 

To New South Wales, and up to Niagara. 

Poets consume excisable commodities: 

They raise the nation's spirit when victorious ; 

They drive an export trade in whims and oddities, 
Slaking our commerce and revenue glorious. 

As an industrious and painstaking body 'lis 
That poets should bo reckoned meritorious ; 

And therefore I submissively propose 

To erect one board for verse, and one for jirose. 

Princes profceting sciences and art 

I've often seen, in copper-plate and print ; 

I never saw them elsewhere, for my part. 

And therefore I conclude there's nothing. in't : 

But everybody knows the Regent's heart 

(I trust he won't reject a well-meant hint) — 

Each board to have twelve members, with a seat 

To bring them in per anu. five hundred neat. 

From princes I descend to tho nobility: 

In former times all persons of high stations. 

Lords, baronets, and persons of gentility. 
Paid twenty guineas for the dedications. 

This practice was attended with utility : 
The patrons lived to future generations. 

The poets lived by their industrious earning, — 

So men alive and dead could live by learning. 

Then twenty guineas was a little fortune; 

Now we must starve unless the times should 
mend : 
Our poets nowadays are deemed importune 

If their addresses are diffusely penned. 
Most fashionable authors nuike a short one 

To their own wife, or child, or private friend, 



274 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISB JXD AMERICAN POETUT. 



To show their iadepeudence, I suppose ; 
And that may do for gentlemeu like those. 

Lastly, the common people I beseech : 

Dear people, if you think my verses clever, 

Preserve with care your noble parts of speech, 
And take it as a maxim to endeavor 

To talk as your good mothers used to teach. 
And then these lines of mine may last forever; 

And don't confound the language of the nation 

With long-tailed words in osity and ation. 

I think that poets — whether Whig or Tory — 
Whctlier tliey go to meeting or to cluirch — 

Slionld study to promote their country's glory 
WilU patriotic, diligent research. 

That cliildren yet unborn may learu the story. 
With grammars, dictionaries, canes, and birch. 

It stands to reason — this was Homer's plan ; 

And we must do — like him — the best we can. 

JIadoc, and Marmion, and many more, 

Are out in print, and most of them are sold : 

Perhaps togetlier tliey may make a score. 
Ricliard the First has had his story told ; 

But llicro were lords and princes long before 
That had hehaved themselves like warriors bold : 

Among the rest there was the great King Artliur — 

What hero's fame was ever carried farther ? 

King Arthur, and the Knights of his Round Table, 
Were reckoned the best king, and bra\est lords. 

Of all that flourished since the tower of Bal)el, 
At least of all that history records ; 

Therefore, I shall endeavor, if I'm able, 

To paint their famous actions by my words. 

Heroes exert themselves in hopes of fame ; 

And, having such a strong decisive claim. 

It grieves me much that names tliat were re- 
spected 

In former ages — persons of such mark, 
And countrymen of ours — should lie neglected. 

Just like old portraits lumbering in the dark. 
An error such as this should be corrected ; 

And if my Muse cau strike a single spark, 
Why, then (as poets say), I'll string my lyre; 
And then I'll liglit a great poetic tire : 

I'll air them all, and rub down the Round Table, 
And wash the canvas clean, and scour the frames. 

And put a coat of varuish on the fable. 

And try to puzzle out the dates and names ; 



Then (as I said before) I'll heavo my cable, 

And take a pilot, and drop dowu the Thames : 
— These first eleven stanzas make a Proem, 
Aud now I must sit down and write my poem. 



WHISTLECEAFT AND MURRAY. 
From Canto III. 

I've a proposal here from Mr. Murray. 

He offers handsomely — the money down. 
My dear, you might recover from your flurry 

In a nice airy lodging out of town. 
At Croydon, Epsom — anywhere iu Surrey: 

If every stanza brings us in a crown, 
I think that I might venture to bespeak 
A bedroom and front parlor for next week. 

Tell me, my dear Thalia, what yon think. 

Your nerves have undergone a sudden shock ; 
Your poor dear spirits have begun to sink : 

On Banstead Downs you'd muster a new stock ; 
And I'd be sure to keep away from drink. 

And always go to bed by twelve o'clock. 
We'll travel down there in the morning stages ; 
Our verses shall go down to distant ages. 

And here in town we'll breakfast on hot rolls. 
And you shall have a better shawl to wear : 

The.se pantaloons of mine are chafed iu holes ; 
I5y Monday next I'll conipa.ss a new pair. 

Come now, fling up the cinders, fetch the coals. 
And take away the things yon hung to air ; 

Set out the tea-things, and bid Phaibe bring 

The kettle up. Arms^and the Monks I sing. 



jJoljn iiiobin. 



Tobin (1770-1804) was a native of Salisbury, England, 
and was edncateil for the linv. " He passed many years," 
says Mrs. Inchbald, "in tlie anxious labor of writing 
plays, which were rejected by the managers ; and no 
sooner had they accepted ' Tbe Honey -moon ' than he 
died, and he never enjoyed the recompense of seeing it 
performed." He attempted to unite literary composi- 
tion with a Aiitliful attention to legal stiulies. He over- 
worked himself, and fell a victim to a pulmonary com- 
plaint. In the hope of relieving it, he had embarked for. 
the West Indies. "The Honey-moon" is a romantic 
drama, chiefly in blank verse, and still keeps honest pos- 
session of the stage. It shows the true poetical faculty. 
The plot resembles that of " The Taming of the Shrew." 
The Duke of Aranza conducts his bride to a cottage in 
the country, pretending that he is a peasant, and that he 



JOHX TOBIX.— GEORGE CAXyiSG. 



275 



tins obtained lier hand by deception. Tlic proud Jiili- 
iinu, lifter a strugj^le, submits; and the duJce, liavinij; ac- 
eoniplislied Ills object, asserts his true raul<, and places 
lier in his palace. 

"Tills tnilli to niniiifest : a gentle wife 
la still the slcvlhig comfort of man's life; 
To ftiols a toi-mciit, Imt a Instiiiir l)oon 
To those who — wisely keep their hoiiey-moon." 



THE DUKE AU.VXZA TO JULI.VNA. 
From "The Honev-moon." 

fluke. I'll liavo no olittering gewgaws stnck about 
.vou, 
To .stivtcli tlic gaping eyes of idiot wonder, 
And make men stale ii|>on a piece of earth 
A.s on tlio star-wronglit lirnianient ; no feathers 
'lo wave as streaineis to your vanity ; 
\or oninliions silk, that, with its ntstliiig sound, 
Makes proud the flesh that bears it. She's adorned 
.Vniply tliat iu her hushaud's eye looks lovely — . 
Tlie truest mirror that au honest wife 
Can see lier beauty in ! 

•Juliana. I shall observe, sir. 

Unkc. I should like to see you in the dress 
I last presented yon. 

JiiUana. The blue one, sir ? 

Diikc. Xo, love, the white. Thus modestly attired, 
A half-blown rose stnck in tliy braided hair, — 
Willi no more diamonds than tlio.so eyes are iiuulo of, 
No deeper rubies than compose thy lips. 
Nor pearls more precious than inhabit them, — 
With the pure red and white which that same hand 
Wliieh blends the rainbow mingles in thy cheeks, — 
This well-|iroportioned form (tliiuk not I Hatter) 
In graceful motion to harinonions sounds, 
.\iid thy free tresses dancing in the wind, — 
Thon'lt fix as much ob.servauce as chaste dames 
Can meet without a blush. 



(C"coviU' ^auuiinn. 



Canning (1770-1>^27), a native of London, was educated 
at Eton and Oxford, lie entered Parliament in 17!):i, 
and became distinvcuishcd as a statesman and orator. In 
17117, with some aisociates. he started a pajier, styled T/k 
Aiili-.facobin, the jbject of which was to attack tiie writ- 
ers of the day whose sympathies were with the French 
Kcvolution. (iill'ord was the editor. The contributions 
of Canning coii'^ist of parodies on Southey and Darwin. 
In a satire entitled "New Morality" occur the follow- 
ing oftcn-quotud lines : 

'^Glve mc the avowed, the erect, the manly foe; 
Bold I call meet, perhaps may laro, the blow ; 



But of all plagues, good Heaven, thy wrath can send. 
Save, save, oh, save me from the candid friend !" 

The poetry of T/ie Anti-.Tneobiii, collected and published 
in a separate form, reached a sixth edition. One of the 
writers was John Qookham Frcre, who showed an ele- 
gant and seliolarly wit in various poetical productions. 
Southey had written the foUowini; luseriplion for the 
Apartment in Chepstow Castle, where Uenry Marten, 
the regicide, was imprisoned thirty years : 

INSCKIPTION. 

"For lldrty years secluded from mankind 
Here Marten lingered. Often have these walls 
Echoed his footsteps, as, with even tread, 
He i)aced around his prison. Not to him 
Did Nature's fair varieties exist : 
He never saw the sun's delightful beams, 
Save when through yon higli bars he poured a sad 
And broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crime? 
He had rebelled against the king, and sat 
In judgment on him ; for his ardent mind 
Shaped g;)odliest plans of happiness on earth, 
And peace, and liberty. Wild dreams! but such 
As Plato loved ; such as with holy zeal 
Our Milton worshipped. Blessed hopes I awhile 
From man withheld, even to the latter days, 
When Christ shall come, and all things be fulUlled ! 

The above was thus ivittily parodied. Canning, Frere, 
and George Ellis each having a baud iu the burlesque: 

INSCRIPTION FOB THE DOOR OF THE CELL IN 
NEWGATE, 

WlIKl'.K MttS. BKOWNaioG, TIIE 'PRENTIOK-OinK, WAS OONriNHH 
rilKVlOCS TO III^U EXECUTION, 

"For one long term, or e'er her trial came. 
Here Browurigg lingered. Often have these cells 
Echoed her blasphemies, as, with shrill voice. 
She screamed for fieali geneva. Not to her 
Did the blithe lields of Tothill, or thy street, 
St. Giles, its fair varieties expand. 
Till at the last, in slow-drawn e;irt, she went 
To execution. Dost thou ask her crime? 
She whipped two female 'prentices to death, 
And hid them in the coal-hole; for her mind 
Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes I 
Such as Lycurgiis tanght, when at the shrine 
Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog 
The little Spartans: such as cret chastised 
Our Milton, when at college. For this act 
Did Ihowiiri^g swing. Harsh I;iws ! But time shall come 
When France shall reign, uud laws be all repealed !" 



THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND TIIE 
KNIFE-GRINDEK. 

.\ P.MtODY OX SOUTIim-S LINES, ENflTLED "TIIE WlLiOW.'' 
I'ltlEXD OF Hl'.MANITY. 

Needy knife-grinder, whither are you going ? 
Koiigh is the road, your wheel is out of order ; 
lileak blows the blast ; your hat has got a hole iii't. 
So have your breeches! 



276 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Weaiy knife-griuder ! little think the proud ones 
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- 
-road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, "Knives 
and 

Scissors to grind, O !" 

Toll mc, knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives. 
Did some rich man tyrannically use yon ? 
Was it the s(iuirc ? or parson of the parish ? 
Or the attorney? 

Was it the squire for killing of his game ? or 
Covetous parson for his tithes distraining? 
Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little 
All in a lawsuit ? 

(Have you not read the " Rights of Man," by Tom 

Paine ?) 
Drops of compassion tremble on iny eyelids, 
Keady to fall as soon as you have told your 
Pitiful story. 

KNIFE-OniXDER. 

story! God bless yon! I have none to tell, sir; 
Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, 
Tliis jioor old hat and breeches, as you see, were 
Torn in a scuffle. 

Con.stables came up for to take me into 
Custody; they took me before the justice; 
Justice Oldmixou put me in the parish- 

-stocks for a Tagraut. 

I should 1)0 glad to drink your honor's health in 
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ; 
But for my part, I never love to meddle 
With politics, .sir. 

FRIEND OF IIUM.VXITY. 

I give thee sixpence ! I will see thee damned first — 
Wretch ! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to 

vengeance — 
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded. 

Spiritless outcast ! 
[Kicks llie Iciiife-grinder, overturns liis iclieel, nnd 
exit in a trtinxport of repnWican cnlhnsiasm and 
universal pliihintluvpij.'] 



Yet, mercifnl in chastening, gave thee scope 
For mild redeeming virtues — faith and hojie. 
Meek resignation, pious charity; 
And, since this world was not the world for thee, 
Far from thy path removed, with partial care. 
Strife, glory, gain, and pleasure's flowery snare. 
Bade earth's temptations pass thee harmless by, 
And fixed on heaven thine nureverted eye ! 
Oh, marked from birth, and nurtured for the skies ! 
In youth with more than learning's wisdom wise ! 
As sainted martyrs, patient to endure ! 
Simple as unweaned infancy, and pure — 
Pure from all stain (save that of iuunan clay. 
Which Christ's atoning blood hath washed away)! 
By mortal sufferings now no more oppressed, 
Mount, sinless spirit, to thy destined rest ! 
Wliile I — reversed our nature's kindlier doom — 
Pour forth a father's sorrows on thy tomb. 



ON THE DEATH OF HIS ELDEST SON. 

Though short thy space, God's unimpeached decrees, 
Whicli made that shortened span one long disease ; 



SONG BY ROGERO. 

Scene from " The Rovers." 

This W.1S levelled at Schiller's "Robbers," .inrl Gnetlic's 
"Stella." It is iiurorliiced by a soliloquy, supposed to be spo- 
ken by Rogero, a student wbo has been iniinnied eleven years 
in "a subterraneous vault in the Abbey of Quedliuburgh." 

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view 
This dungeon that Pm rotting in, 
I think of those compauion.s true 
Who studied with me at the U- 

-niversity of Gottiugen — 
-niversity of Gottiugen. 
IJVecps, and pulls out a blue lcerclii<]f, willi irhirh 
he wipes his eyes; gaziny tvudcrhj at il, he pro- 
ceeds — 

Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue, 

Which once my love sat knotting in ! — 
Alas ! Matilda then was true ! — 
At least I thought so at the U- 

-niversity of Gottiugen — 
-niversity of Gottiugen. 
[J/ //((■ repetition of this line, Rogero clanks his 
cliains in cadeiicc.~\ 

Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew, 

Her neat post-wagon trotting in ! 
Ye bore Matilda from my view ; 
Forlorn I languished at the U- 

-uiversity of Gottingen — 
■niversity of Gottingen. 



JAMES HOGG. 



Tbis fadeil form ! this pallid Imc ! 

Tliis blood my veins is clotting iu ! 
My yi'uis :iio many — tlioy were few 
WIicu first I entered at tlic V- 

-nivcrsity of Gottingen — 
-nivcrsity of Gottiugou. 

There tirst for thee my passion grew, 

Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingcn! 
Thou wast the daughter of uiy Tn- 
-tiir, Law Professor at the U- 

-uiversity of Gottingen — 
-uiversity of Gottingen. 

Sun, nu)on, and thou, vain world, adieu, 

That kings and priests are plotting in ! 
Here doomed to starve on water-gru- 
-cl, never shall I see the U- 

-niversity of Gottingen — 
-nivcrsity of Gottingen. 
[During the lant staii:a, lioijciu drnthcs hin head 
rcpcatedbj ayaiint the iralln of hh j)nson, and 
finally so hard as to j)roduce a visible eoiitiision. 
lie then throirs himself on the floor in an agon;/. 
The eurtuin drops, the music euniinuintj to play. '\ 



Barnes tjogg. 



One of the best lyric poets of Scotland, Ho>™ (1770- 
183.1), often called the '• Ettrick Shcplierd," wus born in 
a cottage at Ettrick Hall, and was the son of a shepherd. 
His mother had good humor and a rich store of song. 
He had little education, but showed great aptitude in 
imitatini: the old strains which he got fiom his mother. 
He had wilhid a t-i-'^te for music. In 1801 he published a 
small volume of poems, and in 1807 another. He helped 
Scott in collecting old ballads for the "Border Min- 
strelsy." It was not till 1813 that he established his 
reputation by "The Queen's Wake," largely made up 
of Scottish sonL;s and short romantic ballads. Among 
them that of "Bonny Kilmeny" is one of the most 
charming and poetical of fairy tales. Hogg wrote sev- 
eral novels. His worldly schemes were seldom success- 
ful, and he failed as a sheep-farmer. He had a passion 
for Held sport)*. lie was generous, kind-hearted, and 
charitable far beyond his means, and his death was deep- 
ly mourned In the vale of Ettrick, where he had lived 
on sevi'Uly acres of moorland, presented to him by the 
Duchess of Buccleuch. He breathed his last with the 
enlmness and freedom from pain that he might have ex- 
perienced in fulling asleep in his gray plaid on the hill- 
side. Hogg's prose is very unequal. He had no skill 
in arranging incidents or delineating ehaiaeter. He Is 
often coarse and extravagant ; yet some of his stories 
have much of the literal truth aud happy, minute paint- 
ing of Defoe. 



liOXXY KILMENY. 
Frou " TnE Queen's AVake." 

Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen ; 

But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, 

Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, 

For Kilmeny Avaa pure as pure could be. 

It was only to hear the yorlin sing. 

And pu' the cress-flower round the spring — 

The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye. 

And the nut that huug frae the hazel-tree; 

For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. 

But laiig uuiy her miuny look o'er the wa', 

Aud lang may she seek in tlie green-wood shaw; 

Lang the laird of Duueira blame, 

And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame. 

When mauy a day had como and lied. 
When grief grew calm, and hope was dead. 
When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung. 
When the bedesmau had prayed, and the dead-bell 

rung, 
Late, late in a gloamiu', when all was still, 
When the fringe was red ou the westliu hill, 
The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane, 
The reek o' the cot hung over the plain — 
Like a little wee cloud iu the world its lane, 
When the ingle lowed with an eyrie leme, — 
Late, late in the gloamiu' Kilmeny came hame ! 

" Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have yon been ? 
Lang hae wo sought baith holt and den — 
By lin, by ford, and green-wood tree ; 
Yet you are balesomo and fair to see. 
Wliere got you that jonp o' the lily sheen f 
Tliat bonny snood of the birk sao green f 
And these roses, the fairest tliat ever were seen ? 
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been f" 

Kilmeny looked np with a lovely grace, 
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face ; 
As still was her look, and as still was her e'o 
As the stilluess that lay ou the emerant lea, 
Or the mist tliat sleeps on a waveless sea. 
For Kilmeny had bceu sho knew not where. 
And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare; 
Kilmeny had been where tlu cock never crew. 
Where the rain never ftdl,aml tlie wind never blew; 
But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung. 
And the airs of heaven played round her tongue, 
When she spake of the lovely forms sho had scou, 
Aud a laud where siii had never been — 



278 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH JJfD AMERICAN FOETRT. 



A land of love, and a land of light, 
Withouten sun, or moon, or nigbt ; 
Where the river swa'd a living stream. 
And the light a pure celestial beam : 
The land of vision it would seem, 
A still, an everlasting dreara. 

In yon green-wood there is a walk. 
And in that walk there is a wene. 

And in that wene there is a maike. 
That neither has flesh, nor blood, nor bane ; 
And down in yon greeu-wood he walks his lane. 

In that green wene, Kilmeny lay. 
Her bosom happed wi' the flowerets gay; 
But the air was soft, and the silence deep. 
And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep ; 
She kenned nac nniir, nor opened her e'e. 
Till waked by the hymns of a far countrj-e. 

She wakened on a couch of the silk sae slim, 
All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim ; 
And lovely beings around were rife, 
AVho erst had travelled mortal life ; 
And aye they smiled, and 'gau to speer : 
"What spirit has brought this mortal here?" 

"Lang have I journeyed the world wide," 

A meek and reverend fere replied : 

"Baith night and day I have watched the fair 

Eident a thousand years and mair. 

Yes, I have watched o'er ilk degree, 

Wherever blooms feraeuitye ; 

But sinless virgin, free of stain. 

In mind and body, fand I nane. 

Never, since the banquet of time. 

Found I a virgin in her prime. 

Till late this bonnj' maiden I saw. 

As spotless as the morning snaw. 

Full twenty years she has lived as free 

As the spirits that sojourn in this countrye. 

I have brought her away frae the snares of men, 

That sin or death she may never ken." 

They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair ; 
They kissed her cheek, and they kemed her hair ; 
And round came many a blooming fere. 
Saying, " Bonny Kilmeny, ye're -welcome here ; 
Women are freed of the littand scorn ; 
Oh, blessed be the day Kilmeny was born ! 
Now shall the land of the spirits see. 
Now shall it ken what a woman may be ! 
Many a lang year in sorrow and pain. 
Many a lang year through the worhl we've gane, 



Commissioned to watch fair womankind. 

For it's they who umice the immortal mind. 

We have watched their steps as the dawning shone. 

And deep in the green-wood walks alone ; 

By lily bower and silken bed 

The viewless tears have o'er them shed ; 

Have soothed their ardent minds to sleep. 

Or left the couch of love to weep. 

Wehaveseen! wehaveseen! but the time must come. 

And the angels will weep at the daj- of doom. 

'• Oh, would the fairest of mortal kind 
Aye keep the holy truths in mind. 
That kindred spirits their motions see. 
Who watch their ways with anxious e'e. 
And grieve for the guilt of hnmanitye ! 
Oh, sweet to Heaven the maiden's prayer, 
And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair ! 
And dear to Heaven the words of truth 
And the praise of virtue frae beauty's mouth! 
And dear to the viewless forms of air. 
The minds that kythe as the body fair! 

" Oh, bonny Kilmeny ! free frae stain. 
If ever you seek the world again, — 
That world of sin, of sorrow and fear, — 
Oh, tell of the joys that are waiting here ; 
And tell of the joys yon shall shortly see ; 
Of the times that are now, and the times tliat 
shall be." 

They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away. 

And she walked in the light of a sunless day ; 

The sky was a dome of crystal bright. 

The fountain of vision, and fountain of light ; 

The emerald fields were of dazzling glow. 

And the flowers of everlasting blow. 

Then deep in the stream her body they laid. 

That her youth and beauty never might fade ; 

And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie 

In the stream of life that wandered by. 

And she heard a song — she lieard it sung, 

She kenned not where ; but sae sweetly it rung, 

It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn — 

" Oh, blessed be the day Kilmeny was born! 

Now shall the laud of the spiiits see. 

Now shall it ken what a woman may be! 

The sun that shines on the world sae bright, 

A borrowed gleid frae the fountain of light ; 

And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun. 

Like a gonden bow, or a beandess sun, 

Shall wear away, and be seen nao mair ; 

And the angels shall miss them, travelling the air 



JAMES HOGG. 



279 



But laug, l.ing after liaith night and clay, 
When llio siui ami the woilil liave diod away, 
When the sinner hail gano to his waesome doom, 
Kilnieny .sliall smile in eternal lilooinl" 

They liore her away, she wist not how, 

For she felt not arm nor rest helow; 

lint so swift they wained her throngh the light, 

Twas like tlie motion of sound or sight; 

They seemed to split the gales of air. 

And yet nor gale nor breeze was there. 

rininmliered groves helow them grew; 

Tliey came, they passed, they haclcward flew. 

Like Hoods of blossoms gliding on. 

In moment seen, in moment gone. 

Oh, never vales to mortal view 

Appeared like those o'er which they flew. 

That land to hnman spirits given, 

The lowermost vales of the storied heaven ; 

From whence they can view tlie world below, 

And heaven's blue gates with sapphires' glow — 

More glory yet unmeet to know. 

They bore her to a mountain green, 
To see what nn>rtal never had seen ; 
And tliey seated her high on a purple sward, 
.\nd hade her liced what slie saw and heard, 
.\nd note the changes the spirits wrought; 
I'or now she lived in the land of thought. — 
She looked, and she saw nor sun nor skies, 
lint a crystal dome of a tliousand dies ; 
Slie looked, and she saw nae land ariglit, 
But an endless whirl of glory and light ; 
And radiant beings went and came. 
Far swifter than wind, or the linkdd flame; 
.Slie hid her ecu frae the dazzling view ; 
.She looked again, and the scene was new. 

Slie saw a sun on a summer sky, 

\\n\ clouds of amber sailing by ; 

A lovely land beneath her lay, 

.Vinl that land had glens and mountains gray; 

Anil that land had v.iUeys and hoary piles, 

And marled .se.is, anil a thousand isles; 

Its fields were speckled, its forests green, 

.\.iid its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen, 

Like inagie mirrors, where slumbering lay 

The sun and the sky and the cloudlet gray. 

Which heaved and trembled, and gently swung; 

On every shore they seemed to bo hung ; 

For there they were seen on their downward 

|ilaiu 
.\ thonsand times and a thousand again; 



In winding lake and placid firth — 

Like peaceful heaveus in the bosom of earth. 

Kilmeny sighed, .lud seemed to grieve. 

For she found her heart to that land did cleave ; 

She saw the corn wave on the v.alo ; 

She saw the deer run down the dale ; 

She saw the plaid and the broad claymore, 

And the brows that the badge of freedom bore ; 

And she thought she had seen the laud before. 

She saw a lady sit on a throne, 
The fairest that ever the sun shone on ! 
A lion licked her hand of milk, 
And she held him in a leash of silk. 
And a Icifu' maiden stood at her knee. 
With a silver wand and melting e'e — 
Her sovereign shield, till Love stole In, 
And poisoned all the fount within. 

Then a gniff, untoward bedesman came. 

And hundit the liou ou his dame; 

And the guardian maid wL' the dauntless c'c, 

She dropped a tear, and left her knee ; 

And she saw till the queen fiae the lion fled. 

Till the bonniest flower of the world lay dead; 

A coffin was set on a distant plain. 

And she saw the red blood fall like rain. 

Then bonny Kilmcny's heart grew sair. 

And she turned away, and could look no mair. 

Then the gruff, grim carlo girni^d niiiain, • 

And they trampled him down — but ho rose 

again ; 
And ho baited the lion to deeds of weir, 
Till ho lapped the blood to the kingdom dear; 
And, weening his head was dauger-pieef 
When crowned with the rose and clover-leaf. 
He growled at the carle, and chased him away 
To feed with the deer on the mountain gray. 
He growled at the carle, and ho gecked at Heaven ; 
lint his mark was set, and his arh^s given. 
Kilmeny awhile her cen withdrew; 
She looked again, and the scene was new. 

She saw below her, fair unfurled. 

One half of all the glowing world, 

Where oceans rolled and rivers ran. 

To bound the aims of sinful man. 

.She saw a people fierce and fell, 

liiirst frao their bounds like fiends of hell ; 

There lilies grew, and the eagle flew ; 

And she horked ou her ravening crew, 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Till tlie cities aud towers were wruppetl in a 

Llaze, 
And tbe tbunder it roared o'er the lauds aud the 

seas. 
The widows tbey wailed, aud the red blood rau, 
And sbe tbreateiied an eud to tbe race of man ; 
Sbe never lered, nor stood iu awe, 
Till caught by tbe lion's deadly paw. 
Ob ! tbou tbe eagle swinked for life. 
And braiuzellod up a mortal strife ; 
But flew sbe north, or flew she south, 
Sbe met wi' the growl of tbe liou's mouth. 

With a mooted wing and waeful mien. 

The eagle sought her eyrie agaiu ; 

But laug may sbe cower in ber bloody nest, 

And lang, laug sleek her wounded breast, 

Before she sey another flight. 

To iilay wi' tbe norland lion's might. 

But to sing tbe sights Kilmeuy saw, 

So far surpassing Nature's law, 

Tbe singer's voice wad sink away, 

And the striug of bis harp wad cease to play. 

But sbe saw till the sorrows of man were by. 

And all was love aud harmony; 

Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away, 

Like tbe flakes of suaw on a vrintcr's day. 

Then Kilmeny begged again to see 
The friends sbe bad left in her own countrye, 
To tell, of tbe place where she bad been, 
And tbe glories that lay iu tbe laud unseen ; 
To warn tbe living maidens fair, 
The loved of Heaven, the spirits' care. 
That all whose miuds unmeled remain 
Shall bloom in beauty when time is gaue. 

With distant music, soft aud deep, 

Tbey lulled Kilmeuy sound asleep ; 

Aud when sbe awakened she lay her lane, 

All happed with flowers iu the green-wood weue. 

When seven laug years had come and fled ; 
When grief was calm, aud hope ^^ as dead ; 
When scarce -was remembered Kilmeny's name. 
Late, late in a gloamiu', Kilmenj' cam' hame ! 
And oh, her beauty was fair to see, 
But still aud steadfast was ber e'e ! 
Such beauty bard may uever declare. 
For there was no pride nor jiassion there ; 
And tbe soft desire of maidens' een 
Iu that mild face could never be seen. 



Her sej'mar was the lily flower, 

Aud her check tbe moss-rose iu tbe shower ; 

And ber voice like tbe distant melodic 

That floats along tbe twilight sea. 

But sbe loved to raike the lauely glen, 

Aud keepit afar frae tbe haunts of men ; 

Her holy hymns unheard to slug. 

To suck the flowers, and drink tbe spring. 

But, wherever ber peaceful form appeared. 

The wild beasts of the bill were cheered: 

Tbe wolf played blithely round the field, 

Tbe lordly bison lowed aud kneeled ; 

Tbe dun-deer wooed with manner bland. 

And cowered aueath her lilj' baud. 

Aud when at even tbe woodlands rung. 

When hymns of other worlds she sung, 

In ecstasy of sweet devotion, 

Oh, then tbe glen was all in motion : 

The wild beasts of the forest came ; 

Broke from their bughts and faulds tbe tame, 

Aud goved around, charmed aud amazed ; 

Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed, 

Aud murmured, and looked with anxious p.aiu 

For something the mystery to explain. 

The buzzard came with the throstle-cock. 

The corby left her houf in the rock ; 

The blackbird alaug wi' the eagle flew ; 

Tbe bind came tripping o'er tbe dew ; 

Tbe wolf aud the kid their raike began, 

Aud tbe tod, aud the lamb, aud the leveret rau ; 

The hawk aud the hern atour them hung, 

Aud the merle aud tbe mavis forbooyed their young ; 

And all in a jicaceful riug were hurled : 

It was like an eve in a sinless world ! 

When a month aud day had come and gaue, 
Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene ; 
There laid ber down ou the leaves sae green, 
Aud Kilmeny ou earth was never mair seen. 
But oh! tbe words that fell from her mouth 
Were words of wonder and words of truth ! 
But all tbe laud were iu fear aud dread. 
For tbey kenned na whether she w.as living or 

dead. 
It wasna ber hame, and she couldua remaiu ; 
She left this world of sorrow aud pain, 
Aud returned to the Land of Thought agaiu.' 

' " ' Kilmeuy ' alone places our shepherd amonjr the unflyins: 
ones," says Professor Wilson, in DlackirooiVn Mtujazdiic. " From 
'Kilmeny' ulone," says Lord JeftVey, "no doubt can be enter- 
tained that Hogg is a poet in the highest acceptation of the 
name." " 'Kilmeny' has been the theme of universal admira- 
tion, and deservedly so, for it is pare pnetry," says D. M. Moii-. 
"It cannot be matched in the whole compass of British soug," 
says Allan Cuuuingham. 



JJMES HOGG. — lilLLIAM WOKDSWOltm. 



281 



THE SKYLARK. 

Hinl of till' wilderuess, 

Hlitlii'sonui jiiul cumbinloss, 
Sweet lie tliy inatiu o'er luoorlaiul and lea! 

Einlileiii of liappiiiess, 

lilcssiil is thy dwelling-place — 
Oh, to aliiilc ill the desert with tbeo ! 

Wild is thy lay and loud 

Far ill the downy cloud, 
Lovo give.s it energy, lovo gave it birth. 

Where, on thy dewy wing. 

Where art thou journeying ? 
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 

O'er fell and fountain shciii. 

O'er moor and nioiiutain green. 
O'er the red streamer th.it heralds the day, 

Over the cloudlet dim, 

Over the rainbow's rim, 
Musical chenib, soar, siiigiiii?, away; 

Then, when the gloaming comes, 

Low in the heather blooms, 
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love bo! 

Kmblem of hapiiine.s?, 

Blessed is thy dwelling-|ilace — 
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee! 



WIIKX MAGGY GANGS AWAY. 

Oh, what will a' the lads do 

When Maggy gangs away ? 
Oil, what will a' the lads do 

When Maggy gangs away f 
There's no a he.-irt in a' the glen 

That disna dreail the day : 
Oh, what will a' the lads do 

When Maggy gangs away f 

Y'oiing .lock has ta'en the hill for't — 

A waefii' wight is he ; 
Poor Harry's ta'eu the bed for't. 

An' laid him down to dec; 
An' Sandy's gano unto the kirk, 

An' learn in' fast to pray : 
And oh, \\\\A\, will the lads do 

When Maggy gangs away ? 

The yonng laii-d o' the Lang-Shaw 
Has drunk her health in wine ; 

The priest has said — in couGdeuco — 
The lassie was divine, — 



And that is mair in maiden's praise 

Thau ony priest should say : 
But oh, what will the l.ids do 

When Maggy gangs away ? 

The wailing in our green glen 

That day will quaver high ; 
'Twill draw the redbreast frae the wood, 

The laverock fiae the sky ; 
The fairies fiae their beds o' dew 

Will rise an' join the lay : 
An' .hey ! what a day will be 

When Maggy gangs away ! 



lUUliam lUoviiGirortl). 

Wordsworth (1770-1850) was born at Cockcrmouth, 
Enslaiul, April 7tli, 1770. His father was law-agent to 
Sir James Lowthcr, afterwnirt Lord Luusdule. His moth- 
er died when he was eight years of age ; his father, when 
he was thirteen. He went to St. John's College, Cam- 
bridge, in 17S7, and took his Bachelor's degree there in 
17'Jl. On leaving the University he travelled abroad, 
and was in France when Louis XVI. was dethroned. At 
that time he was a strong republican, and sympathized 
with the revolutionary party. He soon ch.anged his 
views. His friends wished him to enter the Cliurcli ; 
but a bequest of £900 from Raisley Calvert, a young 
friend, who urged him to become a poet, led him to de- 
vote himself thenceforth to literary pursuits. The eir- 
cumstaucc was commemorated by Wordsworth in a no- 
ble sonnet. In 1793 he put forth a modest volume of 
descriptive verse; and in 1798 appeared "Lyrical Bal- 
lads," containing twenty -three pieces, the lirst being 
"The Ancient Mariner," by his friend Coleridge, and 
the rest poems by Wordsworth. Joseph Cottle, book- 
seller of Bristol, gave thirty guineas for the copyright; 
he printed five hundred copies, but the venture was 
financially a failure, and he got rid of the edition at ft 
loss. The attempt of Wordsworth to substitute the 
simple language of rustic life for the tumid diction of 
the Bcntimeulul school was assailed with bitter ridicule 
by the critics of the day. The Ediiihuiyh Jievkio con- 
demned his imiovatious. lie had to educate his public. 

After a tour in Germany, Wordsworth settled, with his 
sister, at (Inismcre. The payment to them of ilMKK) from 
ft debt due their father had placed them above want. In 
1S02 the poet was married to his cousin, Mary Ilutehiu- 
8on, the lady who became the subject of the well-known 
lines, beginning, "She was a phantom of delight." In 
1808 he removed to Allan Bank, and in 1813 to Uydal 
Mount, both places lying in sight of the beautiful lakes; 
whence the name of the "Lake School of roelry" was 
civen to the style represeuted by himself, Coleridge, and 
Soulhey. Holding the views he did— that poetry should 
be true to nature, and represent real, iiiul not exagger- 
ated, feelings — Wordsworth purposely seleeled simple 
subjects, and treated them with a simplicity which dicw 



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CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH: AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



down niiifli opposition, and gave rise to a controversy 
wliicli lasted fur some j'cars. 

Tlie income fi-om liis writings was small, because of 
the existing- distaste for them, and because he had to ed- 
ucate a public up to the appreciation of his standard. 
It was, therefore, a great assistance when, through the 
influence of Lord Lonsdale, he was, in 1813, appointed 
distributor of stamjis for Westmoreland, which brought 
him in £500 a year. In 1814 " The Excursion " was pub- 
lished. Only live hundred copies were disposed of the 
tirst six years. "This will never do," wrote JclTicy, in 
the Edhibm-gh Review ; but ho lived to see that he had 
been far from infallible in his prediction. As a mere 
narrative, "The Excursion" is faulty: it has little dra- 
matic interest. The conception of a peddler who can 
converse like a poet, philosoi>lier, and scholar on the 
highest themes, is not in harmony with the probabili- 
ties; but the poem is full of some of the grandest pas- 
sages in the whole range of English verse. Notwith- 
standing the ridicule launched at it by Byron, its fame 
has been daily extending; and it will, perhaps, outlast 
the brilliant "Childe Harold" of his lordsliip. It has 
certainly had more influence upon the poetical culture 
and taste of the latter half of the nineteenth century 
than all that Byron ever wrote. 

In 1815 "The White Doe of Rylstone" appeared. In 
1819 "The AVagoner," dedicated to Cluuies Lamb, and 
" Peter Bell," to Southey, were published. In 1823 " Me- 
morials of a Tour on the Continent," containing poems 
and sonnets, was produced ; and in 1835 appeared " Yar- 
row Revisited," dedicated to Rogers. "The Prelude," 
a fragment of autobiography, was not published until 
the author was dead. 

"In my ode on the 'Intimations of Immortality,'" 
says Wordsworth, "I do not profess to give a literal 
representation of the state of the affections, and of the 
moral being in childhood. I record my own feelings at 
that time — my absolute spirituality — my aU-souhicxs, if I 
may so speak. At tliat time I could not believe that I 
should lie down quietly in the grave, and that my body 
would moulder into dust." Elsewhere he says of it; "I 
took hold of the notion of pre-existencc as having suf- 
ticient foundation in humanity for authorizing me to 
make, for my jiurpose, the best use of it I could as a 
poet." The ode referred to stands unapproached in 
sublimity by any similar work in the English language. 

In his Sonnets (a poetic form of wliieh he was fond), 
Wordsworth is unexcelled, even by Milton. His higher 
efforts are described by Coleridge as being characterized 
by " an austere purity of language, both grammatically 
and logically." No English poet wlio has dealt with 
lofty tliemes is more thoroughly English in his style. 

In 1843 the now venerable poet resigned his office as 
distributor of stamps in favor of one of his sous. A 
pension of £300 a year was bestowed on liim ; and, on 
tlie death of his friend Southey, in 1843, he was appoint- 
ed poet-lanreate. He died a few days after the comple- 
tion of his eightieth year. 

Wordswortli tells us that wlien he first thought seri- 
ously of being a poet, he looked into himself to see how 
far he was fitted for the work, and seemed to find then 
" the first great gift, the vital soul." In this self-esti- 
mate he did not err. He was thorouglily in earnest. 



THE DAFFODILS. 

I ■wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and bills, 
When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host of golden daffodils, 
Besido the lake, beneath the trees. 
Fluttering and dancing in thy breeze. 

Continnons as the stars that shine 
And twinkle ou the Milky Way, 

They stretched in uever-endiiig line 
Along the margin of a bay ; 

Ten tbonsaud saw I at a glance, 

Tossing their beads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 
Outdid the sparkling waves iu glee; — 

A jioet conld not but be gay 
In snob a jocund company : 

I gazed, and gazed, but little thnnglit 

What wealth the show to me bad bronglit. 

For oft, when on my coucb I lie, 
Iu vacant or iu pensive mood, 

They flash upon tbat inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude ; 

And then my heart with pleasure fills, 

And dances with the daflbdils. 



TO THE CUCKOO. 

O blithe new-comer! I have beard, 

1 bear tbee and rejoice : 
O Cuckoo! shall I call tbee bird, 

Or but a wandering voice 1 

While I am lying on the grass. 

Thy twofold sliont I bear. 
That seems to fill the whole air's space, 

As loud far off as near. 

Tliougb babbling only to tbe vale 

Of sunshine and of flowers. 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 

Of visiouary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of tbe spring! 

Even yet tlion art to me 
No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery ; 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



2&3 



TUo same whom in my scliool-boy days 

I listeneil to ; that cry 
Which niaih- iiii' hioli a thousand ways 

In linsh and trei? aiul sky. 

To seek thee did I ofteu rovo 

Through woods and on the greeu ; 

And thou wert still a hope, a love, 
Still louijcd for, never seen ! 

And I can listen to thco yet — 

Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 

That golden time again. 

O blcss<5d bird ! the earth we pace 

Again appeal's to be 
An unsubstantial, fairy place, 

That is fit home for tlice! 



ODE TO IHTY. 

•Stern daughter of iho Voice of God ! 
O Duty! if that name thou love 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 
To check the erring, and rcjjrove ; 
Thou who art victory and law 
When empty terrors overawe ; 
From vain temptations dost set free. 
And calni'.st the weary strife of frail htiinanity; — • 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
15o on them ; who, in love and truth, 
AVhere uo misgiving is, rely 
Upon the genial sense of youth : 
(;iad hearts! without rejiroach or blot, 
Who do thy work, and know it not. 
Long may the kindly imjuilse last! 
But thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand 
fast : 

Serene will be our days, and bright, 
And happy will our nature be. 
When lovo is an unerring light. 
And joy its own 8ecurit,v. 
And they a blissful course may hold 
ICveu now who, not unwisely bolil. 
Live in the spirit of this creed. 
Yet find that other strength, according to their need. 

I, loving freedom, and nntricd, 

No sport of every random gust, 



Yet being to myself a guide. 
Too blindly have reposed mv trust; 
And oft, when in my heart was heard 
Thy timely mandate, 1 deferred 
The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 

Tlironi;li no distnrbanco of my soul, 
Or strong compunction in mo wrought, 
I supplicate for thy control, 
]$ut in the quietness of thought. 
SIo this unchartered freedom tires ; 
I feel the weight of chance-desires : 
My hopes uo more must ch.ange their name; 
I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern law-giver! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face. 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, 
.■Vnd fragrance in thy footing treads; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
And the most ancient heavens through thee are 
fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful power! 
I call thee: I myself commend 
Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise. 
The spirit of self-sacrilice ; 
The conlldeuco of reason give : 
And, in the light of truth, thy bondman let me live! 



SHE WAS A PHAXTO.M OF DFLIGIIT. 

She was a phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 

A lovely apparition, sent 

To be a momenfs orn.ament : 

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 

Like twilight's, too, her dnskj' hair; 

Hut all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 

A dancing shape, an image ga.v, 

To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her, upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free. 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 



284 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



A couuteuauoe in whicli did meet 
Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
A creature not too bright or good 
For hnm.au nature's daily food, 
For transient sorrows, siiuido wiles. 
Praise, bhiuie, love, l;isses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machiue ; 
A being breathing thoughtful breatu, 
A traveller between life and death ; 
Tlie reason tirni, the temx)erate will. 
Endurance, foresight, etreugtli, and skill ; 
A iierfect woman, nobly planued. 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel light. 



CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 

Who is the happy warrior ? Who is he 
That every man in arms should wish to be? — 
It is the generous spirit who, when brought 
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought: 
Whose high endeavors are an inward light. 
That makes the path before him always bright; 
W^ho, with a natural instinct to discern 
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ; 
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 
But makes his moral being his prime care : 
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain 
And Fear and Bloodshed, miserable train ! 
Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 
In face of these doth exercise a power 
W^hich is our human nature's highest dower ; 
Controls them, ami subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
Of their bad inllueuce, and their good receives: 
By objects which might force the soul to abate 
Her feeling rendered more compassionate ; 
Is placable, because occasions rise 
So often that demand such sacrifice ; 
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, 
,As tempted more; more able to endure, 
As more exposed to suft'eriug and distress; 
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. — 

'Tis he whose law is reason ; vrho depends 
Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 
Whence, in a state where men are tempted still 
To evil for a guard against worse ill, 
And whiit in quality or act is best 
Doth seldom on a right fouudatiou rest, 



He fixes good on good alone, and owes 
To virtue every triumph that he knows : — 

Who, if he rise to station of connnand, 
Rises by open means, and there will stand 
On honorable terms, or else retire, 
And in himself po.ssess his own desire : 
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 
Keeps fiiithfnl with a singleness of aim, 
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 
For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state ; 
Whom thej' must follow ; on -whose head must fall, 
Like showers of manna, if they come at all : 
Whose powers shed round him in the connnou strife. 
Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
A cou.stant influence, a pecviliar grace; 
But who, if he be called upon to face 
Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 
Great issues, good or bad for human-kind. 
Is happy as a lover, and attired 
With sudden brightness, like a man inspired ; 
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 
In calnmess made, and sees what ho foresaw ; 
Or, if an unexpected call succeed. 
Come when it will, is equal to the need : — 

He who, though thus endued, as with a sense 
Aud faculty for storm and turbulence. 
Is yet a soul whose master-bias leaus 
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; 
Sweet images! which, wlieresoe'er he be, 
Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 
It is his darling passion to approve ; 
More brave for this, that he hath much to love. — - 

'Tis, finally, the man who, lifted high. 
Conspicuous object in a nation's eye. 
Or left nuthonght-of in obscurity, — 
Who, with a toward or untoward lot. 
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not, — 
Plays, in the many games of life, that one 
Where what he most doth value must be won : 
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay. 
Nor thought of tender happiness betray : 
Who, not content that former worth stand fast, 
Looks forward, persevering to the last. 
From well to better, daily self-surpa.ssed ; 
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth 
Forever, and to noble deeds give birth. 
Or he must go to dust without his fame. 
And leave a dead, unprotitable name, — 
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 
Aud, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 
His breath in confidence of Heaven's apiilau.so : — 
This is the happy warrior ; this is ho 
Whom every man in arms should wish to be. 



WILLIAM WORDSrrORTH. 



285 



Tin: FOUNTAIN. 

A CilXVEIiSATIOX. 

AVe talkiil with open litait, ami tougiie 

Aft'cctioiiato and true, 
A i>air of fiiciids, though I was young, 

And Matthew seventy-two. 

Wc lay beneath a spreading oaU, 

Beside a mossy seat ; 
And from the tnrf a fountain broke, 

And gurgled at our feet. 

"Now, Matthew," said I, "let ns match 

Tliis water's pleasant tune 
With some old border-song, or catch, 

Tliat suits a summer's noon ; 

"Or of the clinri li-cl(K'k and the chimes 
Sing here beneath the sliade — 

That half-mad tiling of witty rhymes 
Which you last April made." 

In silence Matfliew lay. and eyed 
The spring beneath the tree; 

And thus the dear old man replied, 
The gray-haired man of glee : 

"Down to the vale this water steers; 

How merrily it goes! 
'Twill mnnnnr on a thousand years, 

.\nd lliiw as now it Hows. 

".\nd here, on this delightful day, 

I cannot choose but think 
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 

Beside this fountain's brink. 

"My eyes are dim with childish tears, 

My heart is iilly stirred: 
I'm' the same sound is in my ears 

Which in tliose days I heard. 

"Thus fares it still in our decay; 

And yet tlio wiser mind 
Mourns le.ss for what age takes away 

Than what it leaves behin<1. 

"The blackbird in the summer trees. 

The lark n)ion the hill. 
Let loose their carols when they please, 

Arc (|iiiet when they will. 



"With Nature never do theij wage 

A foolish strife ; they see 
A ha|)py youth, and their old age 
Is beaut il'iil and free. 

"lint we are pressed by heavy laws; 

.•\nd often, glad no more. 
We wear a face of Joy because 

We have been gla<l of yore. 

" If there be one who need bemoan 

His kindred laid in earth. 
The household hearts that were his own, 

It is the man of mirth. 

" 5Iy days, my friend, are almost gone ; 

My life has been approved. 
And many lovo me; but by none 

Am 1 enongh beloved." 

" Now both himself and me he wroiig.s, 
The man who thus complains! 

I live and sing my idle songs 
I'pon these happy plains; 

".Vml, Matthew, for thy children dead 

I'll be a son to tlicc !'' 
At this ho grasped my hand, and said, 

"Alas! that cannot be." 

We rose np from the fountain-side; 

And down the smooth descent 
Of the green sheep-track did wo glide, 

And through the wood we went: 

And, ere we came to Leonard's rock. 
He sang those witty rhymes 

About the crazy old church-clock, 
And the bewildered chimes. 



FROM LINES 

COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTEIiX AtinEY, OX 

nEVISITIXi; THE BANKS OV THE WYE DUKING 

A TOUK, JULY 13, 1798. 

Five years have pjtssed ; five summers with the 

length 
Of five long winters! ami again I hear 
These waters rolling from their mountain-springs 
With a sweet inland murmur. Once again 
Do I behold these steep and lofly cliffs, 
That on a wild secluded scene impress 
Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect 



5>85 



CYCLOPMDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN I'OETUY. 



Tlie landscape Tvith tlie quiet of tlie sky. 
The (lay is come T%hen I again repose 
Here, nuder tliis dark sycamore, and view 
These plots of cottage-grouud, these orohard-tiifts, 
Which at this season, witli their unripe fruits, 
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 
Among the woods and copses, nor disturb 
Tlie wild grceu landscape. Once again I see 
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little liues 
Of .sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, 
Gieeu to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke 
Sent up in silence, from among the trees 
With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods. 
Or of some hermit's cave, where hy his fire 
The hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms. 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind mau's eye : 
But oft in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them. 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; 
And passing even into my purer mind, 
With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 
Of unremembered pleasnre : such, perhaps. 
As have no sliglit or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good mau's life. 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
To tliem I may have owed another gift. 
Of aspect more sublime ; that blcss(^d mood, 
lu which the burden of the mystery, 
lu which the heavy aud the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world. 
Is lightened : — that serene and bless<5d mood, 
In which the aft'ections gently lead us on, — 
Until the breath of this corporeal frame, 
Aud even the motion of our liuiiiau blood 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul : 
While with an eye made quiet by the power 
Of harmony, aud the deep power of joy, 
We see into the life of things. 

* * * * ^ * 

• Ff)r I have learned 
To look on nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth ; but liearing oftentimes 
The still, sad music of humanity, 
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
To chasten .and subdue. And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime 



Of something far more deeply interfused, 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
Aud the round ocean and the living air. 
And the blue .sky, and in the mind of man : 
A motion and a sjiirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought. 
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods. 
And mountains; and of all that we behold 
From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 
Of eye aud ear, both what they half create 
And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 
In nature aud the language of the sense, 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, — aud soul 
Of all my moral beiug. 

Nor perchance. 
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Sutler my geui.al spirits to decaj' : 
For thou art with me, here, upon the banks 
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest friend. 
My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch 
The language of my former heart, and I'ead 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh, yet a little while 
May I behold in thee what I was once. 
My dear, dear sister! aud this prayer I nuike, 
Knowing that Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, 
Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
From joy to joy ; for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues. 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life. 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
la full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
And let the misty mountain winds be free 
To blow against thee : aud, in after years. 
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind 
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms. 
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh, then. 
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 
And these my exhortations ! 



WILLIAM WOKDSWOHTn. 



287 



LAODAMIA. 

"Willi Kacrifico bpfmi' the- lisiiii; iiKiiii 

\"ows Iiavc I made h\ rniillcss hoiio iiisi)iro(l ; 

Ami from tlic iiit'onial gods, 'iiiiil .shades lorloni 
Of night, my slaiigbtcrod lord liavc I viMiuin'd : 

Celestial pity I agaiu iinploro ; — 

Kcstore him to my sight — great Jovo, restore !" 

•So spoaliiiig, and by fervent love emlowed 

With faith, the suppliant heavenward lilts her 
hands ; 

While, like the sun emerging from a eloiid. 

Her oonnteiiance hrightens, and her eye expands: 

Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows; 

And she expects the issue in repose. 

terror! what halh she perceived? — O joy! 
What dolh she look on ? whom doth .she behold? 

Iler hero slain upon the beach of Troy? 

His vital i)reseuce ? hi.s corporeal mould? 
It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis he! 
-Villi a god leads him — wiugdd Mercury! 

.Mild Ileiuies spake, and touched lier with his waud, 
That calms all fear: ''Such grace halh crowned 
thy prayer, 

Laodamfa! that at Jove's command 

Thy husband walks the paths of upper air: 

He comes to tarry with tlieo three hours' space ; 

Accept the gift, behold him face to face !" 

Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord to 
clasp ; 

Again that consummation she essayed : 
lint unsubstantial form eludes her grasp 

As ofleu as that eager grasp was made. 
The pliantom parts — but parts to reunite. 
And rcassume his place before her sight. 

" Protesiliiiis, lo, thy guide is gone ! 

Contirm, I pray, the vision witli thy voice! 
This is tmr palace, — yonder is thy throne: 

.Speak, and the lloor tliou trcad'st on will rejoice. 
Xot to aiipall me have the gods bestowed 
This precious boon, .ind blessed a sad abode." 

"Great Jove, Laodaniia, doth not leave 

His gifts imperfect. Spectre though I be, 

1 am not sent to scare thee, or deceive. 
But in reward of thy fidelity : 

.\nd something also did my worlli obtain; 
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 



•• Tliou kuowest the Delphic oracle foretold 

That the first Greek who touched the Trojan 
strand 

Slionld die; but me the threat could not witliliold : 
A generous cause a victim did demand; 

.Vnd forth I leaped npon the sandy plain, 

A self-devoted chief — by Hector slain." 

" Supremo of heroes ! bravest, noblest, best ! 

Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 
Wliich then, when tens of thousands were depressed 

By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore. 
Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — here thou art — 
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 

" But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
W>rt kind as resolute, aud good as brave ; 

And he whose power restores thee hath decreed 
Tliat thou shouldst cheat the nudice of the grave: 

Kedniulant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 

A.S when their breath enrielied Tliessalian ah'. 

"No spectre greets me, — no vain shadow this; 

Come, blooming hero, place thee by my side ! 
Give, on this well-kuowu couch, one nuptial kiss 

To 1110 this day, a second time thy ))ride !'' 
Jovo frowned iu heaven ; the conscious Tarcai 

threw 
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 

"This visage tells thee that my doom is passed: 
Know virtue were not virtue if the joys 

Of sense were able to return as fast 

Aud surely as they vanish. — Earth destroys 

Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains: 

Calm pleasures there abide — majestie jiains. 

"Bo taught, O faithful consort, to control 
Kebellious passion! for the gods approve 

The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul, — 
A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 

Thy transports moderate, aud meekly mourn 

When 1 depart — for brief is my sojourn — " 

"Ah, wherefore ? Did not Hercules by force 
Wrest from the guardian monster of the tiuuli 

Alcestis, a reanimated corse. 

Given liack to dwell on earth in vernal bloom ? 

Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, 

And yE.sou stood a yoiilh 'mid youthful peers. 

"The gods to ns are merrifnl — and they 
Yet further may relent; for mightier far 



288 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Than streiigtli of nerve and sinew, or the sway 

Of magic potent over snu and star, 
Is love, tliongh oft to agony distressed, 
And tliongli his favorite seat be feeble ■woman's 
breast. 

" But if thou goeat, I follow — " " Peace !" he said — 
She looked upon him, and was calmed and 
cheered . 

The ghastly color from his lips had fled ; 
In his deportment, shape, and mien appeared 

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, 

Brought from a pensive though a happy place. 

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel 
In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 

No fears to beat away, no strife to heal, — - 
The past unsighed-for, and the future sure ; — 

Siiiikc of heroic arts in graver mood 

Revived, with finer harmony pursued ; 

Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there 
III happier beauty : more pellucid streams. 

An amiiler ether, a diviner air. 

And fields invested with purpurea! gleams ; 

Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day 

Earth knows, is all unworthy to survej-. 

Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned 
That privilege by virtue. — " 111,'' said he, 

"The end of man's existence I discerued, 
Wlio fiom ignoble games aud reveliy 

Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight, 

While tears were thy best pastime day aud night: 

"Aud while my youthful iieers before my eyes 
(Each hero following his jieculiar bent) 

Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
By martial sports, — or, seated in the teut. 

Chieftains aud kings in council were detained. 

What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained: 

"The wisbed-for wind was given. I then revolved 

The oracle upon the silent sea; 
And, if no worthier led the way, resolvetl 

That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, — 
Mine the first blood th.at tinged the Trojan sand. 

"Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter, was the pang 
When of thy loss I tliought, beloved wife! 

On tlice too fondly did my memory bang, 
Aud on the joys we shared in mortal life, — 



The paths which we had trod, — these fountains, 

flowers, — 
My new-planued cities, and unfinished towers. 

" But should suspense permit the foe to cry, 
' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array. 

Yet of their number no one dares to die V 
In soul I swept the indignity away : 

Old frailties then recurred; but lofty thought, 

In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 

"Aud thou, though strong in love, art all too weak 
In reason, in self-government too slow : 

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 

Our blessed reunion in the shades below. 

The invisible world with thee hath sympathized ; 

Be thy aft'ectious raised and solemnized. 

"Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend 
Toward a higlier olyect. Love was given. 

Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ; 
For this the passion to excess was driven — 

That self might be annulled, — her bondage prove 

The fetters of a dream opposed to love." 

Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes reappears ! 

Pound the dear shade she would have cluug : 
'tis vain : 
The hours are past — too brief had they been years ; 

And him no mortal elibrt can detain. 
Swift towai'd the realms that know not earthly 

day. 
He through the portal takes his silent way. 
And on the palace floor a lifeless corse she lay. 

By no weak pity might the gods be moved : 
Slie who thus perished, not without the crime 

Of lovers tliat iu reason's spite have loved, 
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time 

Apart from happy ghosts — that gather flowers 

Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 

Yet tears to human suffering are due ; 

And mortal hopes defeated and o'ertlirown 

Are mourned by man, and not by man alone. 

As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 

Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 

A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 

From out the tomb of him for whom she died ; 

Aud ever, when such stature they had gained 

Tluit Ilium's walls were subject to tlu'ir view, 

The trees' tall summits withered at the sight, 

A coustaut interchange of growth and blight. 



WILLIAM WOEDSWORTE. 



289 



ODE. 

INTI5IATI0NS OF IMMOUTALITY, FROM RECOLLECTIONS 
OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. 



Thcio w.as a time when meadow, grove, ami 

Ktream, 
Tlio eartli, ami eveiy common sight, 
To WW iliil .seem 
Aiiiiaielled in ceh^stial light, 
Tlie glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
Turn wheresoo'er I may, 
\\y night or day, 
The things which 1 have seen I now can see no 
more I 



The rainl)o\v comes and gocis. 
And lovely is tho rose ; 
The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens arc bare ; 
Waters on a staiTy night 
Arc beautiful and fair; 
The snnshiuo is a glorious birth ; — 
I5ut yet I know, where'er I go. 
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 



III. 

Now, wliilo the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
.Viid while tlio young Iambs bound 
As to the taboi-'s sound, 
To me alone there camo a thought of grief; 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief; 

And I again am strong. 
Tho cataracts blow their trumpets from tho 

steep — 
No more shall grief of mine tho season wrong : 
I hear tho echoes through the mountains throng; 
Tho winds eomo to nic from tho lields of sleep; 
And all tho earth is gay. 
Land and sea 
fiivc themselves up to jollity; 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every bea.st keep holiday; — 
Thou child of joy. 
Shout round me, let mo hear thy shouts, thou happy 
shepherd-hoy ! 

IV. 

Yo hlessdd creatures, I liavc heard the call 
Ye to each other make; I see 



The he.avous laugh with you iu your jubilee ; 
My heart is at your feslival. 

My head hath its coronal. 
The Ailuess of your bliss I feel — I feel it all. 
Oh, evil day! if I were sullen. 
While Earth herself is adorning, 

This sweet May morniug ; 
And tho children are culling. 

On every side. 
In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
Fresh flowers; while the suu shines warm. 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm : — 
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
— But there's a tree, of many one, 
A single lield which I have looked upon — 
Both of them speak of something that is gone: 
The pansy at my feet 
Doth the samo tale repeat : 
Whither is fled tho visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, tho glory and the dream? 



Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: 
The soul that rises with us, onr life's star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting, 

And Cometh from afar ; 
Not iu entire forgetfuluess. 
And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is onr homo : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy ; 
But ho beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joj' ; 
The youth, who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is Nature's prieA, 
And by tho vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 
At length tho man perceives it die aw.ay, 
And fade into tho light of common day. 



Eartli fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 
Yearnings she hath iu her own natural kind, 
And, even with something of a uiother'.s mind, 

And no unworthy aim. 

The homely nurso doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her inmate man, 

F<u-get tho glories ho hath known. 
And that imperial palace whence lie came. 



290 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEUICAN POETRY. 



Bebold the cliilil among bis new-born blisses, 
A six-years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, -where 'mid work of bis own baud he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of bis mother's kisses, 
With light upon biiu from his father's eyes! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shajied b.y himself with uewly-learued art ; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral ; 

And this bath now his heart, 
And unto this be frames bis song : 
Then will be fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside. 

And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part ; 
Filling from time to time bis "humorous stage" 
With all the persons, down to palsied age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage; 

As if bis whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 



Thou, whose exterior semblance dost belie 

Thy soul's immensity ; 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage ; thou eye among the blind. 
That, deaf and silent, readest the eternal deep. 
Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty Prophet ! Seer blessed ! 

On whom those trnths do rest. 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find ; 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
Thou, over whom thy immortality 
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
A presence which is not to be put by ; 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of beaveu-born freedom, on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest jiains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable j'oke. 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 



O joy ! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live, 



That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years iu me doth breed 
Perpetual benedictions: not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blessed; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest. 
With uew-tledged hope still fluttering in his breast,— 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things. 
Fallings from lis, vanishings ; 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts, before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble, like a guilty thing surprised : 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections, 
Which, be they what thcj' may. 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day. 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing; 

Uj)hold us, cherish, and have power to nialce 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence : trnths that wake 

To perish never ; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor. 

Nor man, nor boy. 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence, in a season of calm weather. 
Though inland far we be. 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither ; 
Can iu a moment travel thither. 
And see the children sport upon the shore. 
And hear the mighty waters rolliug evermore. 



Tlieu sing, ye birds — sing, sing a joyous song! 
And let the young Iambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound ! 
We, in thought, will join your throng, 
Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May ! 

What though the radiance which was once so bright 

Be now forever taken from my sight, — 

Though nothing can bring bacli the hour 

Of splendor iu the grass, of glory iu the flower; 
We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength in what remains behind; 



iijuj.tM iioudsjtorth. 



291 



In tbo priiunl sympathy, 
Wliioh, liuviiig Ijceii, iinist ever bo; 
111 the soothiiij; tliiiiights that spring 
Out of bnmaii snfteriiig; 
In the faith that htoks through (loath, 
In years that bring tlio pliilosophiu iniiiil. 



And oh, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, 

Forebode not any severing of our loves! 

Yet in uiy heart of hearts I feel your migliP; 

I only have relinquished one delight, 

To livt) beneath yonr more Iialiitnal sway. 

I love the brooks, whieh down their ehaiincls fret, 

Kven more than w hen I tripped lightly as they ; 

The inuoceut brightness of a uew-bora day 

Is lovely yet ; 
Tlie iloiids that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring fioni an eye 
I'liat hath kept watch o'er man's mortality : 
Another race hath been and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the bumau heart by whieh vro live ; 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest tlower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for teai-s. 



i:.\TEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH 
OF JAMES HOGG. 

or Ihnsc refcired to in these Ptaiizas, Walter Scott died Sep- 
leinlicr 21st, lS:i2: S. T. Coleridge, July »5lh, 1S34 ; Cli.irles 
Lamb, December 2;th, 18.14 ; Georjrc Crabbe, Fcbrnary 3d, 1S32 : 
Felicia Ueman?, May ICtli, 1835; James Hogg, November 21st, 
1S35. 

When first, descending from the moorlands, 
I saw the stream of Yarrow glide 

Along a bare and open valley, 

The Et trick Shepherd was my guide. 

When List along its banks I wandered. 

Through groves that had begun to shed 
Their golden leaves upon tho pathways. 

My steps the Border-minstrel Ud. 

Tlie mighty minstrel breathes no longer, 
'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ; 

And death upon tlie braes of Yarrow 
Has closed the shepherd-poet's eyes: 

Nor has the rolling year twice mca.snred, 
From sign to sign its steadfast <ourse, 

Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
Was frozen at its marvellous source ; 



The rapt one of the godlike forehead, 

The lie-.ivcn-eyed creature .sleeps in eartli: 

And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, 
Has vanished frcun his lonely beartb. 

I.iki' clouds that rake the mountain summits, 
Or waves that own no curbing hand, 

How fast has brother followed brother. 
From sunshine to the sunless I.iiul I 

Yet I, whose lids from infant sliinilur 
Were earlier raised, remain to hear 

A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
'•Who next shall drop and disappear?'' 

Our haughty life is crowned with darkness. 
Like London with its own black wreath. 

On which with thee, O Crabbe I fortli-looking, 
I gazed from Hanipste.id's brci'zy heath. 

As if but yesterday departed. 

Thou too art gone before ; but why. 

O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered. 
Should fiail survivors heave' a sigh ? 

Mourn rather for that holy spirit, 
Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep ; 

For her who, ere her summer faded. 
Has sunk into a breathless sleep. 

No more of old romantic sorrows. 

For slaughtered youth or love-lorn maiil I 

With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten. 

And Ettrick mourns with her their poet dead. 
Rydal Jtount, November SOth, is.;.5. 



THE SONNET'S SCANTY PLOT. 

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room ; 
And hermits are contented witli their ci'lls, 
And students with their pensive citadels: 
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, 
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom 
High Jis the highest peak of Fnrness Fells 
Will miii'innr by the hour/in foxglove bells: 
In truth, the prison unto which we iloom 
Ourselves no prison is ; and hence to me. 
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound 
Within tho Sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; 
I'lea.sed if some .souls (for such there needs must be) 
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty. 
Should lind brief solace there, as I have fonnd. 



292 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



SCORN NOT THE SONNET. 

Scorn not tbc. Sonnet. Critic, you liave frownetl, 
Mindless of its just honors: with this kej' 
Shalispearo unlocked bis heart ; the melody 
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 
Camiiens soothed with it an exile's grief; 
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle-leaf 
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 
His visionary brow ; a glowworm lamp, ' 

It cheered mild Spenser, called from fairy-land 
To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 
Fell round the path of Milton, in his band 
The thing became a trumpet, whence be blew 
Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! 



EVENING. 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; 

The holy time is quiet as a nun 

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun 

Is sinkiug down 'in its tranquillity ; 

The gentleness of heaven is on the sea. 

Listen ! the mighty Being is awake. 

And doth with bis eternal motion make 

A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear child! dear girl, that walkest with me here! 

If thou appearest untouched by solemn thought, 

Thy nature is not therefore less divine: 

Thou liest in Abrabaru's bosom all the year. 

And worshippest at the temple's inner shrine, 

God beiug with thee when we know it not. 



TO SLEEP. 

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, 
One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds and seas. 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky, — 
By turns have all beeu thought of, yet I lie 
Sleepless ; and soon the small birds' melodies 
Must hear, first utteredxfrom my orchard trees, 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay 
And could not win thee. Sleep ! by any stealth : 
So do not let me wear to-night away : 
Without thee what is all tlie morning's wealth? 
Come, blessdd barrier between day and day, 
Dear mother of fresh thonghts and joyous health ! 



THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. 

The world is too much with us ; late and soon, 

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : 

Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 

This sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 

The winds that will be howling at all hours. 

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; — 

For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 

It mSves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather bo 

A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn, 

So might I, standing on this pleasaut lea, 

H.ave glimpses that would make nie less forlorn ; 

Have siglit of Proteus rising from the sea, 

Or bear i>ld Triton blow his wreathed horn. 



THE FAVORED SHIP. 

With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh. 

Like stars in heaven, and joj'ously it showed ; 

Some lying fast at anchor in the road. 

Some veering up and down, one knew not whj'. 

A goodly vessel did I then espy 

Come like a giant from a baveu broad ; 

And lustily along the bay she strode, 

'■ Her tackling rich, and of apparel high." 

This ship was naught to me, nor I to her, 

Yet I pursued her with a lover's look ; 

This ship to all the rest did I prefer : 

When will she turn, and whither? She will brook 

No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir: 

On went she, and due north her journey took. 



THE MIND THAT BUILDS FOR AYE. 

A volant tribe of bards on earth are found. 
Who, while the flattering zephyrs round them play. 
On " coigues of vantage" bang their nests of clay : 
How quickly, from that aerie hold vinbound. 
Dust for oblivion ! To the solid ground 
Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye, 
Convinced that there, there only, she can lay 
Secure foundations. As the year runs round. 
Apart she toils within the chosen ring. 
While the stars shine, or while day's jiurple eye 
Is gently closing with the flowers of spring ; 
Where even the motion of an angel's wing 
W^ould interrupt the intense tranquillity 
Of silent hills, and more than silent sky. 



WILLIAM WOIiDSWORTH. 



2'j:! 



WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 3, 1803. 

EaftU has not anytliiug to show more fair : 
Dull would lio bo of soul who could pass liy 
A sight so touching in its majesty: 
This City now doth like a garment wear 
The hcauty of the morning ; silent, l)aro. 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lio 
Open unto the fields, and to the sky. 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
Never did sun more beautifully steep, 
In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill ; 
Xe'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 



TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. 

Tonssaint, the most unhappy man of men ! 
Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough 
Within thy hearing, or thy head bo now 
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den ; — 
O miserable ehieftaiu! where and when 
Wilt thou find patience f Yet die not ; do thou 
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : 
riiongb fallen thyself, never to rise again. 
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind 
Powers that will work for thee : air, earth, and 

skies : 
There's not a breathing of the common wind 
That will forget thoo ; thou bast great allies ; 
Thy friends are exultations, agonies, 
And love, and man's uucomiuerable mind. 



PHILOCTETES. 

When Philoctctes in the Lemnian isle 

Lay conehed, — upon that breathless monument. 

On him, or on his fearful bow unbent. 

Some wihl bird oft might settle, and beguile 

The rigid features of a transient smile. 

Disperse tlio tear, or to the sigh give vent, 

Slaekeniii;; the jiains of ruthless banishment 

li'om hiinie alli'ctions and licroic toil. 

Xor doubt that spiritual creatures round us move, 

Griefs to allay that reason cannot heal ; 

And very reptiles have sufflced to prove 

To fettered wretchedness that no Bastilo 

Is deep enough to excUido the light of love. 

Though man for brother-mau has ceased to feci. 



THY ART BE NATURE. 

A poet ! — Ho hath put his heart to school, 
Nor dares to move uuproppeil upon the stall" 
Which art hath lodged within his hand ; must 

laugh 
liy precept only, and shed tears by rule ! 
Thy art bo nature; the live current quaff. 
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, 
lu fear that else, when critics grave aud cool 
Have killed him, scorn should write his epitaph. 
IIow does the meadow-flower its bloom unfold ! 
Because the lovely little llower is free 
Down to its root, aud in that freedom bold; 
And so the grandeur of the forest-tree 
Comes not by casting in a formal monUl, 
But from its own divine vit;ility. 



LONDON, 1802. 

Milton! thou shouldst bo living at this hour! 
England hath need of thee: she is a feu 
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward happiuess. W'e are selfish meu^ 
Oh, raise us up, return to us again ; 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power! 
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart : 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound w.as like the sea ; 
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 
So didst thou travel on life's common way 
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart < 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 



WE MUST BE FREE, OR DIE. 

It is not to bo thought of that the flood 

Of British freedom, which to the open sea 

Of the world's praise from dark antiquity 

Hath flowed, " with pomp of waters unwithstood," 

Roused though it bo full often to a mood 

Which spurns the check of salutary bands, — 

That this most famous stream in bogs and sauda 

.Should perish, and to evil and to good 

Bo lost forever! In our halls is hung 

Armory of the invincible knights of old : 

Wo must bo free or die who speak the tongue 

That Shakspc.aro spake, the faith and morals hold 

Which Milton held. — In everything wo are sprung 

Of earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 



294 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



OCTOBER, 1803. 

These times touch moneyed woikllin.2;s with dismay : 

Eveu rich men, brave by nature, taint the air 

With words of apineheiisiou and despair; 

While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray, — 

Meu uuto whom sufficieut for the day, 

Aud minds not stinted or untilled, are given, — 

Sound, healthy children of the God of heaven, — 

Are cheerful as the rising sun in May. 

What do we gather hence but firmer faith 

That every gift of noble origin 

Is breathed \\\>o\\ by Hope's perpetual breath ? 

That virtue and the faculties within 

Are vital, — and that riches are akin 

To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death. 



ON PERSONAL TALK. 

IN FOUR SONNETS. 

I. 

I am not one who much or oft delight 
To season my fireside with personal talk, — 
Of friends who live within an easy walk, 
Or neighbors daily, weekly, in my sight : ' 
And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright. 
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk ; 
These all wear out of me, like forms, with chalk 
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. 
Better than such discourse doth silence long. 
Long, barren silence, squ.are with my desire ; 
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, 
In the loved presence of my cottage-lire, 
And listen to the flai)ping of the flame. 
Or kettle, whispering its faint under-soug. 



" Yet life," you say, " is life ; we have seen aud see. 
And with a living pleasure we describe ; 
And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe 
The languid mind into activity. 
Sound sense, aud love itself, and mirfli and glee. 
Are fostered by the comment aud the gibe." 
Even be it so: yet still among your tribe, 
Our daily world's true worldlings, rank not me ! 
Children are blessed, and iiowerful ; their world lies 
More justly balanced ; partly at their feet 
Aud part far from them : sweetest melodies 
Are those that are by distance made more sweet. 
Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes. 
He is a slave — the meauest we can meet ! 



AViugs have we — and as far as we can go. 
We may find pleasure : wilderness aud wood. 
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood 
Which, with the lofty, sauctifies the low ; 
Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we 

know. 
Are a substantial world, both pure and good : 
Rouud these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood. 
Our jiastiuie and our happiness will grow. 
There find I personal themes, a plenteous store 
Matter wherein right voluble I am. 
To which I listen with a ready ear ; 
Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, — 
The gentle lady married to the Moor ; 
Aud heaveuly Una with her milk-white lamb. 



Nor can I not believe but that hereby 
Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote 
From evil-speaking; rancor, never sought. 
Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie. 
Heuce have I genial seasons, hence have I 
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous 

thought : 
Aud thus, from day to day, my little boat 
Rocks in its harbor, lodging peaceably. 
Blessings bo with them — aud eternal praise. 
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares — 
The iioets — who on earth have made us heirs 
Of truth aud pure delight by heavenly lays! 
Oil, might my name be numbered among theirs, 
Then gladly would I end my mortal days. 



J'oscpl) tlopK-iuson. 

AMERICAN. 

Hopkinson (1770-1843) was a native of Pliiladelpliia, 
son of Francis Hopkinson, a member of the Continental 
Congress, and one of the signers of the Declaration of 
Independence. Francis was also the author of several 
humorous pieces in verse, of which "The Battle of the 
Kegs" is the best known. Joseph became a member of 
Congress, and in 1828 was appointed United States Dis- 
trict Judge. His one patriotic song of " Ilail, Colum- 
bia" possesses but sliglit lyrical merit, and owed much 
of its popularity to the felicitous music of "The Presi- 
dent's March," to which it was adapted. It was written 
in 1798, when a war with France was thouglit imminent. 
The song drew hwae audiences to the tlieatres wlicrc it 
was sung niglit aftci- night for a whole season. It has 
made the melody one of the national airs. 



JOSEPH nOPKINSOX.—nOX. WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER. 



29.-. 



HAIL, COMMlilA! 

Hail, Colmiil>i;i ! liiipjiy laml! 

Hail, yo lioiDi's ! lii'aveii-bi)i'ii band! 

Who foiiglit ami Uleil in Freedom's cause, 
Who fonght and bled ill Freedom's cause, 
And when tho storm of war was gone, 
Knjoyed tho jieaee your vah)r won. 
Let independenro bo our boast, 
Kver minill'ul what it cost; 
Ever grateful for the prize, 
Let its altar reach the skies. 

Firm, united let us be, 
Kallying round our Liberty ; 
As a band of brotliers joined. 
Peace and safety wo shall liiid. 

Immortal patriots! rise once more: 
Defend your rights, defend your shore ; 
Let no rude foe with inipious hand. 
Let no rndo foe with impious hand. 
Invade the shrine where sacred lies 
< >f toil and blood the well-earned prize. 
While ofl'ering peace sincere and just. 
In Heaven wo place a manly trust. 
That triilli and justice will (irevail. 
And every scheme of bondage fail. 
Firm, united lot us be, etc. 

Soniul, sound the trnmp of Fame! 

Let Washington's great name 

King through the world wilh loud applause. 
King through tho world with loud applause; 

Let every clime to Freedom dear 

Listen with a joyful ear! 

With ecpial skill and godlike power. 
He governed in the fi'arful hour 
Of horriil war; or guides with ease 
The happier times of honest peace. 
Firm, united let us be, etc. 

lirhold the chief who now commands. 
Once more to servo his country stands — 

Tho rock on which the storm will beat; 
The rock on which the storm will beat, 
lint, armed in virtue firm and true. 
His hopes are fi.\cd on Heaven and you. 
Whi'U hope was sinking in dismay, 
.\ud glooms obscured Columbia's day. 
His steady iiiiiid. fnuii changes free, 
Kesolved on death or liberty. 

Finn, united let us be, etc. 



C)on. lUiUiam Uobert Spencer. 

Spencer (ITTO-lSii), a younger eon of Lord Charles 
Spencci, WHS educated at Harrow and Oxford. He held 
for some time the appointment of Conimissioiicr of 
Stamps. He became a society-man, and his poetical fame 
rests cirully on three short stanzas, beginning "Too late 
I stayed." His ballad of "Beth Gelcrt" is also well 
known. Ills poems are mostly ephemeral "society 
verses." Falling into pecuniary dilliculties he removed 
to Paris, where he died. His poems were collected and 
published in 1S3.~>. As a companion he was courted by 
the brilliant circles of the metropolis; but if we may 
credit the account given of him liy Kogeis, he was heart- 
less and artiliulal — less a friend than a pleasure-seeker. 



TO THF, LADY ANNE HAMILTON. 

Too late 1 stayed, — forgive the crime; 

Unheeded llew the hours; 
How noiseless falls the foot of Time, 

That only treads on llowers! 

What oyo with clear account remarks 

Tho ebbing of tho glass. 
When all its sands are diamond sparks, 

That dazzle as they pass! 

Oh, who to sober measurement 
Time's happy swiftness brings. 

When birds of paradise; have lent 
Their plumage for his wings! 



BETH GELERT; OR, THE (IHAVE OF THE 
GREYHOUND. 

The spearmen heard tho bugle .sound, 

And cheerily smiled the morn ; 
And niauy a brach, and many a hound, 

Attend Llewelyn's horn. 
And still he blew a louder blast, 

And gave a louder cheer : 
" Come, Gelert, come, wert never last 

Llewelyn's horn to hear ! 
Oh, where docs faithful Gelert roam— 

The lh>wer of all his race: 
So true, so brave — a lamb at home, 

A lion in tho cha.se ?'' 

'Twas only at Llewelyn's board 
The faithful Gelert fed ; 



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CTCLOPJEDIA OF BEITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Ho T\atclied, lie served, he cheeroil liis lonl, 

Auil sentinelled his bed. 
In sooth he was a peerless liouud, 

Tlio gift of royal John ; 
Rut now no Grlert could bo found, 

And all the chase rode on. 
Aud now, as o'er the rocks and dulls 

The gallant chidiugs rise, 
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells 

The many-miugled cries ! 

That d:iy Llewelyn little loved 

The chase of hart and hare ; 
And scaut and small the booty proved, 

For Gf'lert was not there. 
Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied, 

Wliou, near the portal-seat, 
His truant Gclert he espied. 

Bounding his lord to greet. 
But when he gained his castle door. 

Aghast tlie chieftain stood ; 
The hound all o'er was smeared with gore ; 

His lips, his fangs, ran blood ! 

Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise. 

Unused such looks to meet ; 
His favorite checked his joyful guise, 

Aud crouclied aud licked his feet- 
Onward in haste Llewelyn passed. 

And on went Gelert too ; 
And still, where'er his eyes were cast, 

Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view ! 
O'ertiirued his infant's bed he found, 

With blood-stained cover rent. 
And all around, the walls and ground 

With recent blood besprent. 

He called his child — no voice replied — 

He searched with terror wild ; 
Blood, blood, ho found on every side. 

But nowhere found his child ! 
"Hell-hound! ray child's by thee devoured! 

The frantic father cried; 
And to the hilt his vengeful sword 

He plunged in Gelcrt's side ! 
His suppliant looks, as jiroue he fell. 

No pity could impart ; 
But .still his Gelert's dying ycU 

Passed heavy o'er his heart. 

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, 
Some slumbcrer wakened nigh : 



What words the parent's joy could tell, 

To hear his infant's cry ! 
Concealed beneath a tumbled heap, 

His hurried search had missed. 
All glowing from his rosy sleep, 

The cherub boy he kissed ! 
Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread. 

But, the same couch beneath. 
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead — ■ 

Tremendous still in death! 

Ah ! what was then Llewelyn's pain ! 

For now the truth was clear ; 
His gallant hound the wolf had slaiu 

To save Llewelyn's heir. 
Vain, vain, was all Llewelyn's woo; 

" Best of thy kind, adieu ! 
The frantic blow which laid thee low, 

This heart shall ever rue !" 
And now a gallant tomb they raise, 

With costly sculpture decked ; 
And marbles, storied with his praise, 

Poor Gelert's bones protect. 

There, never could the spearman pass 

Or forester unmoved ; 
There oft the tear-besprinkled grass 

Llewelyn's sorrow proved. 
And there he hung bis horn aud spear. 

And there, as evening fell. 
In fancy's ear he oft would hear 

Poor Gelert's dying yell. 
And till great Snowdon's rocks grow old, 

Aud cease the storm to brave, 
Tho consecrated spot shall hold 

The name of " Gelert's Grave." 



Cjcnrn Cuttrcll. 



LuttrcU (1770-18,51), said to have been a natural son 
of Loi-d Carlianipton, was well educated, and grew to be 
a niau of wit aud fashion in London. He published "Ad- 
vice to Julia: a Letter in Rhyme" (1830), and "Crock- 
ford House" (183T). Rogers, the poet, said of liim: 
" None of the talkers whom I meet in London society 
can slide in a brilliant thing witli such readiness as he 
does." The following epigram was made by Luttrell on 
the once famous vocalist. Miss Maria Tree : 

" On this tree when a nightingale settles and sings, 
Tho tree will leturu her as good ae she brings." 

LuttrcU's graphic and truthfal description of a London 
fog is quite equal to the best passages to be Ibuud in the 



U i:\IiY LCTTKELL.—Sin IV ALTER SCOTT. 



207 



poems of Dean Swift. But his literary aiiibilion was 
sliglil. It was as a convei-satiouist lliat lie excelled, aud 
he gave to society Uileiils that might have won for him 
;i lusting fame as a mau of letters. 



Sir lUaltcr Scott. 



THE NOVEMBER FOG OF LONDOX. 

First, at tbo dawn of lingering day, 
It rises of an a.sliy gray ; 
Then deepening with a sordid stain 
Of yellow, like a lion's nianc. 
Vapor importunate and dense. 
It wars at onco with every sense. 
The cars escape not. All arniind 
Ketnriis a dull unwonted sound. 
Loath to stand still, afraid to stir, 
The chilled aiul puzzled passenger, 
Oft blundering from the pavement, faila 
To feci his way along the rails ; 
Or at the crossings, in the roll 
Of every carriage dreads the pole. 

Scarce an eclipse, with pall so dun,' 
Blots from the face of heaven the sun. 
Hut soon a thicker, darker cloak 
Wraps all the town, behold ! in smoke. 
Which steani-eomiielling trade disgorges 
I'rom all her furnaces aud forges 
In pitchy clouds; — too dense to rise, 
It drops rejected from the skies ; 
Till struggling day, extinguished qnitc, 
At noon gives place to candle-light. 

O C'lit'inistry, attractive maid! 
Descend in pity to our aid : 
Conio with thy all-pervading gases. 
Thy crucibles, retorts, and glasses. 
Thy fearful energies and wonders, 
Thy dazzling lights and mimic thunders: 
Let Carbon in thy train be seen. 
Dark Azote and fair Oxygeu, — 
And Wollaston and Davy guide 
Tlie car that bears thee, at thy side. 
If .any power can, anyhow, 
-Vliato these nuisances, 'tis thou; 
.Vnd see, to aiil thee in the blow, 
The bill of Michael Angelo ; 
Oh join — success a thing of conrse is — 
Thy heavenly to his mortal forces; 
Make all our chimneys chew the end 
Like hungry cows, as chiniueys should! 
Aud since 'tis only smoke wo draw- 
Within our lungs at common law, 
Into their thirsty tubes bo sent 
Fresh air, by act of Parliament! 



Walter Scott (ITTl-ltvia), a younger sou of a Writer to 
the Signet, was boru in Edinburgh, on the 15th of August, 
1771. Some of his earliest years were, on account of a 
malady that caused lameness, passed on the farm of his 
paternal grandfather in Roxburghshire. Hero he ac- 
quired his taste for border legends aud stories of chival- 
ry. In 1779 he entered the High School of Edinburgh, 
and in 178.3 the University. In neither did he display 
much ability ; his Latin was little, and his Greek less. 
Before his sixteenth year he had run through a vsist cir- 
cle of miscellaneous reading, ineludiug many works of 
Action. 

In 17SC Scott was apprenticed to his father, and in 1793 
was admitted to the Bar; but of his legal profession he 
says, iu the language of Slender to Anne Page, " There 
w-as little love between us at first, and it plcised God to 
decrease it on better acquaintance." His first serious 
efforts in composition were some translations of German 
ballads. In 1797 he married Miss Carpenter, a lady of 
some beauty, and with a small fortune. In 1799 he be- 
came SherilT of Selkirkshire, and in 1806 one of the prin- 
cipal clerks of the Court of Session. He now resolved 
to make literature the basis of his fortunes. In ISOJ ap- 
peared his " Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border;" iu 1804 
he edited the metrical romance of "Sir Tristreni." In 
180.5 appeared the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," which 
was enthusiastically received, and added largely to his 
growing fame. This poem was followed in 1808 by 
"Marmiou;" iu 1809, by the "Lady of the Lake;" in 
1811, by "Don Roderick;" in 1813, by "Rokcby;" and 
in 1814, by the "Lord of the Isles." 

Seeing that his poetical star was now beginning to 
pale before the rising fame of Byron, Scott prudently 
retired from the field where he was no longer without 
a rival, aud commenced his series of "Wavcrley Novels," 
so memorable iu literature. For fifteen years he kept 
the authorship of them a secret, and was referred to as 
the "Illustrious Uukuown." In 1814 " Wavcrley " ap- 
peared. Within four years it was followed by "Guy 
Mannering," " The Antiquary," " Old Mortality," " Rob 
Roy," and " The Heart of Mid-Lothian." From 1814 to 
18a;, during the publication of these novels, Scott was at 
the summit of his fame and worldly success. In 1820 he 
was created a baronet. Meanwhile he had purchased an 
estate at a price much above its value, and built his house 
at Abbotsford, " a romance in stone and lime," and thith- 
er the family removed in 1812. The house had cost him, 
with the garden, £20,000. 

But Scott's wealth was wholly illusory. lie had been 
paid for his works chiefly iu notes, which proved value- 
less. Ilis connection with the publishing firm of Bal- 
lantync & Co. had entangled him in the responsibilities 
of an ill-conducted business ; and the disastrous year 1820 
involved him in the ruin of his latter publishers, Con- 
stable & Co. The poet's liabilities from his relations 
with these two houses amounted to more than £"120,000; 
Nothing could be more admirable than the attitude in 
wliich his .adversity exhibited him. He sat down, at the 
age of fifty-five, with the heroic determination of labor- 
ing to pay offhis debts and redeem his fair fame. " Wood- 



298 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



stock" alone, the labor of three months, cleared to his 
creditors £8000. But the busy brain and the biar, manly 
form did not siiftice. Before he could reach tlie longed- 
for goal, he sank in the struggle; a paralytic attack ar- 
rested liis work. A ,iouruey to Italy did not restore 
his shattered constitution. Returning in haste, that he 
might be under the shade of his own trees, he expired 
September 21st, 1833, after fourteen days of prostration 
and insensibility, with occasional flashes of consciousness. 

One of the most pathetic incidents of the last two 
months of his life was the failure of his attempt to write. 
On the 17th of July,awaldng from sleep, he called for his 
writing materials. When the chair, in which lie lay 
propped up with pillows, was moved into his study and 
placed before the dcslc, his daughter put a pen into his 
hand ; but there was no power in tlie fingers to close on 
the too familiar instrument. It dropped upon the paper, 
and the helpless old man sank back to weep in silence. 

"The great strength of Scott," s;iys Dr. Carruthers, 
"undoubtedly lay in the prolitic richness of his fancy, in 
his fine healthy moral feeling, and in tlie abundant stores 
of his remarkable memory, that could create, collect, and 
arrange such a multitude of scenes and adventures ; that 
could find materials for stirring and romantic poetry in 
the most minute and barren antiquarian details ; and 
tliat could reanimate the past, and paint the present, in 
scenery and manners, with a vividness and energy un- 
known since the period of Homer." 



LOCHINVAR. 

Lady Heron's Song, from "SIarmion." 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the ^vest ; 
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ; 
And save his good broadsword he Tvcapou had none ; 
He rode all unarmed, and lie rodo all aloue. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He stayed not for brake and he stopped not for 

stone ; 
He swam the Esk River where ford there was none ; 
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate. 
The bride had consented, the gallant came late ; 
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war 
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So biddly he entered the Netherby hall, 
Among bridesmen and kinsmen, and brothers and all : 
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, 
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) 
" 0, come ye in peace here or come ye in war, 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" 

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied: 
Love swells like the Sohvay, but ebbs like its tide ; 



And now am I come, with this lost love of mine 
To lead but one measure, drink one cnp of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar !'' 

The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up ; 
He quaffed oft" the wine, and he threw down the cnp. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar ; 
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 
That never a hall such a galliard did grace; 
While her mother did fret and her father did fume, 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and 

pi nine, 
And the bride-maidens whispered, "'Twere better, 

by fiir. 
To have matched our fair cousin with young Loch- 
invar !" 

One touch to her hand and one word in her car, 
When they reached the hall door and the charger 

stood near ; 
So light to the cronp the fair lady he swung. 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung. 
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bn.sh, andscanr: 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth yonug 

Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Griemes of the Netherby 

clan ; 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and 

they ran ; 
There was racing and chasing on Canonbie Lee, — 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see I 
So daring in love and so dauntless in war. 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like j'ouiig Lochinvar? 



SCENE FROM "MARMION." 

Not far advanced was morning day 
When Marmiou did his troop array 

To Surrey's canij) to ride ; 
He had safe-conduct for his band 
Beneath the royal seal and hand. 

And Douglas gave a guide ; 
The ancient earl, with stately grace, 
Would Clara on her palfrey place. 
And whispered, in an undertone, 
" Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 



299 



To pass there was such scanty room, 
The liars, dcsocmliiij;, razed liis iiliiinc. 

The steed along the drawbridge Hies, 
Just as it trembled on the rise; 
Not lighter does the swallow slcim 
Along the smooth lake's level brim : 
And wh^u Lord Marmiou reached his band. 
He halts and turns with clenched hand, 
And shout of loud deliance jiours. 
And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 



The train from out the castlo drew, 
But Marniiiiii stopped to bid adieu : — 
'•Though something I might 'plain," ho said, 
"Of cold respect to stranger guest, 
Sent hither by your king's behest, 
While in Tantallon's towers I stayed, — 
Part wo in friendship from your laud ; 
And, noble earl, receive my hand." 
But Ponglas riMind him drew liis cloak. 
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: — 
" My mauoi-s, halls, auil bowers shall still 
Bo open, at my sovereign's will. 
To each one whom he lists, howe'cr 
I'nmeet to bo the owner's peer. 
My castles are my king's alone, 
I'rom turret to fouudatiou-stoue ; 
The hand of Douglas is his own. 
And never shall in friendly grasp 
The hand of such as Marmiou clasp." 

liurut Marmion's swarthy cheek like tire. 
And shook his very fiauie for ire; 

And — " This to me !" ho said, — 
"An 'twere not for thy hoary beard. 
Such hand as Marmion's liad not spared 

To cleave the Douglas' head! 
And fust. I tell thee, haughty peer, 
lie who does Eiiglaud's message here, 
Although the meanest in her state. 
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate: 
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, 

K'en in thy i>itch of pride, — 
Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near 
(Nay, never look upou your lord, 

And lay your hands upon your sword), — 

I tell thee, thou'rt detied ! 
And if thou saidst I am not peer 
To any lord iu Scollaiul hero, 
Lonlaml or Highland, far or near, 

Lord Angus, thou hast lied !" 
On the carl's cheek the flush of rage 
O'ercamo the aslieii hue of age : 
Fierce he broke forth : "And darest thou, then. 
To beard the lion iu his den. 

The Doiigl.'is iu his hall f 
And hopest thou hence unscathed to go? 
No, by St. Bride of Bothwcll, no ! — 
Cp drawbridge, grooms — what, warder, ho I 

Let the jiortcullis fall.'' 
Lord Marmiou turned — well was his need— 
And da.-ihed the rowels in his steed ; 
Like arrow through the archway sprung; 
The ponderous gate behind hiui rung: 



ALLEN-A-DALE. 

SOXG FROM '' KOKEBY." 

Alleu-a-Dalo has no fagot for burning, 
AUen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, 
Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning. 
Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning. 
Come, read me my riddle! ccnne, hearken luy tale! 
And tell mo the craft of bold Alleu-a-Dale. 

The Baron of Ravensworth prances iu pride, 
And he views his domains upon Arkindale side. 
The mere for his net, and the land for his game. 
The chase for the wild, aud the park for the tame; 
Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale, 
Are less free to Lord Dacre thau Allen-a-Dale ! 

Alleu-a-Dale was ne'er V)clted a knight, 

Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as 

bright ; 
Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lonl. 
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word ; 
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil. 
Who at Rcre-cross on Staumore meets Alleu-a-Dale. 

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ; 

The mother, she asked of his honsehold and borne : 

"Though the castle of Kichmond stand fair on the 

hill, 
>Iy hall,'' quoth bold Allen, "shows gallanter still: 
'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so 

pale. 
And with all its bright spangles!" said Allcn-a-Dale. 

The father was steel, ami the mother was stone; 
They lifted the latch, and they bade him begone ; 
But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry! 
He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye, 
Aud she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, 
Aud the vonth it was told bv, was Alleu-a-Dale! 



300 



CTCLOPJiDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



HKLVELLYN. 

lu the spring of 1S05 n young nijiu lost his way on tlie moun- 
tain Helve'.Iyu ; and three montlis afterward his remains were 
discovered, gnarded by a luithful terrier bitch, the companion 
of his rambles. 

I climbed tlio dark brow of the inigUty Helvellyn, 
Lakes and niouutaius beneath mo gleamed misty 
aud -wide ; 
All was still, save by fits wbeu the eagle was yelling, 

And starting aronud me the echoes replied. 
On the right, Strideu-edge round the Red-tarn was 

bending, 
Aud Catehedicam Its left; verge was defending. 
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending. 
When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer 
had died. 

Dark green was the spot 'mid the brown mouutain 
heather. 
Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in 
decay, 
Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather. 
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantlcss 
clay. 
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extetided ; 
For, faithful in death, his mute favorite atteuded, 
The much-loved remains of her master defended, 
Aud chased the hill fox aud the raven away. 

How long didst thou thiuk that his silence was 
slumber 1 
When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst 
thou start? 
How many long days aud long weeks didst thou 
number 
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? 
And oh, was it meet that, no requiem read o'er him, 
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, 
And thou, little guardian, aloue stretched before him, 
Unhouorcd the pilgrim from life should depart ? 

When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded. 
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted 
hall ; 
With 'scutclieous of silver the coffin is shielded, 
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : 
Through the courts, at deep miduight, the torches 

are gleaming ; 
In the prondly-arched chapel the banners are beam- 
ing ; 
Far adowu the lone aisle sacred music is streaming, 
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. 



But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, 

To lay down thy head like the meek mouutain 

lamb, 

When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in 

stature, 

And draws his last sob by tlie side of his dam : 

And more stately thy couch by this desert lake 

'yi"g, 
Tliy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, 
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying 
lu the arms of Helvellyn and Catehedicam. 



JOCK OF HAZELDEAN.' 

" Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ? 

Why weep ye by the tide ? 
I'll wed ye to my youngest sou, 

Aud ye sail be his bride ; 
Aud ye sail be his bride, ladie, 

Sae comely to be seen " — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

"Now let this wilfu' grief be done, 

Aud dry that clieek so pale ; 
Young Frank is chief of Errington, 

And lord of Laugley-dale ; 
His step is first in peaceful ha', 

His sword in battle keen " — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

"A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 

Nor braid to bind your hair ; 
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 

Nor jialfrey fresh aud fair ; 
And you, the foremost of them a', 

Shall ride our forest queen" — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

The kirk was decked at moruing-tide. 

The tapers glimmered fair ; 
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 

Aud dame and knight are there. 
They sought her baith by bower aud ha'; 

The ladie was not seen ! 
She's o'er the Border, and awa' 

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 



1 Suggested by the old ballad of "Jock o' Ilazelgreen," which 
see, page 1G3. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 



■Mn 



CORONACH. 

lie is gone on tlio mountain, 

lie is lost to tlie forest, 
Like a snmmer-ilrieil fountain, 

Wlien onr iieed n-as the sorest. 
Till' font, roappearinff, 

I'roiu tlio rain-droiis shall borrow, 
But to us couics no cheering, 

To Duncan no morrow ! 

Tlio hand of tho reaper 

Takes the ears that are hoary. 
But the voice of tho weeper 

Wails manhooil in glory. 
The autumn winds rushing, 

Waft the leaves that are scarest, 
I)iit our flower was in flushing. 

When blighting was nearest. 

Fleet foot on the correi," 

Sago counsel in cnniber. 
Red hand in the foray, 

riow sound is tliy slnmhcr! 
Like the dew on the mountain, 

Like the foan\ on the river. 
Like the bnblile ou the l°(>unt:iin. 

Thou art gone, auil forever ! 



riRROcii or DoxriL dhu. 

I'iliroch of Donuil Dim, pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy wild voice anew, summon Clan-Coniiil. 
Como away, como away, hark to tho summons ! 
Como in your war array, gentles and coiniiions. 

Come from deep glen, and from mountain so rocky, 
Tho war-pipe and pennon arc at Inverlocliy. 
Como every liill-phiid, and true heart that wears one. 
Come every steel blade, and strong hand that bears 
one. 

Leave untcnded tho herd, the flock without shelter; 
Leave tho corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar; 
Leave the decr,leavc the steer, leave nets and barges: 
Como with your lighting gear, broadswords and 
targes. 

Come .IS the winds come, when forests are rcndcd ; 
Come as the waves come, when navies arc stranded : 

■ The hollow eltlc or the bill, where game osaally lies. 



Faster come, faster come, faster and faster. 
Chief, va.ssal, Jiago, and groom, tenant and master. 

Fast they come, fast they come; seo how they 

gather ! 
Wide waves the eagle plume, blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each 

man set ! 
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, knell for the ouset! 



BORDER B.VLLAD. 

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdalo; 

Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdalc, 

All the Blue Bonnets are bound for tho Border, 
Many a banner spread 
Flutters above your head. 
Many a crest that is famous iu story. 
Mount and make ready then, 
Sons of tho mountain glen ; 
Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory. 

Como from the hills where your hirsels are grazing. 

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; 
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, 
Como with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. 
Trumpets are sonndiug. 
War-steeds arc bounding, 
Stand to your arms, and march in good order; 
Engl.and shall many a day 
Tell of the bloody fray. 
When tho Blue Bonnets came over the Border. 



REBECCA'.S IIYMX. 

When Israel, of the Lord beloved. 

Out from tho land of bondage came, 
Ilcr fathers' God before her moved. 

An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
By day, along tho astoiiislic<l lands 

The cloudy pillar glided slow ; 
By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands 

Returned the fiery column's glow. 

There rose the choral hymn of praise. 
And trump and timbrel aiiswereil keen; 

And Zion's daughters ponrcd their lays. 
With priest's and warrior's voice between. 

No portents now our foes amaze ; 
Forsaken Israel wanders lone : 



302 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Oiir fatliers would not know Thy ways, 
Aud Tliou hast left them to their own. 

But present still, though now nuseeu ! 

When brightly shines the iirosperous day, 
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen. 

To temper the deceitful ray. 
And oh, when stoops on Judah's path 

In shade aud storm the frequent night. 
Be Thou, long-snfferiug, slow to wrath, 

A burning aud a shining light ! 

Onr harps we left by Babel's streams, 

The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; 
No censer round our altar beams, 

Aud mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. 
But Thou hast said, The Idood of goat, 

The flesh of rams, I will not prize ; 
A contrite heart, a humble thought, 

Are mine accepted sacrifice. 



SONG. 
From "The Ladt of the Lake." 

The heath this night must be my bed. 
The bracken,' curtain for my head, — 
5Iy lullaby, the warder's tread, 

Far, far, from love and thee, Mary ; 
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid. 
My couch may be my bloody plaid, 
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid ! 

It will not waken me, Mary ! 

I may not, dare not, fancy now 

The grief that clouds thy lovely brow ; 

I dare not think upon thy vow. 

And all it promised me, Mary. 
No fond regret must Norman know ; 
When bursts Clau-Aliiiuo on the foe, 
His heart, must be like bended bow, 

His foot like arrow free, Mary 

A time will come witli feeling fraught ; 
For, if I fall in battle fought. 
Thy hapless lover's dying thought 

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. 
And, if returned from conquered foes, 
How blithely will the evening close, 
How sweet the linnet sing repose. 

To my young bride and nie, Mary ! 

> Fern. 



NORA'S VOW. 

Hear what Highland Nora said : 
"The Earlie's son I will not wed, 
Should all the race of nature die, 
And none be left but he and I. 
For all the gold, for all the gear, 
Aud all the lands both far and near, 
That ever valor lost or won, 
I would not wed the Earlie's son !" 

"A maiden's vows," old C'allum spoke, 
"Are lightly made and lightly broke; 
The heather on the moirntain's height 
Begins to bloom in purple light : 
The frost-wind soou shall sweep away 
Tliat lustre deep from glen aud brae ; 
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone, 
May blithely wed the Earlie's son." 

" The swan," .she said, " the lake's clear breast 
May barter for the eagle's nest ; 
The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn, 
Ben-Cruaichan fall aud crush Kilchuru ; 
Our kilted clans, when blood is high. 
Before their foes may turn aud fly ; 
But /, were all these marvels done. 
Would never wed the Earlie's sou." 

Still in the water-lily's shade 

Her wonted uest the wild-swan made ; 

Beu-Cruaichau stands as fast as ever, 

Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river ; 

To shun the clash of foemau's steel. 

No Highland In-ogne has turned the heel ; 

But Nora's heart is lost and won — 

She's wedded to the Earlie's son ! 



i?amcs illontoioincrji. 



Montgomery (1771-18.54), son of a Moravian mission- 
ary, was a native of Irvine, in Ayrshire, Scotland. While 
at school in Yorkshire, he heard of tlie death of both his 
j)arents in the East Indies. He began life as assistant in 
a village shop ; went to London, tried to get a volume 
of poems published, but failed. He then entered tlie 
service of Mr. Joseph Gales, of Sheffield, futlier of the 
mucli -esteemed gentleman of the same name who be- 
came one of the founders of the National I/itdtir/mcer, 
long the leading newspaper in Washington, D. C. In 
1791 Montgomery started tlie Sheffield Iris, and was im- 
prisoned three months for printing some verses by an 
entire stranger, that proved offensive to government. 
The following year he was imprisoned six months and 



JJMES MONTGOMERT. 



303 



lined because of seditious rcinaiks on a riot at SlictBeld, 
where two men were shot by soldiers. 

The chief poetical works of Montgomery are, "The 
Wanderer in Switzerland" (ISOti); "The West Indies" 
(1809); "Greenland" (ISIO); "Tlio World before the 
Flood" (1812); "The Pelican Island, and Other Poems" 
(1827). In addition to these he published "Songs of 
Zion"(1822): "Prose by a Poet" (1824). But his strength 
lies rather in his lyrics than in his long poems. Many 
of bis short pieces arc distinguished for their tenderness 
and grace, and in some of his hymns high literary art is 
united witli deep religious feeling. Mrs. Sigourncy, the 
.\mcriean authoress, who saw him in 1840, describes him 
.IS " small of stature, with an amiable couutcnaucc, and 
;igrceablc, gentlemanly mannei-s." 



THE CU.M1I0X LOT. 

Once iu the fliglit of ages pnst 

There lived a man ; and who was he f 

Mortal ! hono'er thy lot ho cast, 
Tliat niau resembled thee. 

I'nknown the region of his hirth, 

The laud in which lie died unknown : 

His name hath perished from the earth ; 
This truth survives alone : — 

That jny and grief, and hope and fear, 
Alternate triumphed in his breast; 

His liliss and woe, — a smile, a tear! 
Ohliviou hides the rest. 

The bounding pulse, the languid limb, 
The changing spirits' rise and fall. 

AVe know that these were felt by him, 
For these are felt by all. 

He suffered — but his pangs are o'er ; 

Enjoyed — but his dclight.s are fled ; 
Had friends— his friends are now no more ; 

And foes — his foes are dead. 

He loved — but whom he loved the grave 
Hath lost in its uncouscious womb ; 

Oh I she was fair! but naught could save 
Her beauty from the tomb. 

He saw whatever thou hast seen ; 

Encountered all that troubles thee ; 
Ho was — whatever thou hast been ; 

H(- is — what thou slialt be! 

The rnlling seasons, day and night, 

Sun, uioou, and stars, the earth and main, 



Erewhile his portion, life and light, 
To him exist iu vaiu. 

The clouds and sunbeams o'er his eye 
That ouce their shade and glory threw. 

Have left, in yonder silent sky, 
No vestigo where they flew. 

The annals of the human race, 

Their ruins since the world began. 

Of him alford no other trace 

Than this — Tiikkk lived a jiax. 



FOREVER AVITII TIIE LORD. 

Forever with the Lord! 
Amen ! so let it he ! 
Life from the dead is in that word, 
And immortality. 

Here in the body pent, 
Ab.scnt from him I roam, 
Yet nightly pitch my moving teut 
A day's march nearer home. 

My Father's house on high, 
Homo of my soul ! how near 
At times to Faith's foreseeing eye 
Thy golden gates appear! 

All! then my spirit faints 
To reach the land I love. 
The bright inheritance of saints, 
Jerusalem above! 

Yet clonds will intervene, 
And all my prospect flies ; 
Like Noah's dove, I flit between 
Rough seas and stormy skies. 

Anon the clonds depart. 
The winds and waters cease ; 
While sweetly o'er my gladdened heart 
Expands the bow of peace ! 

Beneath its glowing arch. 
Along the hallowed ground, 
I see chcrubie armies march, 
A camp of fire around. 

I hear at morn and even, 
At noon and inidni^ght hour, 



304 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN FOETBT. 



Tlie choral harmonies of heaven 
Earth's Babel tongues o'erpower. 

Then, then I feel that he, 
Remembered or forgot, 
The Lord is ne\er far from me, 
Tliongh I perceive him not. 

Ill darkness as in light. 
Hidden alike from view, 
I sleep, I wake, as in his sight 
Who looks all nature through. 

All that I am, have been. 
All that I yet may be, 
He sees at once, as he hath seen. 
And shall forever see. 

"Forever with the Lord;" 
Father, if 'tis thy will, 
The promise of that faithful word 
Uuto thy child fulfil ! 

So, when my latest breath 
Shall rend the veil in twain, 
By death I shall escape from death, 
And life eternal gain. 



YOUTH RENEWED. 

Spring flowers, spring birds, spring breezes 

Are felt, and heard, and seen ; 

Light trembling transport seizes 

My heart, — with sighs between: 

These old enchantments fill the mind 

Witli scenes and seasons far behind : 

Childhood, its smiles and tears. 

Youth, with its flush of years. 

Its morning clouds and dewy prime. 

More exquisitely touched by Time. 

Fancies again are springing, 
Like May-flowers in the vales ; 
While hopes, long lost, are singing. 
From thorns, like nightingales ; 
And kindly spirits stir my blood. 
Like vernal airs that curl the flood : 
There falls to manhood's lot 
A joy, which youth has not, 
A dream, more beautiful tlian truth, 
— Returning Spring renewing Youth. 



Thus sweetly to surrender 

The jireseut for the past ; 

In sprightly mood, yet tender, 

Life's burden down to cast, 

— This is to taste, from stage to stage, 

Youth on the lees refined by age : 

Like wine well kejit and long, 

Heady, nor harsh, nor strong. 

With every annual cup, is quatfed 

A richer, iiurer, mellower draught. 



LIFT UP THINE EYES, AFFLICTED SOUL. 

Lift up thine eyes, afflicted soul ! 

From earth lift up thine eyes. 
Though dark the evening shadows roll, 

And daylight beauty dies ; 
One sun is set — a thousand more 

Their rounds of glory run. 
Where science leads thee to explore 

In every star a snn. 

Thus, when some long-loved comfort ends, 

And nature would despair. 
Faith to the heaven of heavens ascends. 

And meets ten thousand there ; 
First fiiint and small, then clear and bright, 

They gladilen all the gloom. 
And stars that seem but points of light 

The rank of suns assume. 



SONNET: THE CRUCIFIXION. 

IMITATED FnOM THE ITALIAN OF CRESClMIiENI. 

I asked the Heavens, — " What foe to God hath done 

This unexampled deed ?" The Heavens exclaim, 

" 'Twas Man ; — and we in horror snatched the sun 

From such a spectacle of guilt and shame." 

I asked the Sea ; — the Sea in fury boiled. 

And answered with his voice of storms, "'Twas 

5Ian : 
My waves in ji.auic at his crime recoiled. 
Disclosed the abyss, and from the centre ran." 
I asked the E.artli ; — the Earth replied, aghast, 
" 'Twas Man ; and such strange pangs my bosom 

rent. 
That still I groan and shudder at the past." 
— To Man, gay, smiling, thoughtless Man, I went, 
And asked him next : — He turned a scornful eye, 
Shook his proud head, and deigned mo no reply. 



JA3IES MOXTGOMERT.— SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



3u:> 



HUMILITY. 

The bird that soars on liisliPst wing, 
Builds on the jinmiiil liiT lowly iitst ; 

Ami she that doth most sweetly sing, 
Sings iu tho shade when all things rest : 

— In lark and nightingale we see 

What honor hath hnniility. 

NVhon Mary chose "the bettor part," 

She meekly sat at Jesus' feet; 
And Lydia's gently opened heart 

Was made for God's own temple meet ; 
— Fairest and best adorned is she, 
Whose clothing is hnniility. 

The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown, 

In deepest adoration bends ; 
Tho weight of glory bows him down, 

Then most when most his soul ascends: 
— Xcarest tho throne itself mnst be 
The footstool of humility. 



Saiuucl (Lixnlor iColcriiJgc. 

The son of a vicar, C'olcridiic (1773-18^4) was born at 
Ottcry, Devonsliire, October 21st. Leil an orphan at 
nine years of age, he became a pupil at Christ's Hospi- 
tal, where he had Charles Lamb fora fchool-fcllow. In 
1?J1 he entered at Jcsu3 College, Cambridge, where he 
obtained the prize for a Greek ode on the subject of the 
slave-trade. Becoming a Unitarian in bis religious opin- 
ions, he deserted the University in the second year of 
his residence, and, after waudering about the stieets of 
London in a stale of destitution, at last enlisted in the 
1.51b Dragoons. From this position he was rcscned by 
his friends, and returned to Cambridge. Eventually he 
left the University without taking a degree. At Bris- 
tol be formed the acquaintance of Soutbey and Robert 
Lovell. Tliey planned the founding of a panlisocracy 
(an all-equal government) on the banks of the Susque- 
hanna ; but lack of means compelled them to give up 
the wild scheme. The ideal republic evaporated in the 
more matter-of-fact event of love and matrimony ; and 
the three pantisocrats married three sisters of the name 
of Frickcr, daughters of a small Bristol tradesman. 

In 17M Coleridge published a volume of poems, for 
which Cottle gave him £;». It was while occupying a 
cott;ige at Nether- Stowcy that be became acquainted 
with Wordsworth; and here he composed bis "Ancient 
Mariner" and bis "Christabcl." In l?.lti he published 
another volume of poems, interspersed with pieces by 
diaries Lamb. In 17!W, liy the kindness of Mr. Thomas 
Wedgwood, he was enabled to pursue bis studies in Ger- 
many. On bis return to Eniiland, he went to live at the 
Cumberland Lakes, where Soulliey and Wordsworth 
were already settled. The tlii-ee friends were called the 
20 



Lake poets ; and the Lake School of poetry became an 
object of attack to Byron and others. Here the Jaco- 
bin became a Royalist, and the Unitarian a devoted be- 
liever in the Trinity. 

In 1810 Coleridge removed, but not with his family, to 
London. Leaving his wife and children dependent on 
the kindness of Southey, he settled at the house of Mr. 
James Gillmau, at Higligate, where he lived the remain- 
der of his life. He bad become addicted to opium-eat- 
ing, and a painful estrangement ensued between himself 
and his family. Mr. Gillman, who was a surgeon, under- 
took the cure of this unfoitanate habit. At Higligate 
Coleridge wrote his "Lay Sermons," his "Aids to Re- 
flection," and the "Biogiaphia Literaria." There, like- 
wise, he studied the German metaphysicians, and became 
noted for bis rare conversational powers. The winter 
preceding his death he wrote the following epitaph for 
himself: 
"Stop, Christian passer-by ! stop, child of God '. 

Aud read with gentle breast. Beneath this god 

A poet lies, or that which ouce seemed he — 

Oil, lift a thought in prayer for S. T. C. ! 

That he who many a year with toil of breatli 

Found death in life, may here tiiid life iu death I 

Mercy Air praise — to be forgiven for fame, 

Ue asked and hoped through Christ — do thoa the same '." 

The poems of Coleridge arc various in style and man- 
ner, embracing ode, tragedy, and lovc-poems. and strains 
of patriotism and superstition. His translation of Schil- 
ler's " Wallcnstein" is, in many part*, less a ti^anslation 
than a paraphrase, and often shows a lavishness of orig- 
inal power. As a Shakspearian critic, be stands deser- 
vedly high ; aud among philosophers, his fame as an ex- 
pounder of the thoughts of others is still considerable. 

The most original of Coleridge's poems, "The Ancient 
Mariner," has a weird charm which has given it much 
celebrity. The hymn on "Cbaraouni," fervid, stately, 
and brilliant, is, in parts, a paraphrase from the German 
of Friederike Brun's "Chamouni at Sunrise." The ed- 
itor of Coleridge's "Table Talk" admits the obligation, 
but excuses it on the ground that it is too obvious to 
be concealed. AVe append the original, and a transla- 
tion of it by John Sullivan Dwight, of Boston. 

"Aus tiefem Schattcu dcs schwcigeiidcn Tanneuhaius 
Erbliclv ich bebeud dich, Sclieitel dcr Ewigkeit, 
Blendendcr Gipfcl, von desscn HOhe 
Atinciid inuiii Geist iiis Uucndlichc schwcbct ! 

" Wcr tcnkle den Pfeiler ticf in dcr Erdc Schoos, 
Der seit Jahrtntiseuden, fest deinc Masse stutzt? 
Wer th&rmle hoch iu des Aethers Wulliniig 
Miichtig uiid kijlin dcin umstrahltes Antlit/. f 

" Wer gops Each hoch ans dcs ewigeii Winters Rcicb, 
O Ziickeostrume, mit Doiiiiergelos', hcrab? 
Und wer gcbiclct lant mit der Allmacht Stimmc: 
• liter solleii rnhcn die starrcudcu Wogeii f ' 

"Wer zcichnct dort dem Morgensterne die Bnhn? 
Wer krfinzt mit Bliilheii dea cwigen Frostcs Saum ? 
Wem I5nt in schrccklichcii llarmnuien, 
Wilder Arveiroii, dcin Wogcniummcl f 

"Jehovah! Jehovah 1 kracht's im bcrstcnden Els; 
Lnvinciidonner rolleu's die Kluft hiiinb: 
Jehovah 1 raiiscbt's in den hcllen Wipfehi, 
FlUbetcrl's au ricseldcu Silbcrbiichuii." 



306 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEltlCAN POliTRY. 



TRANSLATION. 

" From the deep shadow of the still fli-groves 
Trembling I look to thee, eternal height ! 
Thou dazzliug sr.mmit, from whose top my soul 
Floats, with dimmed visiou, to the intiuite! 

*' \yho sank in earth's firm lap the pillars deep 
Which hold through ages thy vast pile iu place ? 
Who reared on high, in the clear ether's vault, 
Lofty and strong, thy ever-radiant face ? 

"Who poured yon forth, ye mountain torrents wild, 
Down thundering from eternal winter's breast ? 
And who commanded, with almighty voice, 
'Here let the stiii'euing billows find their rest?' 

*'\Vho ])oints to yonder morning-star his path? 

Borders with wreaths of tiowers the eternal frost? 
To whom, in awful music, cries thy stream, 
O wild Arveirou ! in fierce tumult tossed ? 

"Jehovah ! God I hursts from the crashing ice; 
The avalanclie thunders down its steeps the call : 
Jehovah ! rustle soft the bright tree-tops. 
Whisper the silver brooks that murmuring fall." 

The fame of Coleridge has suffered no diminution since 
his death. Great as a tliinker and critic, he is yet more 
eminent for bis natural gifts as a poet. 



LOVE. 

All tliougbts, all jias.sions, all delights, 
Whatever stir fliis mortal frame, 
AH arc but miuisters of Love, 
Anil feeil his sacred flame. 

Oft in ray wnking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour. 
When midway on the mount I lay 
Beside the ruined tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, 
Had blendetl with the lights of eve ; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve! 

She leaned against the armed man, 
The statue of the armdd knight ; 
She stood and listened to my lay. 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own. 
My hoi)e, my joy, my Genevieve ! 
She loves me best whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 

I played .a soft and doleful air, 
I saug an old and moving story — 
Au old rude .song, that suited well 
Th.at ruin Avild and hoavy. 



She listened with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes and modest grace : 
For well she knew I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the knight th.at wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand, 
And how for ten h)ng years he wooed 
The Lady of the Land : 

I told her how he pinetl : and ah! 
The deep, the low, the i)leading tone 
With ■which I sang another's love, 
Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
And she forgave mo that I gazed 
Too foudly on her face ! 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely knight. 
And how ho crossed the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 
And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, — 

Tliere came and looked him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright; 
And how he knew it was a tiend, 
Tliis miserable knight ! 

And how, tinknowing what ho did, 
He leapeil amid a murderous band, 
And saved from outrage worse than death 
The Lady of the Land ;— 

And how she wept, and clasped his knees ; 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ;^ 

And how she nursed him iu a cave ; 
And how his madness went away 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay ; — 

His dyiug words — but when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity! 



SAMVEL TAYLOR COLEItlDGE. 



:m 



All impulses of soul nud scnso 
Il!icl tlii'ilU'(l my f;"'''''"'**** Oeiicviove : 
Tlio niMsic ami the (lololul talc, 
Tlio rich and Ijaliiiy evo ; 

Ami hopes, ami IVars that kimlli' hupo, 
All UMilisliii^nishahlo throng; 
And gonllo wishes long suhduod, 
Subdinil and ciiirishod long! 

Slio wept with pity and delight, 
She blushed with lovo and maiden shame ; 
And. like the murmur of a dream, 
I licaid her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved — she stepped aside 
As couscious of my look she stepped ; 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye, 
She Hew to me and wept. 

She half enclosed mo with licr arms, 
She pre.ssed mo with a meek embrace ; 
And, bending back her head, looked up. 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, aiul i)artly fear. 
And partly 'twas a bashful art. 
That I might rather feci thau see 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she w.is calm, 
AikI told her lovo with virgin pride; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 
My bright and beauteous bride. 



HYMN liKFORK SIWRISK IN THE VALE OF 
C'lIAMOlNI. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 

In his steep course ? So long ho seems to pau.so 

On thy bald, awful head, O sovran IJlauc '. 

Tho \r\6 ami Arveiron at thy base 

Have ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! 

Riscst from forth thy silent sea of pines 

How silently! Around theo and .nbove 

Deep is the air, and dark, suljslantijil. black, 

-Vu eboii m.xss : mcthiuks thou piereest it 

As with a wedge ! Hut when I look again. 

It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 

Thy habitation from et<'rnity! 

O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon tliei> 

Till thou, still jircseut to the bodily sense, 



Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer 
I worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody. 

So sweet wo know not wo are listeniug to it, 

Thou, th() mean while, wast blending with my 

thought, 
Yea, witli my life, and lile's own secret joy, 
Till the dilating soul, eurapt, transfu.scd, 
luto tho mighty vision passing — there, 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven ! 

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears. 
Mute thaidis, and secret ecstasy! Aw.akc, 
Voice of sw^eet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy clilfs, all join my hynni ! 

Thou first and chief, scde sovran of tho vale! 
Ob, struggling with tho darkness all the night, 
Aud visited all night by troops of stars. 
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink : 
Companion of the moruing-star at dawn. 
Thyself earth's ro.sy star, aud of the dawn 
Co-herald : wake, oh wake, and utter praise I 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who uiado tlie<S jiarcnt of perpetual streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely gl.td ! 

Who called you forth from night and utter death. 

From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 

Down those precipitous, black, jagg(Sd I'ocks, 

Forever shattered, and tho same forever T 

Who gave you your invulnerable life, 

Y'our strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 

I7nccasing thunder and eternal foam f 

Aud who commanded (ami tho silence came). 

Hero let the billows stilfcn aud have rest? 

Yo ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at onco amid their maddest pluugo ! 
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! 
Who made you glorious as tho gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen full-moon? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living 

flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread g.arlands at your feet f 
God! Let tho torrents, like a shout of nations. 
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, Go<l I 
God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! 



308 



CYCLOl'MDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like somuls! 
And they too have a voice, you piles of snow. 
And iu their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ve living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
Y(? wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountaiu-stonn! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and ivonders of the elements ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills witli praise! 

Thou too, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peal'Cs, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, uiilieard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure 

serene, 
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast — 
Thou too again, stupendous mountain ! thou 
That, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory clond, 
To rise before me, — rise, oh ever rise ! 
Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth ! 
Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills. 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky. 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun. 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God ! 



COMPLAINT. 



IIow seldom, friend, a good great man inherits 
Honor or vrealth, with .all his worth and pains 
It sounds like stories from the laud of spirits. 
If any man obtain that which he merits. 
Or any merit that which he obtains. 



liEPIiOOF. 

For shame, dear friend ! renounce this canting 

strain ! 
What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain ? 
Place — titles — salary — a gilded chain — 
Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain f — 
Greatness and goodness are not means, .biit ends ! 
Hath he not always treasures, always friends, 
The good great man ? — Three treasures, love, and 

light. 
And calm thoughts, regular .as infant's breath; — 
And three firm friends, more sure than day and 

night — 
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. 



HUMAN LIFE. 

ON THE DENIAL OF IM.MORTALITY. 

If dead, we cease to be; if total gloom 

Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare 
As summer-gusts, of sudden birth aud doom. 

Whose sound aud motion not alone declare. 
But arc the u-hole of being ! If the breath 

Be life itself, aud not its task and tent ; 
If e'en a soul like Milton's can know death; 

O man ! thou vessel, imrposeless, unmeant, 
Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes ! 

Surplus of Nature's dread activity, 
Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finished vase. 
Retreating slow, with meditative pause. 

She formed with restless hands unconsciously! 
Blank accident! nothing's anomaly! 

If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state. 
Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes, thy fears. 
The counter-weights ! — Thy laughter and thy tears 

Mean but themselves, each fittest to create. 
And to repiiy the other! Why rejoices 

Tliy heart with hollow joy for liollow good ? 

Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood ? 
Why waste thy sighs, aud thy lamenting voices. 

Image of image, ghost of ghostly elf, 
That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold? 
Yet what aud whence thy gain if thou withhold 

These costly shadows of thy sh.adowy self? 
Be sad! be glad! be neither! seek or shun! 
Thou hast no reason why; thou canst have none; 
Thv being's being is a contradiction. 



FANCY IN NUBIBUS ; OR, THE POET IN 
THE CLOUDS. 

Oh, it is pleasant, with a heart at ease. 

Just after sunset or by moonlight skies. 

To malce the shifting clouds bo what you please. 

Or let the easily persuaded eyes 

Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould 

Of a friend's fancy ; or, with head bent low, 

And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold 

'Twixt crimson banks ; and then, a traveller, go 

From mount to mount through Cloiullaud, gorgeous 

land! 
Or, listening to the tide with closed sight. 
Be that blind bard who, on the Chiau strand. 
By those deep sounds possessed with inward light, 
Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee 
Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



309 



i.ovi:, iiori:. axm patience ix education. 

OVr wiiywanl cbiUlhood woiildst tluiii licild liiiii 

nil.', 
Ami siiii tlico in tho light of liappy faces, 
1 ,ovc, Hoiio, and Patience, tlicse must bo tliy graces, 
And in tliino own beart let tliem first keep scliool. 
I'or as old Atlas on liis broad neck places 
Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it, — so 
Do these upbear tho little world below 
(If Education, — Patience, Love, and Hope. 
Methinks I sec them grouped iu seemly show, 
Tho straitened arms tipraised, the palms aslope. 
And robi's that, touching as adown they flow 
Distinctly blend, like snow embossed iu snow. 
(), part them never! If Hope prostrate lie. 

Love too will sink aiul die. 
Hut Lovo is subtle, and doth proof derive 
From her own life that Hope is yet alive; 
And, bending o'er with soul-transfusing eyes, 
And the soft murmurs of tho mother-dove, 
Woos back the lleuting spirit and half-supplies; — 
Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope lirst gave 

to Love. 
Yet baply there will eonu! a weary day, 

■\Vhen, overtasked at length, 
Both Lovo and Hope beneath the load give way. 
Then, with a statue's smile, a statue's strength, 
Stands the mute sister. Patience, nolbing loath, 
Aud both supporting, does the work of both. 



Life and life's effluence, cloud at onco and shower, 

Joy, lady, is the spirit and tho power 

Which wedding Nature to us gives iu dower ; 

A new earth aud new heaven, 
Uiulreamed of by the sensual and tlie proud — 
Joy is tho sweet voice, joy the Inniinons cloud — 

AVo iu ourselves rejoice! 
And theuco flows all that charms or ear or sight, 

All melodies the echoes of that voice, 
All colors a suffusiou from that light. 



rUOM "DEJECTION: AN ODE." 

O lady ! we receive but what we give. 
Ami iu our life alone docs nature live: 
Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud I 

And would wo aught behold of higher worth 
Than that inanimate, cold world allowed 
To tho poor, loveless, cvor-aiixious crowd. 

Ah ! from the soul itself must is.sne forth 
A light, a glory, a fair, luminous cloud 

Kuveloping tho earth ; 
Anil from the .soul itself must there bo scut 

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, 
Of all sweet sounds tho life and element! 
O puro of heart ! thou nccd'st not ask of nic 
What this strong music in tho soul may be ; 
What, aud wherein it doth exist. 
This light, this glory, this fair, luminous mist. 
This beautiful and beauty-making power! 

Joy, virtiiouB lady ! joy that ne'er was given 
Save to the ]inre. and in their purest hour; 



DEATH OF MAX PICCOLOMINI. 

FitoM Schiller's " Df.at!i of W,\llensteix."' 

Ill his traiislntiou of "Wnllcnstcin," Coleridge has occasion- 
ally talieu great liberties with tlie original. The followin;,' 
benntirul passage has iu it more of Coleridge thau of Schiller. 

Ho is gone — is dust. 



Ho the more fortunate! yea, ho hath linishod ! 

For him there is no longer any future. 

His life is bright — bright without spot it wag, 

Aud cannot cease to be. No ominous hour 

Knocks at bis door with tidings of mishap. 

Far oft' is be, above desire and fear ; 

No more submitted to tho change and ehanco 

Of the nusteady planets. Oh, 'tis well 

With him! but who knows what tbo coming hour, 

Veiled in thick darkness, brings for us ? 

# * J* « (t H 

I shall grieve down this blow ; of that I'm eon- 

.scions : 
What does not man grieve down? From tlu' 

highest. 
As from the vilest, thing of every day 
He Icarus to wean himself; for tho strong hours 
Comiuer him. Yet I feel what I have lost 
In bini. The bloom is vanished from my life. 
For oh, bo stood besido me, like my youth, 
Tran.sformed for me the real to a dream. 
Clothing tho palpable and familiar 
With golden exhalations of tbo dawu. 
Whatever fortunes wait my future toils, 
Tbo beautiful is vanished — aud returns not. 



EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 

Ere sin could blight, or .sorrow fade. 

Death came with friendly care. 
The opening bud to heaveu convoyed, 

And bade it blossom there. 



310 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE EIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

IM SEVEN FARTS. 

*' Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibles quiim visibiles 
iu rernm univer&itate. Sed liornm orauium faniiliaiu qtiis no- 
bis euarrabir, et j;radiis et eoguationes et discriniiua eL singu- 
lonini mnnei'a? Quid agiint? qnic loca habitant? Hariiin re- 
nim iiotitiam semper aml)ivit ingeuimn liumamim, nuuquam 
attitjit. Jiivat, iuterea,uon diffiteor, qiiandoqne in auimo, taii- 
qiiain iu tabula, majoris et meliovis niuudi iraaginetn coiitein- 
plari : «e mcus assuetacta liodicriue vitaB niiimtiis se couti'aliat 
nimis, et tola subsidat in pusillas cngitationes. Sed veiitati 
iuterea invigilanduui est, modusque servaudus, ut certa ab in- 
certis, diem a uocle, distinguanius." — T. Burnet: Archceol. 
Phil., p. 6S. 

PART I. 

It is an aiK'iciit iiiai-iiiev, 

Ami ho .stopiietli one of three : 
" By thy long gray beard ami glittering eye, 

Now wherefore stopp'st thou nie ? 



" The bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 

And I am next of kin ; 
The gnests are met, the feast is set : 

Mayst hear the merry din." 

Ho holds him with his sliinny Iiand : 
" There was a ship," quoth he. 

"Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard loon!" 
Eftsoons liis hand dropped he. 

He holds him with his glittering eye — 
The weddiug-giiest stood still. 

And listens lilie a three-years' child ; 
The mariner hath liis will. 

The ■wedding-gne.st sat ou a stone. 

He cannot chooso but hear ; 
And thus spake ou that ancient man. 

The bright-eyed mariner: — 

The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared, 

Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill. 

Below the light-house top. 

The sun came up upon the left. 

Out of the sea came he, 
And he slione bright, and ou the right 

Went down into the sea. 

Higher and higher every day. 
Till over the mast at noon — 

The weddiug-gnest here beat his breast, 
For he heard the loud bassoon. 



The bride hath paced into the hall, 

Red as a rose is she ; 
Nodding their heads before her goes 

The merry niiustrelsy. 

The wedding-guest he beat his breast, 

Yet he cannot choose but hear; 
And thus spake ou that ancient juau, 

The bright-eyed mariner : — 

And uow the storm-blast came, and he 

Was tyrannous and strong ; 
He struck with his o'ert.aking wings. 

And chased us south along. 

With sloping masts and dipping prow, 
As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe, 

And forward bends his head. 
The ship drove fast, loud I'oarcd the blast, 

And southward aye wo fled. 

And now there came both mist aud snow. 

And it grew wondrous cold ; 
Aud ice, mast-high, came floating by. 

As greeu as emerald. 

And through the drifts the snowy clifts 

Did .send a dismal sheen : 
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 

The ice was all between, 

The ice was here, the ice was there. 

The ice was all around : 
It cracked and growled, aud roared aud howled, 

Like noises in .a swound! 

At length did cross an albatross : 

Thorough the fog it came ; 
As if it had been a Christian soul, 

We hailed it in God's name. 

It ate the food it ue'er had eat. 

And round aud round it flew. 
The ice did split with a thunder-fit; 

The helmsman steered us through ! 

And a good south wind sprung up behind ; 

The albatross did follow, 
Aud every day, for food or play, 

Came to the mariner's hollo ! 

In mist or cloud, ou mast or shroud, 
It perched for vespers uiue : 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEIiWGL: 



311 



Wliilos all tlie nielli, tlin)iii;li t'c)p;-siiioko white 
GliiiiiiiL'ix'il till! while iiiiiuii.sliiiR'. 

" God s:ivo thco, ancient inariuer ! 

From the licntls that plagno thee thus! 
Why h)()k'st Ihiiii so?" — Willi my cioss-bow 

I shut the albatross. 



The snn now rose upon the right : 

Out of the sea came ho, 
Still hill ill mist, ami on tho left 

Went ilowu into the sea. 

Anil tlio good south -wind still blew boliiml, 

Hut no sweet bird did fullow, 
Nor any day for food or jilay 

Camo to the mariners' hollo ! 

And I had done a hellish thing, 

And it would work 'em woo ; 
Tor all averred I had killed the bird 

That made the breeze to blow. 
Ah wretch ! said they, tho bird to slay, 

That made tho breeze to blow ! 

Xor dim nor red, like God'.s own head, 

The jilorioii.s sun uprist : 
Then all averred I had killed the bird 

That brought tho fog and mist. 
'Tw.as right, said they, such birds to slay 

Tliat bring the fog and mist. 

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 

The furrow followed free ; 
We were tho first that ever burst 

Into that silent sea. 

Down dropped the breeze, the .sails dropped down, 

'Twas sad as sad could be; 
And wo did speak only to break 

The silence of tho sea ! 

All ill a hot and copper sky, 

The bloody sun, at noon, 
Right up above tho mast did stand, 



Day after day, day after day. 

Wo stuck, nor breath nor inotiou ; 

As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 



Water, water, everywhere, 

.\nd all the boards did shrink : 
Water, water, everywhere. 

Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot : O Christ ! 

That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did eiawl with leg.s 

Upon the slimy sea. 

About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-lires danced at night; 

Tho water, like a witch's oils, 
Burut green, aud blue, aud white. 

And some in dreams assnrfid wore 
Of the spirit that plagued us so; 

Nino fathoms deep he had followed ns 
From the laud of mist and snow. 

And every tongue, through utter drought, 

Was withered at the root; 
Wo coiilil not speak, no more than if 

We had been choked with soot. 

Ah! wcll-a-dayl what evil looks 

Had I from old and young! 
Instead of the cross, the albatross 

About my neck was hung. 

PAIiT TIT. 

There pas.sed a weary time. Kaeh throat 
Was parched, .and glazed each eye. 

A weary time! a weary time! 
How glazed each weary eye. 

When looking westward, I beheld 
A something in the sky. 

At first it seemed a litlle speck, 

And then it seemed a mist ; 
It moved ami moved, and took at last; 

A certain shape, I wist. 

A speck, a mist, a sliapo, I wist ! 

And it still neared aud neared : 
As if it dodged a water-sprite, 

It plunged and tacked and veered. 

With thni.ils unslaked, with black lips baked, 

We could not laugh nor wail ; 
Through ntler drought all dumb we stood; 
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 

Aud cried, A sail ! a sail ! 



312 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



With tliroats luislakeil, with black lips baked, 

Agape tUey beard mo call : 
Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, 
And all at once their breath tbew in. 

As they were drinking all. 

See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! 

Hither to work us weal ; 
Without a breeze, without a tide, 

She steadies with upright keel! 

The western wave was all a-flame. 

The day was well-nigh done. 
Almost upon the western wave 

Rested the broad bright sun ; 
When that strange shape drove suddenly 

Betwixt us and the sun. 

Aud straight the sun was ilecked with bars, 
(Heaven's mother seud us grace !) 

As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
W^itli broad aud burning face. 

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud,) 

How fast she nears and uears ! 
Are those her sails that glance in the sun. 

Like restless gossameres ? 

Are those her ribs through which the suu 

Did peer, as through a grate ? 
And is that woman all her crew ? 
Is that a Death, and are there two? 

Is Death that woman's mate ? 

Her lips were red, her looks were free, 

Her locks were yellow as gold : 
Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
The nightmare Life-in-Death was she. 

Who thicks man's blood with cold. 

The naked hulk along-side came, 
Aud the twain were casting dice : 

" The game is done ! I've won — I've wou !'' 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

The sun's rim dips ; the stars rush ont : 

At one stride comes the dark ; 
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 

Oif shot the spectre-bark. 

We listened and looked sideways up ! 
Fear at my heart, as at a cup. 



My life-blood seemed to sip ! 
The stars were dim, aud thick the night, 
The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white ; 

From the sails the dew did drip — 
Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horned moon, with one bright star 

Within the nether tip. 

One after one, by the star-dogged moon. 

Too quick for groan or sigh. 
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang. 

And cursed me with his eye. 

Four times til'ty living meu 

(Aud I heard nor sigh nor groan). 

With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
They dropped down one bj' one. 

The souls did from their bodies fly, — 

They fled to bliss or woe ! 
And every soul, it passed me by 

Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! 

PART IV. 

" I fear thee, ancient mariner ! 

I fear thy skinny baud I 
And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 

As is the ril)bed sea-sand.' 

" I fear thee and thy glittering eye. 
And thy skinny hand so brown." — 

Fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest ! 
This body dropped not down. 

Alone, alone, all, all alone, 

Alone on a wide, wide sea! 
And never a saint took pity on 

My soul in agony. 

The many men, so beautiful! 

And they all dead did lie : 
And a thon.sand thousand slimy things 

Lived on ; aud so did I. 

I looked ujion the rotting sea, 

And drew my eyes away; 
I looked upon the rotting deck. 

And there the dead men lay. 



' For the last twp lines of this Bt.iuza I nm indebted to Jlr. 
Wordsworth. It was on a deli^^htful walk from Nether Stowey 
to Dnlverton, with liim and llis sister, in the autnmu of 1T97, 
tliat this poem wns planned, aud in part composed. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



313 



I looked to lieaveii, and tried to jiray ; 

But or ever a prayer liad gushed, 
A wicked wUispcr came, aud made 

My heart a-s dry as dust. 

I closed my lids, and kept them close, 

And the halls like x>ulscs beat ; 
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky 
Lay like a load on my weary eye, 

Aud the dead were at my feet. 

Tin- cold sweat melted from their limbs, 

Nor rot nor reek did they : 
The Uiok with which they looked on me 

Had never passed away. 

.Vii orphan's cnrse would diag to hell 

A spirit from on high ; 
lint oh ! more horrible than that 

Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse. 

And yet I could not die. 

The moving moon went up the sky, 

Aud nowhere did abide : 
Softly she w.is going up, 

Aud a star or two beside — 

Her beams bemocked the sultry main. 

Like .\pril hoar-frost spread ; 
Hut where the ship's huge shadow lay 
The charmed water burnt ahvay, 

A still and awful red. 

B(!yond the shadow of the ship 

I watched the water-snakes: 
They moved in tracks of shining white. 
And when they reared, the elfish light 

Fell otl' iu ho.iry (lakes. 

Within the shadow of the ship 

I watched their rich attire : 
Blue, glossy green, and velvet blaik. 
They coiled and swam ; and every track 

Was a Hash of golden fire. 

O happy living things! no tongue 

Their l)eauty might declare ; 
\ s|iriug of love gushed from my heart, 

And I blessed them unaware: 
Sure my kind saint took pity on me. 

And I blessed them unaware. 



The self-same moment I could pray ; 

Aud from my neck so free 
The albatross fell oft", and sank 

Like lead into the sea. 

PAUT V, 

sleep ! it is a gentle thing. 
Beloved from jiole to pole ! 

To Mary fiueeu the praise bo given ! 
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven 
That slid into my soul. 

The silly buckets on the deck, 
That had so long remained, 

1 dreamed that they were tilled with dew ; 
And when I awoke, it rained. 

My lips were wet, my throat was e(jl(l, 

My garments all were dank ; 
Sure I h.ad driuiken in my dreams. 

And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs: 

I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep, 

Aud was a blessed ghost. 

And soon I heard a roaring wind: 

It did not corao anear; 
But with its sound it shook the saiLs, 

That were so thin and sere. 

The upper air burst into life ! 

Aud a hundred lire-Hags sheen, 
To aud fro they were hurried abont ! 
Aud to and fro, and in and out. 

The wan stars danced between. 

-Vnd the coming wind did roar more loud. 
And the sails did sigh like sedge; 

And the- rain poured down from one black cloml ; 
The moon was at its edge. 

The thick bhiek cloiul w.as cleft, and still 

The moon was at its sidi? : 
Like waters shot from some high crag. 
The lightning fell with never a jag, 

A river 8tee]i and wide. 

The loud wind never reached the ship. 

Yet now the ship nuived on ! 
Beneath the lightning aud the moon 

The dead men gave a groan. 



314 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AM EH IC AX POETRT. 



They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 

Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
It had heen strange, even in a dream, 

To have seen those dead men rise. 

The lielmsmau steered, the ship moved on ; 

Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
The mariners all 'gau work the ropes, 

Where they were wont to do ; 
They raised their limbs like lifeless tools-- 

We were a ghastly crew. 

The body of my brothers son 

Stood by me, knee to knee ; 
The body and I pulled at one rope, 

Bnt he said naught to me. 

"I fear thee, ancient mariner!" 

Be calm, thou wedding-guest : 
'Twas not those souls that fled in paiu. 
Which to tlieir corses came again, 

But a troop of spirits blessed: 

For when it dawned — they dropped their arms, 

And clustered round the mast ; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths. 

And from their bodies passed. 

Around, around, flew each sweet sound. 

Then darted to the sun ; 
Slowly the sounds came back again. 

Now mixed, now one by one. 

Sometimes, a-dropping from the sky, 

I heard the skylark sing; 
Sometimes all little birds that arc. 
How they seemed to fill the sea and air 

With their sweet jargouiug! 

And now 'twas like all instruments. 

Now like a lonely flute ; 
And now it is an angel's song 

That makes the heavens be mnte. 

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 
A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy mouth of June, 
That to the sleeping woods all night 

Siugeth a quiet tune. 

Till noon we quietly sailed on. 
Yet never a breeze did breathe : 



Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 

Uuder the keel nine fathom deep, 
From the laud of mist and snow, 

The spirit sli<I ; and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 

The sails at noon left oft" their tune, 
And the ship stood still also. 

The sun, right up above the mast. 

Had flxed her to the ocean : 
But in a minute she 'gau to stir, 

With a short une.asy motion — 
Backward and forward lialf her length 

With a short uneasy motion. 

Then, like a pawing horse let go. 

She made a sudden bound : 
It flung the blood into my head, 

And I fell down in a swonnd. 

How long in that same fit I lay, 

I have not to declare ; 
But ere my living life returned, 
I heard, and in my soul discerned 

Two voices in the air. 

" Is it he ?" quoth one ; " is this the man ' 

By Him who died on cross. 
With his cruel bow he laid full low 

The harmless albatross. 

'•The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the laud of mist and snow, 

He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow." 

The other was a softer voice. 

As soft as honey-dew : 
Quoth he, " The man hath penance done, 

And penance more will do." 



FIRST VOICE. 

But tell me, tell me ! speak again. 
Thy soft response renewing — 

What makes that ship drive on so fast? 
What is the Ocean doing ? 

SECOND VOICE. 

Still as a slave before his lord, 
Tlie Ocean hath no blast ; 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



315 



His groat bright cyo most silently 
Up to the moon is cast — 

If ho may know whieli way to go ; 

For sho giiiilos him smooth or grim. 
Sec, brothor, see ! how grarioiisly 

She looketh down on him. 

FIRST VOICE. 

Bnt why drives on that ship so fast, 
Withont or wave or wind? 

SECOND TOICE. 

The air is cut away before, 
And oloses from behind. 

Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 

Or we shall bo belated ; 
For slow and slow that ship will go, 

When the mariner's trauco is abated. 

I woke, and we were sailing on 

As in a gentle weather : 
'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high ; 

The dead men stood togetlier. 

All stood together on the deck 

For a charnel-dnngeon filter: 
A'l fixed on mo their stony eyes, 

That in the moon did glitter. 

The pang, the curse, with which they died, 

Il.id never passed away : 
I conld not draw my eyes from theirs. 

Nor tnrn them np to pray. 

And now the spell was snapped : once more 

1 viewed the ocean green, 
And looked far forth, yet little saw 

Of what had else been seen — 

Like one that on a lonesome road 

Doth walk in fear and dre.ad. 
And having once turned round walks on, 

And turns no more his head ; 
Because he knows a frightfnl tiend 

Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on me, 

Xor sound nor motion made: 
Its path was not upon the sea, 

In ripple or in shade. 



It raised my hair, it fanned my check 

Like a meadow-galo of spring — 
It mingled strangely with my fears, 

Yet it felt liki' a welcoming. 

Swiftly, swiftly flew tlic ship. 

Yet she sailed softly, too : 
Sweetly, sweetly blew tho breeze — 

On mo alone it blew. 

Oil, dream of joy ! is this, indeed, 

Tlie light-house top I sect 
Is this tlie hill f is this the kirk f 

Is tliis my own countrce ? 

We drifted o'er tho harbor bar. 

And I with sobs did pray — 
Oh let mo be aw:vke, my God ! 

Or lot mo sleep alway. 

Tlic luubor-bay was clear as gliiss, 

So smoothly it was strewn ! 
And on the bay tho moonlight lay, 

And the shadow of the moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less 

That stanils above tho rock : 
The moonlight steeped in sileutness. 

The steady weather-cock. 

And the bay was white witli silent liglit. 

Till, rising from the same, 
Full m.any shapes that shadows were, 

In crim.son colors came. 

A little distance from the prow 
Those crimson shadows were : 

I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
O Christ! what saw I there? 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat; 

And, 1)V the holy rood! 
A mini all light, a seriiph-man. 

On every corse there stood. 

This serajih band, each waved his hand: 

It was a heavenly sight ! 
They stood as signals to tho land. 

Each one a lovely light ; 

This seraph band, each waved his hand, 

No voice did they impart — 
No voice ; but oh ! tho silence sank 

Like music on my heart. 



316 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



But soon I heard the dash of oars, 

I heard the pilot's cheer ; 
My head was turned perforce away, 

Aud I saw a boat ajipear. 

The pilot aud the pilot's hoy, 

I heard theui coming fast : 
Dear Lord in lieaven ! it was a joy 

The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third — I heard his voice : 

It is the hermit good ! 
He singeth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes iu the wood. 
He'll slirieve my soul, he'll wash away 

The albatross's blood. 

PART VII. 

This hermit good lives iu that wood 

Which slopes down to the sea. 
How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
He loves to talk with mariners 

That C(jme from a far couutree. 

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 

He hath a cushion plump : 
It is the moss that wholly hides 

The rotted old oak stump. 

The skifif-boat neared : I lieard them talk, 

" Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
AVhere are those lights, so many and fair. 

That signal made but now ?'" 

" Strange, by my faith !"' the hermit said — 
"Aud they answered not our cheer! 

The planks looked warped ! and see those sails, 
How thin they are, aud sere ! 

I never saw aught like to them. 
Unless perchance it were 

" Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 

My forest-brook along ; 
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below. 

That eats the she-wolf's young." 

" Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — 

(The pilot made reply,) 
I am a-feared." — " Push on — push on !" 

Said the hermit, cheerily. 

The boat came closer to the ship. 
But I nor spake nor stirred ; 



The boat came close beneath the ship, 
Aud straight a sound was heard. 

Under the water it rumbled on. 

Still louder and more dread : 
It reached the ship, it split the bay — 

The ship went down like lead. 

Stunned by that loud aud dreadful sound. 

Which sky and ocean smote. 
Like one that hath been seven days drowned, 

My body lay afloat ; 
But swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the pilot's boat. 

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
The boat spun round aud round; 

And all was still, save th.it the bill 
Was telling of tlie sound. 

I moved my lips — the pilot shrieked, 

Aud fell down in a fit; 
The holy hermit raised his eyes, 

And prayed where he did sit. 

I took the oars: the pilot's boy. 

Who now doth crazy go, 
Laughed loud and long, aud all the while 

His eyes went to and fro : 
"Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see 

The devil knows how to row." 

And now, all in my own couutree, 

I stood on the firm land ! 
The hermit stepped forth from the boat, 

Aud scarcely he could stand. 

" Oh slirieve me, shrieve mo, holy man !'' 

The hermit crossed his brow. 
" Say quick," quoth he, " I bid thee .say — 

What manner of man art thou ?" 

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 

With a woful agony. 
Which forced me to begin my tale ; 

Aud then it left me free. 

Since then, at an uncertain hour. 

That agony returns : 
And till my ghastly tale is told 

This heart within me burns. 

I pass, like night, from land to land : 
I have strauge power of speech ; 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.— MRS. MART {BLACKFORD) TIG HE. 



317 



That raoinent that his fiico I see, 
I know the niau that must hear me : 
To him my tale I teach. 

What loud iiiiioar limsts fioin that door! 

The ■ncdiliiig-Kiiests are there; 
But in tlie gardeu-bowcr the bride 

And bridemaids singing are : 
And hark ! the little vesper-bell, 

Which biddetU me to prajer. 

O wedding gnest ! this s<inl liath been 

Alone on a wide, widc^ sea : 
So lonely 'twas, that God himself 

Scarce seemed there to be. 

Oh sweeter than the marriage-feast, 

'Tis sweeter far to me. 
To walk together to the kirk. 

With a goodly company ! — 

To walk together to the kirk. 

And all together pray, 
While each to bis great Father bends, 
Old men, and babes, and loving friends. 

And youths and maidens gay ! 

Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 

To thee, thou wedding-guest ! 
lie prayeth well who loveth well 

Both man, and bird, and beast. 

He prayeth best who loveth best 
All things both great ami small; 

For the dear God who loveth us. 
Ho made and loveth all. 

The mariner, whoso eyo is bright. 
Whoso beard with ago is hoar. 

Is gone : and now the wedding-guest 
Turned from the bridcgroonrs door. 

He went like one that hath been stunned, 

And is of sense forlorn : 
A sadder and a wiser man 

Ho rose the morrow morn. 



TO TIIK AITHOR OF "THK ANCIENT 
MARINER." 

Yonr poem must eternal be, 
Dear sir; it cannot fail! 

For 'tis incomprehensible, 
-\nd without head or tail. 



iUrs. illanj (Dlackfoib) iliglic. 

The daughter of the Rev. Mr. Blackford, Wicklow 
County, Irchuul, Mary was born in 1773, and died in 
1810. Her principal poem, "Psyche," in six cantos, 
shows a very skilful command of the Spenserian meas- 
ure, and contains many graceful and elegaut stanzas. 
Sir James Mackintosh says of the last three cantos : 
"They arc beyond all doubt the most faultless series 
of verses ever produced by a woman." The value of 
the praise depends on the meaning we give to the word 
J'aulHe.is. Moore's song, "I saw thy form in youthful 
prime,"' was written in recollection of Mrs. Tiglie. The 
longer piece we publish, written within the year preced- 
ing her death, was the last she ever produced, and per- 
haps the best. Her husband, Henry Tighe, M.P., edited 
an edition of her poems after her ueath. 



ON RECEIVING A BRANCH OF 5IEZERE0N, 

WHICH 1 LOWKliKD AT WOODSTOCK, DECEMBER, 1809. 

Odors of spring, my sense yo charm 

With fragance premature. 
And, 'mid these days of dark alarm. 

Almost to hope allure. 
Mcthinks with purpose soft yo come, 

To tell of brighter hours, 
Of May's blue skies, abundant bloom, 

Her sunny gales and showers. 

Alas! for me shall May iu vain 

The powers of life restore ; 
These eyes that weep and watch in pain 

Shall see her charms no nmre. 
No, no, this anguish cannot last! 

Beloved friends, adieu ! 
The bitterness of death were past. 

Could I resign but you. 

But oh, in every mort.al pang 

That rends my soul from life. 
That soul, which seems on you to li.ing 

Through each convulsive strife, 
Even now, with agonizing grasp 

Of terror and regret. 
To all in life its lovo would clasp 

Clings close and closer yet. 

Yet why, immortal, vit.il spark ! 

Thus mortally oppn'ssed f 
Look up, my soul, through prospects dark, 

And bid thy terrors rest ; 
Forget, forego thy earthly part. 

Thine heavenly being trust : — 



318 



CrCLOPMiDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Ab, vain attempt! my cowaril lieavt, 
Still sliiiddei'iug, clings to dust. 

Oh ye who sootlie the pangs of death 

With love's own patient care, 
Still, still retain this fleeting breath, 

Still pour the fervent prayer : — 
And ye whose smile must greet my eye 

No more, nor voice my ear, — 
Who breathe for me the tender sigh, 

And shed tlie i>itying tear, — 

Whose kiuduess (tliongh far, far removed) 

My grateful thoughts perceive. 
Pride of my life, esteemed, beloved, 

My last sad claim recei\'e ! 
Oh, do not quite your friend forget, 

Forget aloue her faults ; 
And speak of her with foud regret 

Who asks your lingering thoughts. 



WRITTEN AT KILLARNEY, JULY 29, 1800. 

How soft the pause ! the notes melodions cease 
Which from each feeling could an echo call. 
Rest on your oars, that not a sound may fall 
To interrupt the stillness of onr peace: 
The fauniug west wind breathes upon our checks, 
Yet glowing with the sun's departed beams. 
Thro' the bine Leaveus the cloudless moon pours 

streams 
Of pure, resplendent light, in silver streaks 
Reflected on the still, unruHled lake; 
The Alpine hills in solemn silence frown. 
While the dark woods night's deepest shades em- 
brown. 
And now once more that soothing strain awake ! 
Oh, ever to my heart with magic power 
Shall those sweet sounds recall this rapturous hour I 



liobcvt iLrcat ])a\ne, JJr. 



Pnine (ITTo-lSlD was a native of Taunton, Massachu- 
setts, and a son of Robert Treat Paine, one of the signers 
of the Declaration of Independence. His orisiinal name 
was Thomas; but, not wishing to be oonlounded with 
tliat other Tlionias Paine, the theist, wlio criticised tlie 
Bible, lie had liis name changed by the Legislature to 
tliat of his father. lie graduated at Harvard in tlie class 
of 1793, and began writing verse at an early age. He en- 
tered a counting-house, but neglected his mercantile du- 
ties for the theatre and the gavclies of life. His father 



i-epudiated him for marrying an actress, but was final- 
ly reconciled. lu 179.3 Paine delivered at Cambridge a 
l>oem, entitled "The Invention of Letters," from the 
sale of which he got $1500. For his poem of "The Rul- 
ing Passion" be got $1200; wliile for his famous song 
of "Adams and Liberty" he got more than $750. Tliis 
was rare success for a poet in his day. There is little 
of true lyrical worth in any of Paiiie's writings ; and his 
one song, while it has some faiut flashes of poetic fire, is 
memorable chiefly for the sensation it jjroduced in its 
day. 



ODE: ADAMS AND LIBERTY. 

Written for and snug at the Aimiversary of the Massachu- 
setts Charitable Fire Society, 1199. 

Ye sons of Columbia, who bravely have fought 
For those rights which uustaiued from your sires 
had descended. 
May you long taste the blessings your valor has 
bought. 
And your sons reap the soil which your fathers 
defended. 

'Mid the reign of mild Peace, 
May your nation increase. 
With the glory of Rome, and the wisdom of 

Greece ; 
And ne'er shall the .sons of Columbia be slaves. 
While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its 
waves. 

Ill a clime whoso rich vales feed the marls of the 
world, 
Wliose shores are unshaken by Europe's commo- 
tion, 
Tlie trident of Commerce should never be hurled, 
To increase the legitimate powers of the ocean. 
But should pirates invade. 
Though in thunder arrayed, 
Let your cannon declare the free charter of trade ; 
For ne'er will the sons of Columbia be slaves. 
While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its 
waves. 

The fame of our arms, of our laws the mild sway. 

Had justly ennobled onr nation in story. 
Till the dark clouds of faction obscured our young 
day. 
And enveloped the suu of American glory. 
But let traitors bo told. 
Who their conutry have sold. 
And bartered their God for his image in gold. 
That ne'er will the sons of Columbia be slaves. 
While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its 
waves. 



ROBERT TREAT PAINE, JR.— ROBERT SOUTHET. 



319 



WliiU' I'laiico lior huge liiiiba bathes reciimbcut in 

blood. 
Ami society's base tliieats with widi' ilissoliition, 
Mmv rrac'o, like thi^ dove whu retiinu'd IVoiii the 

llond, 

Kind ail ailc of aliode in our mild Coustitntion. 

IJnt though peace is our aim, 

Yet the boon we disclaim, 
If boup;ht by our sovci-oij;nty, justiee, or fame; 
For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, 
While the earth bears a plant or tlio sea rolls its 
waves. 

'Tis the fire of the flint caeli American warms : 

Let Rome's liaiijjlity victors beware of collision ; 
l.et them brinj; all tlie vassals of Europe in arms — • 
We're a world by ourselves, and disdain a pro- 
vision. 

While with patriot pride. 
To our laws we're allied, 
Xo foe can subdue us, no faction divide; 
Tor ne'ir shall the sons of Columbia be slaves. 
While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its 
waves. 

Our mountains are crowned widi imperial oak, 
Whose mots, like our liberties, ages have iiour- 
islieil ; 
lint long e'er our nation submits to the yoke, 
Xot a tree shall bo left on the field where it 
flourislicd. 

."^Iiciulcl invasion ini]>('nd, 
Kvery grove wouhl descend 
From the hill-tops they sh.-uled, our shores to 

defend ; 
For ne'er shall the .sons of Columbia be slaves, 
While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its 
waves. 

Let our patriots destroy Anarch's pestilent worm. 
Lest our liberty's growth should bo checked by 
corrosion ; 
riien let clouds thicken round us: we heed not the 
storm ; 
Our realm feels no shock but the earth's own 
explosion. 

Foes a.ssail ns in vain, 
Though their fleets bridge the main ; 
For our altars and laws with our lives we'll 

maintain ; 
For ne'er sli:dl the sous of Columbia be slaves. 
While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its 
waves. 



Should the tempest of war overshadow our land. 
Its bolts conld ne'er rend Freedom's temple 
asunder ; 
For, unmoved, at its portal wonld Washington stand, 
And repulse, with his breast, the assaults of the 
thunder ! 

His sword from the sleep 
Of its scabbard would leap. 
And conduct, with its point, every Hash to fho 

deep ! 
For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia bo .slaves. 
While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its 
waves. 

Let fame to the world .sound America's voice ; 
No intrigues can her sons from their government 
sever : 
Her pride are her statesmen — their laws are her 
choice, 
And shall flourish till Liberty .slumbers forever. 
Then unite heart and hand, 
Like Leonidas' band. 
And swear to tho God of the ocean ami land 
That ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, 
While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its 
waves. 



Uobcrt Soiitljcj). 



Associated with tlic names of Wordsworth and Cole- 
ridge is that of the poct-laiircate, Soutlioy (1774-1^3). 
His fame lias not, like that of liis associates of the Lake 
Scliool,gone on increasing. Tlic son of a liuen-dnipcr in 
Bristol, he was intended for the ministry, but disqnalilied 
himself for Oxford l)y adopting, like Coleridge, Unitarian 
views in religion and icpublican in politics. Tliesc lie 
soon outgrew. Having published his poems of "Wat 
Tyler" and "Joan of Are," lie married, in 170.-), Miss 
Frickcr, sister of tlic wife of Coleridge. After a residence 
in Lisbon, and a biicf course of legal study in London, 
he settled near Keswick, and liis life became a round of 
incessant study and voluminous autliorsliip. A list of 
tlie works in prose and verse which he produced would 
fill a long page. Al)ove one hundred volumes in nil tes- 
tily- to his diligence. In 1.S37 liis first wife died; and in 
is:i!) lie married Miss Caroline Bowles, who was his peer 
as a writer of poetry. Soon afterward his overtasked 
mind began to show symptoms of decay. His end was 
second eliildislincss and mere oblivion. He left, as the 
result of his litcniry laboi-s, about i'12,000, to be divided 
among liis children, and one of tlie most valnalilc private 
libraries in the kingdom. Soutliey was a genuine poet 
in feeling and aspiration, though he did not "wreak 
himself on expression" with the felicity of Byron and 
Shelley. Woidsworlli ouee nientioned Soiitliey's verses 
on the holly-tree as his most perfect poem; "but," lie 
said, "the first line is bad." 



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CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 

It was a summei' eveuing, 

01(1 Kaspar's work was done, 
And be before bis cottage door 

Was sitting in the suu, 
And by bim sported on the green 
His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 

>Sbe saw her Ijrotber Peterkin 
Roll something large and ronnd, 

Which be beside the rivnlet, 
In playing there, had fonnd ; 

He came to ask what he had found, 

That was so large, and smooth, and round. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head. 

And with a natural sigh, 
'"Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
" Who fell in the great victory. 

"I find them in the garden. 

For there's many here abont ; 
And often, when I go to plough. 

The plougbsbare turns tbera out ! 
For many thonsand men," said be, 
" Were slain in that great victory." 

" Now tell us what 'twas all abont," 

Young Peterkin be cries ; 
While little Wilbelmiuo looks up. 

With wonder-waiting eyes ; 
" Now tell us all about the war. 
And ■nbat they fouglit each other for.'" 

" It was the English," Kaspar cried, 
" Who put the French to rout ; 

But what they fought each other for, 
I co\ild not well make out. 

But everybody said," quoth he, 

" That 'twas a famous victory. 

"My father lived at lileubeim then. 

Yon little stream bard by ; 
They burnt his dwelling to the ground, 

And be was forced to fly ; 
So with bis wife and child he fled, 
Nor bad he where to rest bis head. 

"With fire and sword the country ronnd 
Was wasted far and wide ; 



And many a cbilding mother, then, 

And new-born baby died ; 
Bnt things like that, yon kuow, must be 
At every famous victory. 

"They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was won ; 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting iu the sun ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

"Great praise the Duke of Marlliro' won, 
And onr good prince Eugene." 

" Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" 
Said little Wilhelmine. 

"Nay — nay — my little girl," quoth he, 

" It was a tamous victory. 

"And everybody praised the Dnke 
Who this great fight did win." 

"And what good came of it at last?" 
Qnoth little Peterkin. 

"Why, that I cannot tell," said he; 

" But 'twas a famous victory." 



IMMORTALITY OF LOVE. 

From "The Cdbse of Keiiama," Book X. 

They sin who tell us love can die. 

With life all other pas.sions tly. 

All others are but vanity; 

In heaven ambition cannot dwell, 

Nor avarice in the vaults of bell ; 

Earthly these passions of the earth, 

They perish where they have their birth ; 

But love is indestructible : 

Its holy flame forever burnetii ; 

From heaven it came, to heaven retnrnetb. 

Too oft on earth a troubled guest. 

At times deceived, at times oppressed, 

It here is tried and purified, 
Then bath iu heaven its perfect rest: 

It sowetb here with toil and care. 

But the harvest-time of love is there. 

Oh ! when a mother meets on high 

Tlie babe she lost in infancy. 

Hath she not then, for pains and fears. 

The day of woe, the watchful night, 

For all her sorrow, all her tears, 

An over-payment of delight t 



ROBEIiT SOUTHET. 



321 



A BEAUTIFUL DAY IX AUTUXIX. 

From " Madoc in Wales." 

Tliure was not ou that day a speck to staiu 

Tlio azure hoavoii ; the blessed sun alone, 

111 uuapproaeliable divinity, 

Careered, rejoieing in his lields of light. 

How lieaulifiil, iM'noath the bright blue sky, 

The billow.s heave! one glowing green expanse, 

.■^avo wlierc, along the bending line of shore, 

Sneh hue is thrown as when the peacock's neck 

.\ssumes its proudest tiut of amethyst, 

Kinbathcd in emerald glory. All the flocks 

Of Ocean are abroad : like floatijig loam 

Tlie sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves; 

With long, protruded neck, the cormorants 

Wing their far flight aloft ; aud round and mnnd 

The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy. 

It was a day that sent into the heart 

A summer feeling: even the insect swarms 

Krom their dark nooks and coverts issued forlli, 

To sport through one day of existence more ; 
The solitary primrose on the hank 
Seemed now as though it had no cause to mourn 
Its bleak aniunnial birth ; the rocks and shores, 

The forest and tlie everlasting hills. 

Smiled in that joyful sunshine, — they partook 

The universal blessing. 



TIIIC llOLLV-TKEE. 

reader! hast thou ever stood to see 

The holly-tree f 
The eye that contemplates it well perceives 

Its glossy leaves 
Ordered by an intelligence so wise 
As might confound the Atheist's sophistries. 

lielow, a cinling fence, its leaves are seen 

Wrinkled and keen ; 
No grazing cattle through their prickly round 

Can reach to wound ; 
lint as they grow where nothing is to fear, 
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. 

1 love to view these things with curious eyes. 

Anil nnnali/.e ; 
And in this wisdom of the holly-treo 

Can embh'm see 
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme — 
One which may prolit in the after-time. 
'21 



Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear 

Harsh and austere. 
To those who on my leisure would intrude 

Keserved ati<l rude. 
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, 
Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree. 

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know. 

Some harshness show. 
All vain asperities I day by day 

Woiihl wear away. 
Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree. 

And as, when all tli(! snninu'r trees are seen 

So bright and green. 
The holly-leaves a sober hue display 

Less bright than they; 
But when the bare and wintry woods we see. 
What then so cheerful as the holly-tree f 

So serious should my youth appear anmng 

The thoughtless throng ; 
So would I seem amid the young and gay 

More grave than they, 
That in my age as cheerful I might be 
As the green winter of the holly-tree. 



MY LIBRARY. 

ITaving no library within roach, I livo iipnii my own store?, 
which are, however, more anij)Ie, perhaps, than were ever be- 
fore possesBeJ by one whote whole er^tate was in bi« inkstand. 

My days among tin; dead are past ; 

Around me I behold. 
Where'er these casual eyes are cast. 

The mighty minds of old : 
My never-failing friends are they. 
With whom I converse day by day. 

With them I take delight in weal, 

And seek relief in woo; 
And while I understand and feel 

• How nuich to them I owe, 
My cheeks have often been bedewed 
With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 

My thoughts are with the dead: with them 

I live in long-past years ; 
Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 

Partake their hopes and fears. 
And from their lessons seek and find 
Instruction with a humble mind. 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



My hopes aro with tlio dead : anon 
With thoui my place will he; 

Aud I with them shall travel ou 
Through all futurity; 

Yet leaving here a name, I trust, 

That will uot perish in the dust. 



NIGHT IN THE DESERT. 

From " Tiialaba." 

How bcantifiil is night! 
A dewy freshness tills the silent air ; 
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain 
Breaks the serene of heaven : 
In full-orbed beauty yonder moou divine 
Rolls through the dark-blue depths : 
Beneath her steady ray 
The desert-circle spreads. 
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. 
How beautiful is night ! 



THE DEAD FRIEND. 

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul. 

Descend to contemplate 

The form that once was dear ! 

The spirit is not there 

Which kindled that dead eye. 

Which throbbed in that cold heart, 

Which in that motionless hand 

Hath met thy friendly grasp. 

The spirit is uot there ! 

It is but lifeless, perishable flesh 

That moulders in the grave ; 

Earth, air, and water's ministering particles 

Now to the elements 

Resolved, their uses done. 

Not to the grave, uot to the grave, mj' soul, 

Follow thy friend beloved ; 

The spirit is not there ! 

Often together have wo talked of death ; 

How sweet it were to see 

All doubtful things made clear ; 

How sweet it were with powers 

Such as the Cherubim, 

To view the depth of heaveu! 

O Edmuud ! thou hast first 

Begun the travel of eternity! 

I look upon the stars, 

And think that thou art there, 

Unfettered as the thought that follows theo. 



And we have often said how sweet it were, 

With unseen ministry of angel power, 

To watch the friends we loved. 

Edmuud ! we did not err ! 

Sure I have felt thy presence ! Thou hast given 

A birth to holy thought. 

Hast kept mo from the world unstained and pure. 

Edmuud! we did not err! 

Our best affections here, 

They are not like the toys of infancy; 

The soul outgrows them uot ; 

We do not cast them oif ; 

Oh, if it could be so. 

It were, indeed, a dreadful thing to die ! 

Not to the grave, uot to the grave, my soul, 

Follow thy friend beloved ! 

But in the lonely hour. 

But in the evening walk, 

Thinli that he companies thy solitude ; 

Think that he holds with thee 

Mysterious intercourse ; 

Aud though remembrance wake a tear. 

There will be joy in grief. 



IMITATED FROM THE PERSIAN. 

Lord! who art merciful as well .as just, 
Incline thine ear to me, a child of dust! 
Not what I would, O Lord, I otfer thee, 
Alas! but what I can. 
Father Almighty, who hast made me m.an, 
And bade mo look to heaveu, for thou art there, 
Accept my sacrifice and humble prayer: 
Four things which are not in thy treasury 
I say before thee. Lord, with this petition — 

My nothingness, my wants, 
My sins, and my contrition. 



THE MORNING MIST. 

Look, Willi.am, how the morning mists 
Have covered all the scene ; 

Nor house nor hill canst thou behold, 
Gray wood or meadow green. 

The distant spire across the vale 
These floating vapors shroud ; 

Scarce are the neighboring poplars seen. 
Pale shadowed in the clond. 



ROBERT SOUTH ET. 



323 



lint sccst tlion, William, wlicro tlio mists 

Sweep o'er tlio soiitlierii sky, 
The dim ell'iilgeuce of tlie sun 

That lights them as thoy fly f 

Soon shall that glorions orb of day 

In all his strength arise, 
And roll along his azure way, 

Through clear and cloudless skies. 

Then shall wo see across tho vale 

The village spire so white. 
And the gray wood and meadow green 

Shall live again in light. 

So, William, from tho moral world 

The clouds shall pass away ; 
The light that struggles through them now 

Shall beam eternal dav. 



Be healed and harmonized, and thou wouldst feel 
God al\vay.s, everywhere, and all in all. 



KEFLECTIOXS. 

F&OM " ACTfMN." 

To yon tho beauties of tho autumnal year 
Make mournful emblems ; and you think of man 
Doomed to the grave's long winter, spirit-broken, 
Itending licneath the burden of his year,«. 
Sense - dulled and fretful, '• lull of aches and 

pains," 
Yet clinging still to life. To mo they show 
Tho calm decay of nature, when tlio mind 
Retains its strength, and in tho languid eyo 
Keligion's holy hopes kindle a, joy 
That makes old age look lovely. All to you 
Is dark and cheerless; you, in this fair world, 
Seo some destroying principle abroa<I — 
Air, earth, and water, full of living things, 
Ka<li on tho other preying ; and the ways 
Of man a strange, perplexing labyrinth, 
Where crimes and miseries, each producing each, 
Hender life loatliBome, and destroy the hope 
That should in death bring comfort. Oh, my 

frii'uil, 
That thy faith were as mine I that thou couldst seo 
Di.ilh still inoducing life, and evil still 
W(uking its own destruction! couldst behold 
The strifes and troubles of this troubled worhl 
With tlio strong eyo that sees tho promised day 
IJawn through this night of tempost ! All things 

then 
Woiihl minister to joy ; then should tliino heart 



TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

ISQUIRIXG IF I WOULD LIVK OVKll MY YOUTH AG.\IN. 

Do I regret the past T 

Would I again live o'er 

The morning hours of life ? 

Nay, William, uay, not so ! 
In the warm joyaunce of tho summer sun 

1 do not wish again 

The changeful April daj'. 

Nay, William, imy, not so ! 

Safe haveucd from tho sea 

I would not tempt again 

Tho uncertain ocean's wrath. 
Praiso be to Him who made me what I am. 

Other I would not be. 

Why is it jdeasant, then, to sit and talk 

Of days that are no more ? 

When in his own dear homo 

The traveller rests at last, 
And tells how often in his wanderings 

Tho thought of those far olf 

Has made his eyes o'erflow 

With no unmanly tears; 

Delighted be recalls 
Through what fair scenes his lingering feet have trod. 
But ever when ho tells of perils past, 

And troubles now no more, 
His oycs are brightest, and a readier joy 

Flows thankful from his heart. 

No, William, no, I would not live again 

Tho morning hours of life ; 

I would not bo again 

The slave of hope and fear ; 

I would not learn again 
Tho wisdom by expericnco hardly taught. 

To mo tho p.ist presents 

No object for regret ; 

To mo the present gives 

All cause for full content. 
Tho future — it is now tho cheerful uoou, 
And on tho sunny-smiling iields I gazo 

With eyes alive to joy; 

When the dark night descends, 
I ^tMlingly shall close my weary lids 
In sure and certain liopo to wake again. 



324 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Jllrs. fHargavct illavuicll 3nglis. 

Mrs. Inglis, diuigliter of Dr. Alexander Maxwell, was 
born at Lanquliar, Scotland, in 1774. In 1803 slie mar- 
ried Mr. John Inglis, who died in 1836. She was emi- 
nently gifted as a musieian, and was complimented by 
Burns for the effect she gave to his songs. In 1838 she 
published a " Miscellaneous Collection of Poems." She 
died in Edinburgh, 1843. 



FROM "LINKS ON THE DEATH OF HOGG." 

Sweet baitl of Ettrick's glen ! 

Where art tbou ■ivandering ? 
Missed is tby foot ou the mountain and lea! 

Why ronnd yon craggy roclis 

Wander thy heedless flocks, 
While Iambics ,iro listening and bleating for thee? 

Cold as the mountain-stream, 

Pale as the moonlight heam. 
Still is thy bosom, and closed is thine e'e. 

Wild may the tempest's wave 

Sweep o'er thy lonely grave : 
Thou'rt deaf to the storm — it is harmless to thee. 

Cold ou Benlomond's brow 

Flickers the drifted snow, 
AVhile down its sides the wild cataracts foam ; 

Winter's mad winds may sweep 

Fierce o'er each glen and steep, 
Thy rest is nnbroken, and peaceful thy home. 

And when oii dewy wing 

Comes the sweet bird of spring. 
Chanting its notes on the bu.sh or the tree, 

The Bird of the AVilderness, 

Low in the waving grass, 
Shall, cowering, sing sadly its farewell to thee. 



Hobcrt (JTiannaliill. 



A favorite lyrical poet, TanuahiU (1744-1810) was born 
in Paisley, Scotland. His education was limited, and he 
followed the trade of a weaver till his twenty-sixth year, 
when he removed to Lancashire. In 1807 he published 
a volume of poems, and an edition of nine hundred was 
sold in a few weeks. Falling into a state of morbid 
despondency and mental derangement, he committed 
suicide, by drowning, in his thirty-sixth year. In 1874 
a centenary edition of liis poems was published, which 
was exhausted within a few days of its appearance. 
James Hogg visited Taunahill in the spring of 1810. 
" Farewell," said the latter at parting, as he grasped the 
shepherd's hand; "we shall never meet again. I*hall 
never see you more." 



THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE. 

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Beulomond, 

And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, 
While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin'. 

To muse on sweet Jessie, tbe flower o' Dumlilane. 
How sweet is the brier, wi' its sauft fauldiu' blos- 
som ! 

And sweet is the birk wi' its mantle o' green, 
Yet sweeter and fairer, au<l dear to this bc).som, 

Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblanc. 

She's modest as ouy, and blithe as she's bonuy; 

For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; 
And far be the villain, divested of feeling, 

Wba'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o' 
Dumblane. 
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, tby bymu to the e'ening ; 

Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen : 
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning. 

Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblaue. 

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie ! 

The sports o' tbe city seemed foolish and vain ; 
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie 

Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, tbe flower o' Dum- 
blane. 
Though mine were tbe station o' loftiest grandeur, 

Amid its profusion I'd languish in pain, 
And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor. 

If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. 



THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER. 

Let us go, lassie, go. 

To the braes o' Balqubither, 
Where the blae-berries blow 

'Mang the bonnie Highland heather 
Where the deer and tbe rae' 

Lightly bounding together, 
Sport the lang summer day 

Ou tbe braes o' Balqubither. 

I will twine thee a bower 

By the clear siller fountain, 
And I'll cover it o'er 

Wi' the flowers o' the mountain ; 
1 will range through tbe wilds, 

Aud the deep glens sae drearie. 
And return wi' their spoils 

To the bower o' my dearie. 
1 Roe. 



JOSEPH BLASCO WHITE. 



:i-i:, 



Wlien tbc rudo wintry win' 

Idly raves roniid our dwelling, 
And tlio roar of tlio linn 

Ou tho uight-brcezo is swelling, 
So merrily we'll sing 

As tlio storm rattles o'er ns, 
Till tlio dear slieiliiig ring 

\\i' the light lilting cliorns. 

Now the summer's in prime, 

Wi" the lioweis riihly blooming, 
And tho Willi moniitain thynio 

A' tho moorlands perfuming ; 
To our dear native scenes 

Let us journey together, 
Where glad innocence reigns 

'Mang the braes o' Hahinhither. 



3oscpl) Clanco llUjitc. 

A native of Seville, son of :in Irisli Koman Catliolie 
merchant settled in Sjiain, White (1775-1841) whs the 
author of what Coleridge calls " the lincst and most 
irraniily conceived sonnet in our language" — words 
which he slightly modities by adding, "at least it is 
only in Milton's and in Wordsworth's sonnets that I 
recollect any rival ;" and he adds that this is the judg- 
ment of J. H. Frcre also. Leigh Hunt says : " It stands 
-uprcmc, perhaps .alwvc all in any language: nor can we 
ponder it too deeply, or with too hopeful a reverence." 
White's biography, edited by John Hamilton Thom (Lon- 
• I'ln, 1845), in which his sceptical and religious strug- 
:;les arc unfolded, is of the deepest interest. He was the 
friend or correspondent of Coleridge, Arnold, and the 
great American ])reacher, Channing. Ordained a Cath- 
olic priest in ITtKt, he abjured the faith in which he had 
been bred, and published in 1825 a work entitled "Inter- 
nal Evidence against Catholicism." He seems to have 
wavered to the last in his religious belief, but to have 
been, nevertheless, an earnest, sincere seeker after the 
truth, as well as a vigorous writer. 

It may be interesting to compare this famous sonnet 
in its present stale with its original form, as it appears 
in the London (Jciitlmian's Magmine (.May, 1835), and as 
it was supplied by the Rev. K. P. Graves, of Dublin, who 
knew While, to Uavid M. Main for his "Treasury of Eng- 
lish Sonnets" (1880): 

'• Mynterious Night! when the llrsl Man hiit knew 
Thcc by report, uu»eeti, nnd heard thy name, 
Did he not tremble for this lovely Frame, 
Thin gliirious cniiopy of Ll^ht niid mile? 
Yet 'iieaih n cnrtniii of traiiHluccnt dew, 
Bathed In the rnyu of the great setting Flame, 
lleiipcriis with tho Host of llenveii ciimo, 
And Id! I'rention widened on hlH view! 
Who conld have thought what Darkne.^s lay couccalcd 
Within thy bennip, O Sun? or who could find, 
Whilst fly and leaf and inecct stood revealed, 
That to Fiich ciidleiis Orbs thou road'st us bliud ? 



Weak man 1 why to shun Death this auxions strife f 
If Light C!in thus deceive, wherefore uot Life?" 

Some critics prefer the original form of White's son- 
net to the amended. Coleridge's daughter, Sara, wrote 
the following on the death of White. In it she refers 
to the scepticism of his latter days in regard to revealed 
religion. 

l!L.\XCO WUITE. 

"Couldst thon in calmness yield thy mortal breath. 
Wiihout the Christian's sure and certain hope? 
Didst thon to earth coutlne our being's scope. 
Yet, fixed on One Supreme with fervent faith. 
Prompt to obey what conscience witnesseth. 
As one intent to fly the eternal wrath. 
Decline the ways of sin tti^t downward slope? 
O thou light-searching spirit I that didst grope 
lu such bleak shadows here, *twixt life and death, — 
To thee dare 1 bear witness, though in ruth 
(Brave witness like thine own !), — dare hope and pray 
That thou, set free from this imprisoning clay, 
Now clad in raiment of perpetual youth, 
XIny find that bliss untold, 'mid endless day. 
Awaits each earnest soul that lives for Truth 1" 

We give from the autobiography of White another 
sonnet from his pen, not before included, we believe, in 
any collection. He wrote but two. .Mr. Thom says of 
him: "He never stepped off any old ground of Faith 
until he could no longer stand on it without moral cul- 
pability." 



NIGHT AND DEATH. 

Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew 
Thee from report divine, and heard thy iiume. 
Did he uot tremble for this lovely frame, 
Tliis glorious canopy of light and blnn f 
Yet 'neath a curtain of trauslnceut dew, 
Uathcd in the rays of the great setting flame, 
Hesperus with t'ue host of heaven came. 
And lo ! creation widened in man's view. 
Who could have thought such darkness l;iy con- 
cealed 
Within thy beams, O sun ! or who conld find, 
Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed. 
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st ns blind! 
Wh.v do we, then, shun death with anxious strife f 
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life f 



SONNET, 

ON IIEAItlNG MYSELF FOR THE FIRST. TIMK CALLED AN 
OLD MAX. iET. SO. 

Ages have rolled within my breast, though yet 
Not nigh the bourn to fleeting man assigned : 
Yes: old — alas! how spent the striigKling mind 
Which at tho noou of life is fain to set I 
My dawn tiiid evening have so closely met 



326 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



That men the shades of night begin to find 
Darkening my hiow ; and heedless, not unliind, 
Let the sad warning drop, withont regret. 
Gone Yonth ! had I thus missed thee, nor a hope 
Were left of thy return beyond the tomb, 
I could curse life : — But glorious is the scope 
Of an immortal soul! — O Death! thy gloom, 
Short, and already tinged with coming light. 
Is to the Christian but a Summer's night! 



ioI)n ilcijiicn. 



A distinguished Oriental scliolar, as well as poet, Lcy- 
den (1775-1811) was a native of Denljohn, in Scotland. 
The son of humble parents, he fought his way bravely to 
knowledge. An excellent Latin and Greek scholar, he 
acquired also the French, Spanlsli, Italian, and German, 
besides studying tlie Persian, Arabic, and Hebrew. In 
1800 he was ordained for the Church, but wishing to 
visit India, qualiticd himself as assistant-surgeon on tlje 
Madras cstablislimcnt, and in 1802 left Scotland forever. 
He finally received tlie appointment of judge in Cal- 
cutta. In 1811 he accompanied the expedition to Java, 
took cold iu a damp library in Batavia, and died in three 
days. Sir Walter Scott, in liis "Lord of tlie Isles," throws 
a wreatli on his grave. The "Poetical Remains of Ley- 
den" were published in 1819, with a memoir by the Rev. 
James Morton. His longest poem is his "Scenes of In- 
fancy, " descriptive of liis native vale of Teviot. His ver- 
sification is smooth and melodious, and his style rather 
elegant than forcible. His ballad of "Tlie Mermaid" 
is praised by Sir Walter Scott .as "for mere melody of 
sound seldom excelled in English poetry." Leyden had 
a prescntimcut of his early death in a foreign land. 



ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. 

WRITTEN IN M.iLABAR. 

Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! 

What vanity has brought thee here? 
How cau I love to see tliee .sliino 

So bright, whom I have bought so dear? 

The tent-ropes flapping huie I hear 
For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 

The jackal's .shriek bursts on mine ear 
When mirth and music wont to charm. 

By Cherical's dark, wandering streams. 

Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, 
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams 

Of Teviot loved while still a child ; 

Of castled rocks stupendous piled 
By Esk or Eden's classic wave. 

Where loves of yonth and fiieudshijis smiled 
Uueur.sed by thee, vile yellow slave! 



Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade ! 

The perished bliss of youth's first prime, 
That onco so bright on fancy played, 

Revives no more in after-time. 

Far from my sacred natal clime, 
I haste to an untimely grave ; 

The daring thonglits that soared sublime 
Are sunk iu ocean's southern wave. 

Slave of the mine! thy yellow light 
Glooms baleful as the tomb-fire drear : 

A gentle vision comes by night 

My lonely, widowed heart to cheer : 
Her eyes are dim with many a tear 

That once were guiding stars to mine ; 
Her Ibiid heart throbs with many a fear! 

I cannot bear to see thee shine. 

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 

I left a heart that loved me true ! 
I crossed the tedious ocean-wave. 

To roam in climes unkind and new. 

The cold wind of the stranger blew 
Chill on my withered heart; the grave, 

Dark and untimely, met my view — 
And all for thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Ha.' eom'st thou now, so late to mock 

A wanderer's banished heart forlorn, 
Now that his frame the lightning shock 

Of sun-rays tipped with death has borne? 

From love, from friendship, country, torn. 
To memory's fond regrets the prey, — 

'i^ilo slave, thy yellow dross I scorn ! 
Go mix thee with thy kindred clay! 



SONNET ON THE SABBATH MORNING. 

With silent iiwe I hail the sacred morn, 

That slowly wakes while all the fields are still ; 

A soothing calm on every breeze is borne, 

A graver murmur gurgles from the rill, 

And echo answers softer from the hill. 

And softer sings the linnet from the thorn ; 

The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. 

Hail, light serene ! hail, sacred Sabbath morn ! 

The rooks float silent by in airy drove; 

Tlie sun a placid yellow lustre throws : 

The gales, that lately sighed along the grove. 

Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose ; 

The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move: — 

So smiled the day \Ylien the first morn aro.se. 



CHARLES LAMB. 



■iS 



(ill)arlcs £amb. 



Lamb (1775-1S34) was born in London, Febriiaiy lOlli, 
of luiniblo parenlaifc. Frorn liis so\'uulli to his til'tconlli 
year hu was an ininute of the sehoul of Christ's Hospital. 
He had an impediment in his speech, which prevented 
his aspirini:; to University lionors. In 1793 he became au 
accountant in the ollice of the East India Company; and 
after tlie dealli of liis parents devoted liimself to tlie care 
of liis sister Mary. A sad traj;edy was connected with 
the early history of tliis devoted pair. There was a taint 
of hereditary madness in the family ; Charles had him- 
self, in 1?.V), been confined six weeks in an asylum at 
Hoxton; and in September of the foUowins; year, Mary 
Lamb, in a paroxysm of insanity, stabbed licr mother to 
death with a knife snatched from the dinner-table. She 
was soon restored to her senses. Charles abandoned all 
thoughts of love and marriage, and at twenty-two years 
of age, with an income of little more than £100 a year, 
set out cheerfully on the journey of life. He bore his 
trials meekly, manfully, and willi prudence as well as 
fortitude. The school companion of Coleridge, Lamb 
enjoyed the friendship of Wordsworth, Soutlicy, Hazlitt, 
and other literary celebrities of liis day. In 18-'o he re- 
tired from the drudgery of his clerkship with a hand- 
some pension, which gave him literary leisure and the 
comforts of life. His series of essays signed "Elia" es- 
tablished his literary reputation. His kindliness of nat- 
ure, his whims, pnns, and prejudices give a marked indi- 
viduality to his writings. He died of erysipelas, caused 
by a fall which slightly cut his face. His "Life and Let- 
ters," by Mr. Justice Talfourd, appeared in lH:i7. Lamb's 
poetical writings are not numerous, but what he has 
written shows genuine taste and culture. His sister 
Mary was joint author with him of "Poetry for Chil- 
dren" (1809); republished in New York (1878). 



THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 

I liavc had playmates, I li.ive liad comiiaiiions, 
III my days of chililliood, in my joyful .scliool-day.s, 
All, all arc gone, the old familiar faces. 

I liavo liccn l.ingliing, I have liccii carousing, 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bo.soni cronies; 
.Ml, all are gone, tbo old familiar faces. 

I loved a lovo once, fairest among women ; 
Clo.scd arc her doors on ine, I must not see her — 
All, all arc gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend ba.s no man; 
Like an iiigratc I left my frii'iiil abruptly; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood ; 
Earth Kconicd a ilcsert I was bound to traverse. 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 



Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. 
Why wcrt not thou born in my father's dwelling? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces; — - 

How some they Lave died, and some they have left 

uie. 
And some are taken from mo ; all are departed ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 



LINES WRITTEN IN MY OWN ALI5U.M. 

Fresh clad tVoni heaven in robes of white, 

A young probationer of light. 

Thou wert, my soul, au album bright, 

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care, 
And friend and foe, in foul and fair, 
Have written "strange defeatures" there; 

And Time, with heaviest hand of all. 
Like that tierce writing on the wall, 
Hath stamped sad dates — ho can't recall. 

And error, gilding worst designs — 
Like speckled snake that strays and shines- 
Betrays his path by crooked lines. 

And vice hath left his ugly blot ; 
And good resolves, a moment hot, 
Fairly begun — but fiuished not ; 

And fruitless late remorse doth trace — 
Like Hebrew^ lovo a backward pace — 
Her irrecoverable race. 

Disjointed numbers; sense unknit; 
Hugo reams of folly ; shreds of wit ; 
Compose the mingled m.tss of it. 

My scalded eyes no longer brook 
Upon this ink-blurred thing to look — 
Go, shut the leaves, and clasp tlio book. 



TO .lAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES, 

ON HIS TRAGEDY OF " VIliGISIUS." 

Twelve years ago I knew thee. Knowlcs, and then 
Esteemed yon a perfect specimen 
Of those fine spirits warm-souled Ireland sends, 
To teach ns colder English how a friend's 



328 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Quick pulse should beat. I kuew you brave and 

jilaiii, 
Stroug-seused, rough-witted, above fear or gaia ; 
But uothiug further had the gift to espy. 
Sudden you reappear. AVith wonder I 
Hear my old friend (turned Shakspeare) read a scene 
Only to his inferior in the clean 
Passes of jiatbos : with such fence-like art — 
Ere we can see the steel, 'tis iu our heart. 
Almost without the aid language affords, 
Your piece seems wrought. That huffing medium, 

irorOs, 
(Which in the modern Tanibnrlaines quite sway 
Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play 
We scarce attend to. Hastier passion draws 
Our tears on credit : and we find the cause 
Some two hours after, spelling o'er again 
Those strange few words at case, that wrought the 

pain. 
Proceed, old friend ; and, as the year returns. 
Still suatch some new old story from the urns 
Of loDg-dead virtue. We, that kuew before 
Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more. 



fUattljctt) (Prcgory ficuns. 

Novelist, poet, und dramatist, Lewis (177.5-1818), some- 
times called "Monk Lewis" from his novel of "The 
Monk" (published 1795), was a native of London, but 
resided tlie last five years of his life in J.imaica. His 
poetical productions are: "The Feudal Tyrants," "Ro- 
mantic Tales," "Tales of Terror" (1799), and "Tales of 
Wonder" (1801). After his deatli appeared his "Jour- 
nal of a West Indian Proprietor," also his "Life and 
Correspondence" (1839); easy and entertaining in stjie, 
and replete with information. Ilis "Jamaica Journal," 
siiys Coleridge, "is delightful. * * * You liave the man 
himself, and not~an inconsiderable man — certainly a nnicli 
finer mind than I supposed before from the perusal of 
his romances." Lewis died, after great suffering, on his 
liomeward voyage from Jamaica. 



LINES TO A FRIEND. 

WRITTEN IN BOUHOURS' ".1UT DE BIEN PENSER.' 

When to my Charles this book I send, 

A useless present I bestow ; 
Why should you learn by art, my friend, 

What you so well by nature know ? 
Yet read the book ; — haply some spell 

May in its pages treasured bo ; 
Perchance the art of thinking well 

May teach you to think well of me ! 



THE HELMSMAN. 

Hark the bell! it sounds midnight! all hail, thou 

new heaven ! 

How soft sleep the stars on the bosom of night ! 

While o'er the full-moon, as they gently are driven. 

Slowly floating, the clouds bathe their fleeces in 

light. 

The warm feeble breeze scarcely ripples the ocean ; 

And all seems so hushed, all so happy to feel ; 
So smooth glides the bark, I perceive not her 
motion. 

While low sings the sailor who watches the wheel.- 

'Tis so sad, 'tis so sweet, and some tones come so 

swelling. 

So right from the heart, and so pure to the ear, 

That sure at this moment his thoughts must he 

dwelling 

On one who is absent, most kind and must dear. 

Oh, may she who now dictates that ballad so temler. 
Diffuse o'er your days the heart's solace and ense, 

As yon lovely moon with a gleam of mild s)>lenilor. 
Pure, tranquil, and bright, over-silvers the seas ! 



A MATRIMONIAL DUET. 

LADY TICRIIAGANT. 
Step in, pray. Sir Toby, my picture is here, — 
Do you think tliat 'tis like? does it strike you? 

.SIR TOBY. 
Why, it does not as yet; but I fancy, my dear. 
In a moment it will — 'tis so like vou ! 



llKtltcr ^ixnagc £ani)or. 

Landor (177.5-1864), the son of a Warwickshire gentle- 
man, was born to wealth, and educated at Rugby and 
Oxford. He published his poem of "Gebir" in 1797. 
It was praised by Southey, but never hit the popular 
taste. There is one fine pass.age iu it, descriptive of the 
sound which sca-sliells seem to make when placed close 
to tlie car : 

"But I have einnous sliells of pearly luie 
Witliiu ; and they that lustre liave iuibibed 
Iu the suu's palace-porch, where, wheu uuyiikeil, 
His chariot-wheels stand midway iu the wave : 
Shake cue, and it awakeus ; then apply 
Its polislied lips to yonr attentive ear, 
.\nd it remembers its august abodes, 
Aud murmurs as the ocean raurmui-s there." 



WALTER SAVAGE LAXDOE.— JAMES SMITH. 



3-29 



Bclwceii 1820 and ISiO Landor was engaged upon bis 
most successful work, " Imaginary Convei-sutions of Lit- 
irary Men uiid Statesmen." A man of uncontrollable 
passions, a raminint republican, reckless and unscrupu- 
lous in bis anger, llerce and overbearing in bis preju- 
dices, Landor acted at times like one almost irrespon- 
sible. As a poet, be often sbows genuine power and 
bigb literary culture; but tlicre is not niueli in bis verse 
tliat promises to be of permanent value. His bitter re- 
sentments plunged bim into disgraceful difficulties. He 
was dependent on tbe bounty of otliers for a support in 
bis latter years, and readied tbc age of ninety. To tbe 
last be coutiuued to tind solace in his pen. 



TO THE SISTER OF ELIA. 

Comfort tlice, O thou mourner, yet awhile! 

Again .shall Elia's sniilo 
Refresh thy heart, where heart eau ache no more. 

What is it wo deplore f 

He leaves behind bim, freed from griefs and years, 
Far worthier things than tears ; — 

The love of friends, witliout a single foe — 
Uueqiialled lot below ! 

His gentle soul, his genius — these are thine; 

For these dost thou repine f 
He may liave left the lowly walks of men ; 

Left them he has — what then f 

Are not lii.s footsteps followed by the eyes 

Of all the good and wiset 
Thongh the warm day is over, yet tbey seek, 

Upon the lofty peak 

Of his pure mind, the ro.soate light that glows 

O'er death's perennial snows. 
Behold him ! from the region of the blessed 

Ho speaks : ho bids thee rest I 



JFLirS HARE. 

.Tnliiis ! how many hours have we 
Together spent with sages old ! 

In wisdom none surpassing thee, 
In Truth's bright armure none mon 



bold. 



By friends around thy conch in death 
My nauu! from those pure lips was In-aid : 
O Fame I how feebler all thy breath 
Thau Virtue's ouc expiring word! 
Japnary 30lb, 18S9. 



ROSE AYLMER. 

Ah, what avails the sceptred race 1 

Ah, what the form divine ! 
What every virtue, every grace t 

Rose Aylmcr, all were thine. 
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 

May weep, but never see ! 
A night of memories aud of sighs 

1 consecrate to thee. 



DEATH. 

Death stands above me, whispering low 
I know not what into my ear : 

Of his strange language all I know 
Is, there is not a word of fear. 



Panics £iiniti). 



James Smith fl77,T-1839), known best in connection 
with his brother Horace, wrote clever parodies and crit- 
icisms in tbc popular mngazincs. In tbe Monthly Mir- 
ror appeared those imitations from bis own and his 
brother's hand which were publisbed in 1S13 as "Tbe 
Rejected Addresses" — one of the most sncccssful of 
humorous productions, for it had reached its twenty- 
second edition in 1870, and is still in demand. James 
wrote tbc imitations of Crabbe, Wordsworth, Soutbcy, 
Coleridge, and Cobbett ; Horace, those of Scott, Moore, 
Monk Lewis, Fitzgerald, and Dr. Johnson. Having met 
at a dinner-party Mr. Strahan, the king's printer, then 
sulTering from gout and old age, though bis mentid fac- 
ulties remained bright, James sent bim next morning 
the following jew d'cspriC: 

*'Ynur lower limbs seemed far from.Ptoiit 

^'hen last I eaw you walk : 
The cause I presently fDUlid out. 

When you began to talk. 
The power that props the body's length. 

In due proportion spread, 
In you mounts upward, and the strength 

All settles iu the bead." 

Never was poet so munificently paid for eiiibt lines of 
verse. Mr Strahan was so much gr.itilied by the com- 
pliment that he at once made a codicil to his will, by 
which he bequeatbed to the writer tbc sum of i::!000. 
Horace Smith mentions, however, that Slnibaii had oth- 
er motives for his generosity ; for he respected and loved 
tbe man as much as he admired tbe poet. James Sinitb 
died at tbc age of sixty five. Lady Blessington said of 
him: "If James Smith had not been a icilly man, he 
must have been a ffri-at tiian.^^ His extensive informa- 
tion and refined maimers, joined to bis inexhaustible 
fund of liveliness and humor, and a happy, uniform tem- 
per, made him a delightful companion. 



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CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE THEATRE.' 

FaoM "The Rejected Addresses." 

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six, 
Onr long wax-camlles with short cotton wicks, 
Touched by the lamplighter's Prometbeau art. 
Start iuto light, ami make the lighter start; 
To see red Phcebiis, through the gallery-pane. 
Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Laue, 
While gradual parties fill our widened pit, 
And gape and gaze and wonder ere they sit. 

What various swains our motley walls contain I 
Fashion from Moortields, honor from Chick Lane ; 
Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort. 
Bankrupts fronr Golden Square and Riches Court ; 
From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain. 
Gulls from the Poultrj', sots from Water Lane ; 
The lottery cormorant, the auction shark. 
The full-price master, and the half-price clerk ; 
Boj-s who long linger at the gallery-door, 
With ponce twice five, they want but twopence 

Ult)Vf. 

Till some Samaritan the twopence spares, 
And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs. 
Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk, 
But talk their minds — we wish they'd mind their 

talk ; 
Big-worded bullies, who by qimrrels live, 
Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give: 
Jews from St. Mary Axe, for jobs so wary 
That for old clothes they'd even axe St. Mary; 
And bucks wnth pockets empty as their pates. 
Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait, 
Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse 
With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. 

Yet here, as elsewhere, chance can joy bestow. 
Where scowling fortune seemed to threaten woe. 
John Richard William Alexander Dwyer 
Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire ; 
But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, 
Emanuel Jennings polished Stubbs's shoes : 
Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy 
Up as a corn-cutter — a safe employ ; 
In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred 
(At number twenty-seven, it is said), 
Facing the pump, and near the Granby's head. 
He would have bound him to some shop in town, 
But with a iiremium he could not come down. 
Pat was the urchin's name, a red-haired yovith, 
Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth. 

' III imitntiou of the style of the Rev. George Crabbe. 



Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe 
Tlie Muse shall tell an accident she saw : 

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat ; 
But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat ; 
Down from the gallery the beaver flew, 
And spurned the one to settle in the two. 
How shall he act ? pay at the gallery door 
Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four ? 
Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait, 
And gain his hat again at half-past eight f 
Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, 
John Mullins whispers, "Take my handkerchief." 
'•Thank yon," cries Pat, " but one won't make a line." 
"Take mine," cried Wilson; "And," cried Stokes, 

"take mine." 
A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties. 
Where Spitalfields with real India vies. 
Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted hue, 
Starred, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue. 
Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new. 
George Green below, with palpitating hand. 
Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band : 
Upsoars the prize ; the youth, with joy nnfeigued. 
Regained the felt, and felt what he regained; 
While to the applaiuling galleries grateful Pat 
Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat. 



TO JnSS EDGEWORTH. 

We every-day bards may "Anonymous" sign: 
That refuge. Miss Edgeworth, can never be thine. 
Thy writings, where satire and moral unite. 
Must bring forth the name of their author to light. 
Good and bad join in telling the source of their biitli: 
The bad own their edge, and the good own their 
teorth. 



Biiljtavb (Pall. 



Gall (1770-1800) v.-as a printer in Etlinburgh.and wrote 
some favorite songs. "My Only Jo and Dearie O" 
gained great applause. "I remember," says Allan Cun- 
ningliam, "when this song was exceedingly popular: its 
sweetness and ease, rather tlian its originality and vigor, 
miglit be the cause of its success." Gall died before he 
was twenty-tive. 



MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE O. 

Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue. 
My only jo and dearie O ; 

Thy neck is like the siller-dew 
Upon the banks sae briery O ; 



EICHARD GALL. — WILLIAM GILLESPIE.— THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



331 



Tliy teeth aro o' the ivory, 
Oh, sweet's the twiiikh" o' thine e"e ! 
Nao joy, iiao i>leasure, blinks on me, 
My only jo ami dearie O. 

The birdie sings upon the thorn 
its sang o' joy, fn' eheerie (), 
Rejoicing in the summer morn, 
Nao caro to make it eerie O ; 
Bnt little kens the sangster sweet 
Aught o' the cares I hae to meet, 
That gar my restless bosom beat, 
My only jo and dearie O. 

Wlien we were bairiiics on yon brae, 
And youth was blinking bonny O, 
Aft. we wad dart" the lee-lang day 

Onr joys fu' sweet and mouy O; 
Aft I wad cliasc thee o'er the lea. 
And round about the thorny tree, 
Or pu' the wild lh)wers a' for thee, 
My only Jo and dearie O. 

I hae a wish I canna tine, 

'Mang a' the cares tliat grieve nic O ; 
I wish thou wert forever mine, 

And never mair to leave me O : 
That I wad daut tliee night and day, 
Xor ither worldly care wad hae, 
Till life's warm stream forgot to play. 

My only jo and dearie O. 



llVilliain (IMllcGpic. 

Gillespie (ITTG-lSi",) was a native of Kiikcndbright, 
Scotland. Educated at the University of Edinbiirj:li, he 
studied for the Cliurcli, and became minister of Kells. 
His poem of "The Hiirhlinuler" is intcresliug, not only 
for its own merits, but because Seott seems to have bor- 
rowed fr()m it much of the music and some of the scnti- 
nuut iu his poem of " Hclvcllyn." 



THE IlIGIILAXDER. 

From the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary, 
The Highlander sped to his youthlnl abode; 

Fair visions of home cheered the desert so dreary. 
Though fierce was the noon-beiim, and steep was 
the road. 

Till spent with the march that still lengthened be- 
fore him. 
He stoppeil by tlie way in a .sylvan retreat ; 



The light shady boughs of the birch-tree waved 
o'er him. 
The stream of the mouutaiu fell soft at his feet. 

He sank to repose where the red heaths are blended, 
On dreams of his childhood his fancy pa.ssed o'er; 

But his battles are fought, and his inarch it is ended, 
Th(! sound of the bagpipe shall wake him no more. 

No arm iu the day of the conflict could wouiul him, 

Though war launched her thunder in fury ti> kill ; 

Now the Angel of Death in the desert has found 

him. 

And stretched him iu peace by the stream of the 

hill. 

Pale Autumn spreads o'er him the leaves of the 
forest. 
The fays of the wild chant the dirge of his rest ; 
And thou, little brook, still the sleeper dcplorest. 
And moi.sten'st the beath-bell that weeps on his 
breast. 



iiljotnas (Tiamfibcll. 



The son of a Glasgow merchant, Campbell (1777-1.S44) 
was the youngest of ten children. At the age of thirteen 
he was placed in the university of his native city, where 
he was noted for his Latin and Greek translations, and 
his compositions in prose and verse. In April, li'.W.wlien 
twenty -one, he published his " Pleasures of Hope," a 
remarkable specimen of literary precocity, though mar- 
red by passages where sound takes the i>lace of sense. 
Wordsworth regarded it as "strangely overrated." The 
poem passed through four editions in a year; and on the 
first seven editions the youthful poet received no less a 
sum than .£900. After travelling on tlic Continent (where 
he was nol a spectator of the Battle of llohenlinden, as 
has been often .asserted), he published, in 1801, "Ye Mari- 
ners of England," with several other lyrical pieces; and, 
in 1S03, "Lochicl," " Hohenlinden," "The Soldier's 
Dream," "The Battle of the Baltic:" so that the noble 
lyrics to which Campbell owes his fame were composed 
within a brief period, and when he was cpiitc young. 
What he wrote after thirty has the marks of inferiority. 
"Gertrude of Wyoming" appeared in IWM). lie appears 
to have been amiable, generous, and sympathetic, though 
irritable, irresolute, and lazy. His faults were largely 
caused, no doubt, by physical inflrmity. He married his 
cousin. Miss Sinclair, and settled near London; but the 
death of one son and the madness of another cast a dark 
shadow on his existence. Though he strucdled with 
narrow circumstances, he was generous to his mother, 
sisters, and other relations. From IS'20 to ISil he edited 
the Xeie Mv.ithhj Maqaziiic. During his later years, iu the 
receipt of a merited pension, he resided ehielly in Lon- 
don. He died at Boulogne, whither he had gone for his 
health, in bis sixty-seventh year. His dust lies iu West- 



332 



CTCLOPMDIA OF BlilTISH AND AMERICAN POETBY. 



minster Abbey. Campbell's Ij'rics are among the finest 
in all literature, and are likely to last as long as the Eng- 
lish language, in its present form, endures. In 1849 a Life 
of the poet, with selections from his extensive eorre- 
spondence, was publislied in London by his att'ectionate 
friend and literary executor. Dr. Beattie. 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 

A NAVAL ODE. 

Ye mariners of England, 

That guard our native seas, 

Whose flag has braved, a tborisaud years, 

The battle and the breeze ! 

Your glorious standard laiiucL again 

To match another foe ! 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy wind.s do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave : 

For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And oecau was their grave : 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell. 

Your manly hearts shall glow, 

As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow ; 

While the battle rages loud and long. 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwark. 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves. 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak, 

She quells the floods below, — 

As they roar on the shore. 

When the stormy winds do blow ; 

When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn. 

Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name. 

When the storm has ceased to blow ; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more. 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 



LOCHIEL'S AVARNING. 

(1SII2.) 
WIZARD. 

Loehiel ! Loehiel ! beware of the day 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! 
For a field of the dead rushes red ou my sight, 
And the clans of Cullodeu are scattered in fight. 
They rally, they bleed for their country and crown ; 
Woe, woe to the riders that tramiile them down ! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, 
And their hoof-beaten bo.soms are trod to the plain. 
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and for? 
'Tis thine, O GlenuUin ! whose bride shall await, 
Like ii love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. 
A steed comes at morning : no rider is there. 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
Weep, Albiu ! to death and captivity led! 
Oh, weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead : 
For a merciless sword o'er Culloden shall wave, 
Culloden ! that reeks with the blood of the brave. 

LOCIIIEL. 

Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer ! 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 



Ha! laugb'st thou, Loehiel, my vision to scorn? 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! 
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth 
From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the 

North ? 
Lo ! the death-shot of focmen outspeeding, he rode 
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; 
But down let him stoop from his havoc ou high ; 
Ah! home let him speed, for the spoiler is nigh. 
Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to {he blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. 
Oh, crested Loehiel ! the peerless in might, 
W^hose banners arise on the battlements' height. 
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; 
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely, return ! 
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, 
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. 



False wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan, 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



:V.V.; 



Tlioy nic true to the last of tlieir blood and their 

lin-atli. 
And, liUi: riupirs, descend to the harvest of death. 
Then weU-onie be Ciiniberhuid's steed to the shock ! 
Let him clii.-.h his iiroiid fnaiii like :v wave on the 

rock ! 
Hnt woe to his kindred, anil \voe to his cause, 
When Albiu her claymore indignantly draws ; 
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
Clanranald the danntle,s.s, and Moray the proud, 
All plaided and pliuned in tlieir tartan array — 



Lochiel ! Lochiel ! beware of the day ! 
Tor, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 
Hut man cannot cover what God would reveal ; 
'Tis the Minset of life gives mo mystical lore, 
Anil coming events east their .sliadows before. 
I tell thee, C'nlloden's dread echoes shall ring 
With the blood-hounds that bark for thy fugitive 

king. 
I.n ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, 
r>ehi>ld where lie flies on his desolate path! 
Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my 

sight : 
Rise, rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! 
Tis finished ! Tlnir thunders are bushed on the 

moors ; 
Cnllodeii is lost, and my country deplores. 
Hut where is the iron-bound prisoner! — Where? 
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 
Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn. 
Like a limb from bis country cast bleeding and torn ? 
Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near; 
Tlie war-dnim is mulileil, and black is the bier; 
His death-bell is tolling: oh! Mercy, dispel 
Von sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! 
Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, 
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims: 
Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet. 
Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to 

beat, 
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale — 

LOCHIEL. 

Down, soothless insnltcr! I trust not the tale: 
For never shall Albiu a destiny meet 
So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. 
Though my perishing ranks should bo strewed in 

their gore, 
Like oican-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, 
Lochiel. untainted by Might or by chains. 
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains. 



Shall victor exult, or in death bo laid low, 
With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe; 
And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, 
Look proudly to heaven from the deutb-bed of Fame. 



HALLOWED GROUND. 

What's hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod 
Its Maker meant not should be trod 
By man, the image of his God, 

Krect and free, 
Unscourged by Superstition's rod 

To bow the knee f 

That's hallowed ground — where, mourned and 

missed. 
The lips repose our love has kissed; — 
But Avhere's their memory's mansion ? Ls't 

You church-yard's bowers f 
No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 

A part of ours. 

A kiss can consecrate the ground 

Where mated hearts are mutual bound : 

The spot where love's first links were wound, 

That ne'er are riven. 
Is hallowed down to earth's profound, 

And up to heaven ! 

For time makes all but true love old ; 
The burning thoughts that then were told 
Rnn molten still in memory's mould, 

And will not cool, 
Until the heart itself be cold 

In I^'lhe's pool. 

\Vhat hallows ground where heroes slee[i ? 
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap! 
In dews that heavens far distant weep 

Tlieir turf may bloom, 
Or Genii twine beueath the dcej) 

Their coral tomb. 

But strew his ashes to the wind 

Whoso sword or voice has served mankind — 

And is he dead, whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high f — 
To live in hearts we leave behind 

Is not to die. 

Is't death to fall for Freedom's right f 
He's dead alone that lacks her light! 



334 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BUITISH AND AMEUICAN PUETItT. 



And Murder sullies in Heaven's sight 

The sword he draws : — • 
What can alone ennohle light ? 

A noble cause ! 

Give that ! aud welcome War to brace 

Her drums ! aud rend Heaven's reeking space ! 

The colors planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, 
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, 

Shall still be dear. 

Aud place our trophies where men kueel 
To Heaven ! — but Heaven rebukes my zeal ! 
The cause of Truth and human weal, 

O God above ! 
Transfer it from the sword's appeal 

To Peace and Love. 

Peace, Love ! the cherubim, that join 
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine — 
Prayers souud in vaiu, aud temples shiue. 

Where thcj' are not — 
The heart alone can make divine 

Religion's spot. 

To incantations dost thou trust, 
And pompous rites in domes august ? 
See mouldering stones and metal's rust 

Belie the vaunt, 
That man can bless one inle of dust 

With chime or chant. 

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! 
Thy temples, — creeds themselves grow wan ! 
But there's a dome of nobler span, 

A temple given 
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — 

Its space is heaven! 

Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling, 
Where trancing the rapt spirit's feeling, 
Aud God himself to man revealing, 

The harmonious spheres 
Make music, though unheard their pealiug 

By mortal ears. 

Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? 
Can siu, can death your worlds obscure ? 
Else why so swell the thoughts at your 

Aspect above ? 
Ye must be heavens that make us sure 

Of heavenly love ! 



And in your harmony sublime 
I read the doom of distant time ; 
That man's regenerate soul from crime 

Shall yet be drawn, 
And reasou on his mortal clime 

Immortal dawn. 

What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 
Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 

Earth's compass rouud ; 
And your high-priesthood shall make earth 

All halloa-i'd ground. 



SONG OF THE GREEKS. 

(1832.) 

Again to the battle, Achaians ! 

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ! 

Our laud, the first garden of Liberty's tree, 

It has been, and shall yet be, the laud of the free ! 
For the cross of our faith is replanted, 
The iiale, dying crescent is dauuted; 

And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's 
slaves 

May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' 
gra^'es. 
Their spirits are hoveriug o'er us, 
And the sword shall to glory restore us. 

Ah, what though no succor advances, 
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances 

Are stretched in our aid ? be the combat our own ! 

And we'll perish, or conquer more proudly alone ; 
For we've sworn by our country's assaulters, 
By the virgins they've dragged from our altars, 

By our massacred patriots, our childreu in chains. 

By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins. 
That, living, we shall be victorious. 
Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious. 

A breath of submission we breathe not : 
The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe 
not ; 
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, 
Aud the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. 
Earth may hide, waves ingulf, fire consume us, 
But they shall not to slavery doom us ; 
If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves : 
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves, 
Aud new triumphs on land are before ns. 
To the charge ! — Heaven's banner is o'er us. 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



3:J5 



This (lay — shall ye blush for its story f 
Or brighten your lives witli its glory T 
Our women — oh say, shall they shriek iu despair, 
Or embrace us from conquest, with wre.ttbs iu their 
hair f 
Accnrseil may his memory blacken, 
If a cowaril there bo that would slacken, 
Till we've tramjilcd tlie tnrban, and showu onr- 

selves worth 
Being sprnng from, and named for, the godlike of 
earth. 
Strike home! and the world shall revere lis, 
As heroes descended from lieroes. 

Old Greece lightens up with emotion : 
Her inlands, her isles of the ocean. 

Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring. 

And the Xine sliall uew-liaHow tlieir Helicon spring : 
Onr hearths shall be kindli'd in gladness 
That were cold, and extinguished in sadness: 

While our maidens shall dance with their white- 
waving arms. 

Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms, 
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens 
Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens. 



LORD ULLIX'S DAUGHTER. 

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, 
Cries, " Hoatnian, do not tarry ! 

And ril give thee a silver pound. 
To row us o'er the ferry." — ■ 

" Now, who be ye would cross Loehgyle, 

This dark and stormy water!" 
"Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 



"And fast before her father's men 
Three days we've lied together. 

For should he liinl us in the glen. 
My blood would staiu the heather. 

" His horsemen hard behind us ride ; 

.Should they our steps discov<'r. 
Then who would cheer my bonny bride 

When they have slain her lover!'' 

Out spoke the hardy Highlaml wight, 
" Fll go, my chief — Fni ready : 

It is not for your silver bright, 
But for your wiusumo lady : 



"And by my word! the bonny bird 

In danger shall not tarry ; 
So, though the waves are raging white, 

I'll row you o'er the ferry." 

By this the storm grew loud apace, 
The water-wraith was shrieking; 

And in the scowl of Heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still, as wilder blew the w iud. 

And as the night grew drearer, 
Adown the glen rode aruil^d men. 

Their trampling sounded nearer. 

" O haste thee, haste !" the lady cries, 
" Though tempests round us gather ; 

I'll meet the raging of the skies, 
lint not an angry father." 

The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her, — 
When, oh ! too strong for human hand. 

The tempest gathered o'er her. 

And still they rowed amidst the roar 

Of waters fast prevailing ; 
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore : 

His wrath was changed to wailing. 

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, 

His child he did discover: 
One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 

And one was round her h)ver. 

" Come back ! come back !" he cried, in grief. 

"Across this stormy water; 
And I'll forgive your Highland chief. 

My daughter! — O my daughter!'' 

'Twas vain : the loud waves lashed the shore. 

Return or aid preventing: 
The waters wild went o'er his child. 

And ho was left lamenting. 



HOHEXLIXDEX. 

(1S02.) 

On Linden, when the sun was low. 
All bliiiidless lay the untroilden snow. 
Anil dark as winter was the llow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 



336 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN ROETRT. 



But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat at dead of night, 
Conimauding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed. 
Each horseman drew his battle-ljlade. 
And furious every charger neighed, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then .shooli the hills with thunder riven. 
Thou rushed the steed to battle driven. 
And louder than the bolts of heaven, 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow, 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

''Tis morn, but scarce you level snu 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun. 
Where furious Frank, and iiery Hun, 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

Tlie combat deepens. On, ye brave. 
Who rush to glory, or the gra\e ! 
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave ! 
And charge with all thy chivalry! 

Few, few sh.all part when many meet ! 
The snow sh.all be their winding-sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 



FREEDOM AND LOVE. 

How delicious is the winning 
Of a kiss at love's beginning, 
When two mutual hearts are sighing 
For the knot there's no untying ! 

Yet remember, 'mid your wooing. 
Love has bliss, but Love has ruing ; 
Other smiles may nial<e you fickle, 
Tears for other charms may trickle. 

Love he comes, and Love lie tarries, 
Just as fate or fancy carries ; 
Longest stays when sorest chidden ; 
Laughs and flies wlien pressed and bidden. 



Bind the sea to slumber stilly, 
Bind its odor to the lily, 
Bind the aspen ne'er to (juiver. 
Then bind Love to last forever. 

Love's a fire that needs renewal 

Of fresh beauty for its fuel ; 

Love's wing moults when caged and captured ; 

Only free, he soars enraptured. 

Can you keep the bee from ranging, 
Or the ring-dove's neck from changing? 
No! nor fettered Love from dying 
In the knot there's no untying. 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 

Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had 
lowered. 

And the sentinel stars .set their watch in the sky ; 
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, 

The weary to sleep, aud the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamed it again. 

Metliought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track : 

'Twas autumn, — .and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me 
back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 
In life's morning march, when my bosom was 
young; . 
I heiird my own mountain-goats bleating aloft. 
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers 
sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, aud fondly I swore 
From my homo and my weeping friends never 
to part : 

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, 
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 

"Stay, stay with ns, — rest, thou art weary aud 
woru ;" 

And fiiiu was their war-broken soldier to stay : 
But .sorrow returned with the dawning of morn. 

And the voice iu my dreaming ear melted away. 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



337 



VAXEDICTORY STANZAS TO JOHN PHILIP 
KKMBLE, ESy. 

I'liilo of tlio British stage, 

A long aud last adieu! 
Whoso imago broiiglit the Heroic Age 

Kevivfd to fancy's view. 
Like fields rcfrosbod with dewy ligbt 

When the sun smiles his last, 
Thy parting preseuco makes more bright 

Oiu' memory of the past ; 
And memory conjures feelings np 

That wine or music need not swell, 
As high we lift the festal cup 

To Kemble ! — fare thee well ! 

His was the spell o'er hearts 

Which only acting lends, — 
The youngest of the sister arts, 

Wliere all their beauty bleiuls : 
For ill can poetry express 

Kull many a tone of thought sublime ; 
And painting, mute and motionless, 

Steals but a glance of tiuio. 
15iit by the mighty actor brought, 

Illusion's perfect triumphs come — 
Verso ceases to be airy thought. 

And sculpture to be dumb. 

Time may again revive, 

But ne'er eclipse, the charm, 
When Cato spoke iu him alive. 

Or Hotspur kindled warm. 
What soul was not resigned entire 

To the deep sorrows of the Moor f 
What English heart was not on lire 

With him at Agiueourt t 
And yet a majesty possessed 

His transport's most impetiions tone, 
.\nd to each passion of the breast 

The Graces gave their zone. 

High were the task — too high. 

Ye conscious bosoms here — 
In words to paint your memory 

Of Kemble and of Lear; 
But who forgets that wliite discrowni^d head. 

Those bursts of reason's balf-extingnished glare — 
Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed, 

III doubt, more touching than despair, 
If 'twas reality he felt f 

Had Shakspcare's self amid you been, 



Friends, he had seen you molt, 
Aud triumphed to have seen ! 

Aud there was many an hour 

Of blended kindred fame. 
When Siddons's auxiliar power 

And sister magic came. 
Together at the JIuse's side 

The tragic paragons had grown — 
They were the children of her priile, 

The columns of her throne ; 
And undivided favor ran 

From heart to heart in their applause, 
Save for the gallantry of man 

Iu lovelier woman's cause. 

Fair as some classic dome. 

Robust and richly graced. 
Your Kcmble's spirit was the home 

Of genius and of taste — 
Taste like the silent dial's power, 

That, when supernal light is given, 
Cau measure inspiration's hour. 

And tell its height iu heaven. 
At once ennobled and correct, 

His mind surveyed the tragic page; 
And what the actor could etlect 

The scholar could presage. 

These were his traits of worth : — 

And must we lose them now t 
And shall the scene no more show forth 

His sternly pleasing brow f 
Alas! the moral brings a tear! — 

'Tis all a transient hour below ; 
And wo that would detain thee hero 

Ourselves as fleetly go ! 
Yet shall our latest age 

This parting scene review : 
Pride of the British stage, 

A long and last adieu ! 



EXILE OF ERIN. 

There camo to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, 

The dew on his tliin lobo was heavy and chill : 
For his country he sighed when at twilight repairing 

To wander alone by the wind-beaten bill. 
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion. 
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean. 
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, 
He saug the bold authcm of Erin go bragh ! 



338 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN FOETRT. 



" Sad is my fate !" said the heart-broken stranger ; 

" The Tvild deer aud wolf to a covert can flee ; 
But I have no refuge from famine aud danger, 

A home aud a country remain not to me. 
Never again in the green sunny bowers 
Where my forefathers lived shall I spend the sweet 

hours, 
Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, 

And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh ! 

"Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, 
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; 

But alas! in a fair foreign land I awaken, 

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more. 

O cruel Fate ! wilt thou never replace me 

lu a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me ? 

Never again shall my brothers embrace me ? 
They died to defend me, or live to deplore ! 

"Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild-wood? 

Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall ? 
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? 

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ! 
Oh, my sad heart ! long abandoned by pleasure. 
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ? 
Tears like the rain-drop may fall without measure, 

But rapture and beaut}- they caunot recall. 

"Yet, all its sad recollection suppressing. 
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw : 

Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! 
Land of my forefathers — Erin go bragh! 

Buried aud cold, when my heart stills her motion. 

Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! 

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with de- 
votion, 
Erin mavourneeu — Erin go bragh !" 



ADELGITHA. 

The Ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded. 

And sad, pale Adelgitha came, 
When forth a valiant champion bounded, 

Aud slew the slanderer of her fame. 

She wept, delivered from lier danger; 

But when ho knelt to claim her glove — 
" Seek not," she cried, " oh ! gallant stranger. 

For hapless Adelgitha's love. 

" For he is in a foreign far-land 

Whose arm should now have set me free ; 



And I must wear the willow garland 
For him that's dead, or false to me." 

"Nay! say not that his faith is tainted !"- 
He raised his vizor, — at the sight 

She fell into his arras and faiuted : 
It was, indeed, her own true knight. 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 

Of Nelson aud the North 

Sing the glorious day's renown. 
When to battle fierce came forth 
All the might of Denmark's crown, 
Aud her arms along the deep jirondly shone ; 
By each gun the liglited brand 
lu .1 bold, determined hand. 
And the prince of all the land 
Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat. 

Lay their bulwarks on tlie brine, 
While the sign of battle flew 
On the lofty British liue : 
Jt was ten of April morn by the chime : 
As they drifted on their path. 
There was silence deep as death. 
And the boldest held his breath 
For a time. 

But the might of England flushed 

To anticipate the scene, 
And her van the fleeter rn.shed 
O'er the deadly space between. 
" Hearts of oak !" our captains cried ; when eacli gun 
From its adamantine lips 
Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. 

Again ! again ! again ! 

Aud the havoc did not slack. 
Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
To our cheering sent us back. 
Their shots along the deep .slowly boom : — 
Then ceased — aud all is wail 
As they strike the shattered sail. 
Or, in conflagration jiale, 
Light the gloom. 

Outspoke the victor then. 

As he hailed them o'er the wave : 



TUOilAS VAMI'BICLL. 



339 



•• Ye are brotlicre ! yo are men ! 
And wo coiHiiier but to save : 
So peace instead of death let us bring. 
But yield, proud foe, tby fleet, 
With the crews, at Enghiud's feet, 
And make submission meet 
To onr king." 

Then Denmark blessed our chief, 

That bo gave licr womuls repose; 
And the sounds of joy and grief 
From her peopbi wildly rose 
As Death withdrew his shades from the day ; 
While the sun looked smiling bright 
O'er a wide and woful sight, 
Where the fires of funeral light 
Died away. 

Now joy, old England, raise 

For the tidings of thy might, 
By the festal cities' blaze, 

While the wine-onp shines in light! 
And yet, amid that joy and nproar, 
Let us think of them that sleep 
Full many a fathom deep. 
By thy wild and stormy steep, 
Elsinore ! 

Bravo hearts I to Britain's prido 

Once so faithful and so true. 
Oil the deck of Famo that died. 
With the gallant, good Riou !' 
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their gra\'C ! 
While th<! billow mournful rolls, 
And the mermaid's song condoles, 
Singing glory to the souls 
Of the brave I 



THE PARROT. 

A DOSIESTIC ANECDOTE. 

The Mlowlng hicldont, fn strongly nia»lratln<j Ihc power of 
ineratiry and ai>80cintioi) in llie lower niiimnlt*. is not n HciIoii. 
I heard it ni.iiiy years ago in tlie I^land of Mull, from the fami- 
ly to whom the bird beh>i)ged. 

The deep atTcctiong of the breast. 

That Heaven to living things imparts, 

Are not exclusively possessed 
By hninaii hearts. 



' Captain Rlon, entitled " the snllnnl and the good " by Lord 
NeUoii, wbeu he wrote borne his despatches. 



A parrot, from the Spanish Main, 

Full young, and early caged, camo o'er, 

With bright wings, to tho bleak domain 
Of MuUa's shore. 

To spicy groves, where he hail won 
His plumage of resiilendent hue. 

His native fruits, and skies, and sun. 
He bade adieu. 

For these ho changed the smoke of turf, 
A biathery land and misty sky, 

And turned on rocks and raging surf 
His golden eye. 

But petted ill onr climate cold 

He lived and chattered many .a day; 

I'lilil with age, from green and gold 
His wings grew gray. 

At last, when blind and seeming dumb, 
He scolded, laughed, and spoke no more, 

A Spanish strangir clianced to como 
To JIulla's shore : 

He hailed the bird in Spanish speech, 
The bird in Spanish speech replied. 

Flapped round his cage with joyous screech, 
Dropped down, and died .' 



TO THE RAINBOW. 

Triiimi)lial arch, that fill'st the sky. 
When storms prepare to part, 

I ask not proud Philosophy 
To teach me what thou art ; 

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, 

A midway station given 
For happy spirits to alight. 

Betwixt the earth and heaven. 

Can all that Optics teach unfold 
Thy fiuni to please me so. 

As when I dreamed of gems and gold 
Hid in thy radiant bow f 

When Science from Creation's face 
Enehantnient's veil withdraws. 

What lovely visions yield their idaco 
To crdd material laws! 



340 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEIIICAN POETRY. 



Ami yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, 
But words of the Most Higli, 

Have told why first thy robe of beams 
Was woven in the sky. 

^^'hen o'er the grceu undeliiged earth 
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine. 

How came the world's gray fathers forth 
To watch thy sacred sign ! 

And when its yellow lustre smiled 

O'er mountains yet nutrod, 
Each mother held aloft her child 

To bless the bow of God. 

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep. 

The first-uiado anthem rang, 
On earth d(diverod from the deep, 

And the tirst poet sang. 

Nor ever shall the Muse's ej'e 
Unraptured greet thy beam : 

Theme of primeval prophecy. 
Be still the poet's theme .' 

The earth to thee her incense yields, 

The lark thy welcome sings. 
When glittering in the freshened fields 

The snowy mushroom springs. 

How glorious is thy girdle cast 
O'er mountain, tower, and town. 

Or mirrored in the ocean vast, 
A thousand fathoms down ! 

As fresh In yon horizon dark. 
As young thy beauties seem, 

As when the eagle from the ark 
First sported in thy beam. 

For, faithful to its sacred page, 
Heaven still rebuilds thy span. 

Nor lets the type grow pale with age 
That first spoke peace to man. 



HOPE'S KINGDOM. 
From "The Pleasures of Hope." 

Unfading Hope! when life's last embers burn. 
When soul to soul, and dust to dust return, — 
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour: 
Ob! then thy kingdom comes, Immortal Power! 



What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly 
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye I 
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey 
The morning dream of life's eternal day — 
Then, then the triumjih and the trance begin, 
And all the Phcciiix spirit burns within ! 



UNBELIEF IN IMMORTALITY. 

From " The Pleasures of Hope." 

Oh ! lives there, Heaven ! beneath thy dread expanse. 

One hopeless, dark idolater of Chance, 

Content to feed, with ijleasures unrefined, 

The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind ; 

Who, mouldering earthward, 'reft of every trust, 

In joyless union wedded to the dust, 

Could all his jiarting energy dismiss. 

And call this barren world sufficient bliss ? — 

There live, alas! of Heaven-directed mien. 

Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene. 

Who hail thee, Man ! the pilgrim of a day. 

Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay. 

Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower. 

Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower; 

A friendless slave, a child without a sire. 

Whose mortal life, and momentary lire. 

Light to the grave his chance-created form, 

As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm ; 

And, when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er. 

To Night and Silence sink for evermore ! — 

Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim. 
Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame ? 
Is this your triumph — this your proud applause — 
Children of Truth, and champions of her cause ? 
For this hath Science searched, on weary wing. 
By shore and sea — each mute and living thing! 
Launched with Iberia's pilot from the steep. 
To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep. 
Or round the cope her living chariot driven. 
And wheeled in triumph through the signs of heaven? 
Oh ! star-eyed Science, hast thou wandered there. 
To waft us homo the message of despair ? 
Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to .suit. 
Of blasted leaf and death-distilling fruit! 
Ah me ! the laurelled wreath that Murder rears. 
Blood-nursed, and watei'ed by the widow's tears, 
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread. 
As waves the nightshade round the sceptic head. 

What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain ? 
I smile on death, if heavenward Hope remain ! 
But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife 
Be all the faithless charter of my life. 



i;OEL THOMAS CAUIlIX(;TUy.—Sir, IIVMI-IIUY DAVY. 



in 



If Chaiico awaked, iiiexoiablo power ! 
This frail ami feverish beiiig of an hour, 
Uooineil o'er the workrs precarious scene to sweci>, 
Swift as tho tempest travels on the deep, 
To know Uclij;ht but by her parting smile. 
And toil, and wish, and weep, a little while; — 
Then unit, ye elements, that fornicil in vain 
Tliis troubled pulse, and visionary brain ! 
Fade, yo wild flowers, memorials of ray doom, 
And sink, ye stars, that light me to tho tomb! 



Xocl ^Lljonias (Caningtou. 

A native of I'lymoutli, Ens;I;uid, C'ai liiiirton (1777-1S30) 
was llic author of several poems cxliibitini; a mastery 
of blank verse, lie published "The Banks of Tauiar" 
(1«0), "Darlmoor" ( IS.'O), and "My Native Villiisc." 
His collected poems were published in two volumes, 
12fno. Of these " Dartmoor"' met with greater success 
than the author had anticipated. His account of tlie 
pi.vics, or fairies, of Devonshire is a favorable s]icciuien 
of the graceful case to which he had attained in tlic met- 
rical flow of his language. 



THE PIXIES OF DEVON. 

They arc llown. 
Beautiful fictions of our fathers, wove 
In Superstition's web when Time was young, 
And fondly loved and cherished : they arc flown 
liefore tho wand of Science! Hills and vales, 
Mountains and moors of Devou, yo have lost 
The cuchautuients, the delights, tho visions all. 
The ellin visions that so blessed the sight 
In the old days romantic! Naught is heard 
Now in the leafy world but earthly strains — 
Voices, yet sweet, of breeze aud bird ami brook 
And water-fall ; tho day is silent else. 
And night is strangely mnto ! Tho hymnings liigh, 
Tile innnortal music, men of ancicut times 
Heard ravished oft, are flown! Oh, ye have lost. 
Mountains and moors aud meads, the radiant throngs 
That dwelt iu your green solitudes, and tilled 
The air, the flelds, with beauty aud with joy 
Intense, — with a rich mystery that aweil 
Thi' mind, and flung around a thousand hiarlhs 
Miviiu'st tales, that through the cnehuuted year 
Found passionate listeners! 

The very streams 
Hrightened with visilings of these so sweet 
Ethereal creatures! They were seen to rise 
From the charmed waters, which still brighter grew 
As the pomp )iassed to land, until the eye 
Scarce bore tlie unearthly glory. Wliere they trod, 



Young flowers, but not of this world's growth, arose, 
And fragrance, as of amaranthine bowers. 
Floated njjou tho breeze. 

But yo Lavo flown, 
Beautiful lictions of our fathers! — flowu 
Before tho wand of Science! 



Sir f)ninpl)nj DixiMj. 

Eminent as a man of science, Davy (ITTS-lS'iO) was 
also a poet. He was born at Penzance, in Cornwall, and 
educated at the school of Truro. He was an enthusi- 
astic reader and student, fond of metaphysics, fond of 
experiment, an ardent student of nature, fond of poetry. 
All these tastes endured throughout life; business could 
not stille them, nor even the approach of death extin- 
guish them. But the physical sciences absorbed his 
most earnest attention. Of his splendid discoveries, his 
invention of the safety-lamp is probably the most use- 
ful to mankind. He was rewarded for it with a baronet- 
cy by the Prince-regent in 1818. Coleridge is reported 
as saying that, " if Davy had not been the first chemist, 
he probably would have been the tirst poet of his age." 
Tlierc is exaggeration in the remark; but it is certain 
that Davy has given proofs of a line poetic sensibility, 
and that he ought to be classed among tlic potential 
poets. 

WKITTEN AFTER RECOVERY FRO.M A HAN- 
GEROUS ILLNESS. 

Lo! o'er tho earth the kindling spirits pour 

The flames of life that bouutcons Nature gives; 

The limpid dew becomes tho rosy flower. 

The in.sensate dust awakes, aud moves, aud lives. 

All speaks of change : the renovated forms 
Of long-forgotteu things arise again ; 

Tho light of suns, tho breath of angry storms, 
The everlasting motions of tho main, — 

Thesis are but engines of the Eternal will, 
Tho one Intelligence, whose )iotent sway 

Has ever acted, and is acting still. 

While stars and worlds and systen)S all obey ; 

Without wlio.se power the whole of mortal things 
Were dull, inert, an nnharmonions band. 

Silent as are tho harp's untuned strings 
Without the touches of the poet's hand. 

A sacred sjiark created by his breath, 

The imuiorlal mind of man his imago bears; 

\ spirit living 'mid llie forms of death, 

< )p|prcssed, but not snlidiied, by nmrlal cares; 



342 



CYCLOPMDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



A germ, preparing in the winter's frost 

To rise aud bud aud blossom in tbe spring ; 

An unfledged eagle, by tlie tempest tossed, 
Unconscious of bis future strength of wing ; 

Tlic cbilil (if trial, to mortality 

And all its cbangcful influences given ; 
On tbe green earth decreed to move and die. 

And yet by such a fate prepared for heaven. 
* ie » * * * 

To live in forests, mingled with tlie whole 

Of natural forms, whoso generations rise 
In lovely change, in happy order roll, 

Ou laud, in ocean, in tbe glittering skies, — 

Tlifir harmony to traee ; the Eternal Cause 
To know iu love, in reverence to adore; 

To bend beneath tlie inevitable laws, 

Sinking iu death, its human strength no more; — 

Then, as awakening fiom a dream of pain, 
With joy its mortal feelings to resign ; 

Yet all its living essence to retain, 

Tbe undying energy of strength divine ; — 

To quit the burdens of its earthly days, 

To give to Nature all her borrowed powers, — • 

Ethereal fire to feed the solar rays, 

Ethereal dew to glad tbe earth with showei-s ! 



LIFE. 



Our life is like a cloudy sky 'mid mountains, 
When in the blast the watery vapors float. 
Now gleams of light pass o'er the lovely hills. 
And make the purple heath and rnsset bracken 
Seem lovelier, and the grass of brighter green ; 
And now a giant shadow bides them all. 
And tlius it is that, iu all carthhj distance 
Ou which the sight can fix, still fear aud hope, 
Gloom aud alternate sunshine, each succeeds. 
So of another aud an uuknown laud 
AVe see the radiance of the clouds reflected. 
Which is the future life beyond the grave ! 



THOUGHT. 

Be this our trnst, that ages (tilled with light 
More glorious far than those faint beams which shine 
In this our feeble twilight) yet to come 
Shall see distinctly what wo now but hope: 



The world immutable in which alone 

Wisdom is found, the light and life of things, — 

The breath divine, creating power divine, — 

The One of which the human intellect 

Is but a type, as feeble as that image 

Of the bright sun seen on tbe bursting wave — 

Bright, but without distinctness, yet in passing 

Showing its glorious aud eternal source ! 



Jrancis Scott Ken. 

AMERICAN. 

Key (1779-1843) owes his fame to a single patriotic 
song. The excellent music to which its somewhat harsh 
and intraetalilu verses are set has undoubtedly done 
much to pei'petuate its popularity. Key was born iu 
Frederick County, Maryland, and educated at St. John's 
College, Annapolis. He practised law first in Frederick- 
town, and afterward in Washington, where he became 
District Attorney. A volume of liis poems was pub- 
lished in Baltimore after his death. There is little iu 
the collection that is memorable except "The Star- 
spangled Banner." Tliis was composed in 1814, on the 
occasion of the bombardment of Fort McIIenry, when 
Key, a young midshipman, was a prisoner iu the hands 
of the attacking British. 



THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 

Oh say ! can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
What so iir<iudly we hailed at the twilight's last 

gleaming — 
Whose broad stripes aud bright stars, through the 

perilous fight. 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly 

streaming ? 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting iu 

air. 
Gave proof, through the night, that our flag was 

.still there. 
Oh ! say, does that star-sp.angled banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? 

On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the 

deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence 

reposes. 
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering 

steel), 
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam. 
In full glory reflected, now shines ou the stream : 
'Tis the star-spangled banner — oh, long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 



FUJNCIS SCOTT KET.—JOUX Uh'ItilAX MERIVALE. 



343 



And where is tliat band wlio so vaiintingly swore 

Tliat the bavoc of war and the battle's confusion 

A borne and a country sbonld leave us no more t 

Tlicir blood bas wasbed out tbeir foul footsteps' 

Iiollulion I 

No rofiigo conld save the liircling and slave 

l-'roin tbo terror of lligbt or the gloom of tbo grave ; 

And tlie star-spangled banner in triumph dotb wave 

O'er the laud of tbe free aud the bonio of tbo brave. 

Oh! thus bo it ever when fieemou shall stand 
Between their loved home and the war's deso- 
lation : 
lUcssed with victory and peace, may tbo Heaven- 
rescned land 
Praise tbe Tower that bath made and preserved 
it a nation ! 
Thus C()n<iner we must, wbon our cause it is just ; 
And this bo our motto — "In (Jod is our trust!" 
And the star-s))auglcd banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free aud the home of the brave. 



THE WORM'S DEATH-SONG. 

Oh I let me alone, — I've a work to be done 
That can brook not a inomcut's delay ; 

While yet I breathe I must spin aud weave, 
Aud may rest not night or day. 

Food and sleep I never may know, 

Till my bles.s(?d work bo done ; 
Then my rest shall be sweet in tbe winding-sbect 

That around nic^ I have spun. 

I have been a base and grovelling thing, 
And the dust of the earth my home : 

lint now I know that the end of my woe 
And the day of my bliss is come. 

In tbe shroud I make, this creeping frame 

Shall peacefully die awaj-; 
But its death shall bo new life to me, 

In the midst of its perished clay. 

1 shall wake, 1 shall wake — a glorious form 

Of brightness and beauty to wear ; 
I shall burst from tbe nlooni of my opening tomb, 

And breathe in the balmy air. 

I shall spread my new wings to tbe moruiug sun; 
Od the summer's breath I shall live; 



I shall bathe me where, iu tbe dewy air. 
The flowers tbeir sweetness give. 

I will not touch the dusty earth, — 
I will spring to the brightening sky ; 

And free as the breeze, wherever I please, 
On joyous wiugs I'll fly. 

Aud wherever I go, timid mortals may know, 
That like mo from the tomb they shall rise : 

To tbe dead .shall be given, by signal from heaven, 
A new life and new home in the skies. 

Then let them like me make ready their shrouds, 

Nor shrink from the mortal strife ; 
And like me they shall sing, as to heaven they spring, 

"Death is not tbo end of life!" 



3ol)n t)cnnan lUcriualc. 

Mcrivale (1779-1844) was a native of E.xetcr, England. 
Educated at Cambridge, be studied law, was a success- 
ful barrister, aud in 1S20 was appointed a Commissioner 
in Bankruptcy. The first edition of his "Orhindo in 
Roncosvalles," a poem in five cantos, appeared in 1814. 
Ilis " Poems, Original and Translated," were published 
by Pickering in tlirce volumes, 1.S5S. Some of his ver- 
sions from the Greek, Latin, Italian, and German are 
faitliful and spirited ; aud his short original poems, 
though quite unequal in merit, show no ordinary degree 
of literary attainment. For some of these, he frankly 
tells us, he is little entitled to assume the merit of entire 
ori^finility; he is "fully sensible of this dcflcicncy, or of 
what may be called a propensity to follow iu the track 
of such preceding authoi-s as were fioni time to time 
objects of his admiration." He was the father of the 
Rev. Charles Mcrivale (born 1808), author of a "History 
of the Romans under the Empire" (1802). 



"EVIL, BE THOU MY GOOD." 

" Evil, bo thou my good" — iu rago 

Of disappointed pride. 
And burling vengeance at bis God, 

Tbe apostate augcl cried. 

" Evil, bo thou my good " — repeats. 

But in a different sense. 
The Christian, taught by faith to trace 

The scheme of Providence. 

So deems the hermit, who abjuics 
Tlie world for Jesus' sake ; 



344 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Tlie patriot 'mid Lis duugeou bars, 
Tlic martyr at liis stake. 

For Ho who liappiiiess ordained 

Our being's only end — 
The God ■niio made us, aud wlio linows 

Wliitlier our wishes tend, — 

The glorious prize bath statioued bigli 
On Virtue's hallowed mound. 

Guarded by toil, beset by care, 
With danger circled round. 

Virtue were but a name, if Vice 

Had no dominion here, 
And pleasure none could taste, if pain 

And sorrow were not near. 

The fatal cup we all must drain 

Of mingled bliss and woe ; 
Unmixed the cup would tasteless be. 

Or quite forget to flow. 

Then cease to question Heaven's decree, 

Since Evil, understood, 
Is but the tribute Nature pays 

For Univers.al Good.' 



REASON AND UNDERSTANDING. 

FllOM " r.ETROSPECTlON," — AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. 

In n note to this part ofhia poem the author says: "The Eng- 
lish public 19 not yet ripe to comprehend the esscutial differ- 
ence between the reason and the understanding — between a 
principle and a maxim— an eternal truth aud a mere couclusiou 
generalized from a great number of facts. A mau, having seen 
a million moss-roses, all red, concludes, from his own experi- 
ence aud that of others, that all moss-roses are red. That is a 
maxim with him — the gredtest amount of his knowledge on the 
subject. But it is only true until some gardener has produced 
a white moss-rose — after which the maxim is good for notii- 
ing. * • " Now compare this with the assurance which j-ou have 
that the two sides of any triangle are together greater than the 
third," etc. See Coleridge's "Table-Talk." 

The rca-souing faculty, and that we name 
The understanding, are no more the same 
Than .are a maxim and a iiriuciple — 
A truth eternal, indestructible, 

^ The author, in n note, refers to the following stanza by Mi-s. 
Elizabeth Carter (ITlI-ISfKj), which he quotes, "although serv- 
ing to convict him of unconscious plagiarism :" 

"Through nature's ever varying scene 
By different ways pursued, 
The one eternal end of Heaven 
Is Universal Good." 



And a bare inference from facts, how great 
Soe'er their number, magnitude, and weight. 
— At be.st, how fallible ! — who sees a rose. 
Sees that 'tis red ; and what he sees ho knows. 
Day after day, at each successive hour, 
Where'er he treads, the same love-vermeilod flower 
Blooms in his path. What wonder if he draw, 
From facts so proved, a universal law, 
And deem all roses of the self-same hue I 
And this is knowledge! Yet 'tis only true 
Until a white rose gleams upon his view. 
Where is his reason then ? — his science, bought 
With long experience? All must come to naught! 

So, when creation's earliest day had run, 
And Adam first beheld the new-born sun 
Sink in the shrouded west, the deepening gloom 
Ho watched, all hopeless of .a morn to come. 
Another evening's shades advancing near 
Ho marked with livelier hopes, yet dashed by fear. 
Another — and another — hopes prevail ; 
Thousands of years repeat the wondrous tale : 
Yet where is man's assurance that the light 
Of day will break upon the coming night? 

Without all sense of God, eternity. 
Absolute truth, volition, liberty. 
Good, fair, just, infinite — think, if you can. 
Of such a being in the form of man ! 
What but the animal remains ? — endowed 
(May be) with memory's instiuetive crowd 
Of images — but man is wanting there. 
His very essence, unimpressive air; 
And, in his stead, a creature subtler far 
Than all the beasts that in the forest are. 
Or the green field, — but also cursed above 
Them all — condemned that bitterest curse to prove : 
"Upon thy belly creep, and, for thy fee. 
Eat dust, so long as thou hast leave to be." 



FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 

In wanton sport my Doris from her fair 
And glossy tresses tore a straggling hair, 
And bound my hands, as if of conquest vain, 
And I some royal captive in her chain. 
At first I laughed : " This fetter, charming maid. 
Is lightly worn, and soon dissolved," I said : 
I said — but ah ! I had not learned to prove 
How strong the fetters that are forged by Love. 
That little thread of gold I strove to sever, 
Was bound, like steel, around my heart forever; 
And, from that hapless hour, my tyrant fair 
Has led and turned me by a single hair. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



345 



Gliomas flloorc. 



Moore (ITTiMSTii) was tlic son of the keeper of a small 
wine-store in Dublin. He was a quick child, and rliymed 
and recited early. A careful mother secured liini llic 
best education she could get. By 1800 he had graduated 
at Trinity Collesrc, Dublin, and acquired niucli social re- 
jiute as a singer to his own accompaniment at the piano. 
lie translated "Anacreon," and wrote amorous poems, 
which he would have liked to annihilate in after-yeai-s. 
In 1803 ho went to Bermuda, where he had got an olli- 
cial situation, the duties of which mi^lit he performed 
by pro.\y ; but his deputy proved unfaithful, and Moore 
incurred annoyance and pecuniary loss therefrom. Hav- 
ing made a short tour in the United States, and visited 
Washington, Philadelphia, New York, and Boston, he re- 
turned to England, became a diner-out much in request 
lit Holland House, wrote lively Whig satires, and, after 
marrying a Miss Dyke, with whom he lived happily, be- 
gan writinir his ■' Irish Melodies," for which he was to 
receive £.500 a year for seven years. He wrote " Lalla 
Rookh,"' an Oriental talc in verse, for which he got 
£3000. Among his prose works are a " Life of Sheri- 
dan," "Life of Byron," and "The Kpicurean." In 1831 
a pension of £300 a year was settled upon Moore. 

The latter years of the poet's life were embittered by 
domestic bereavements. Two of his children died. He 
sank into mental imbecility, and died at Sloperton Cot- 
tage, near Devizes, in his seventy-third year. Moore was 
kind-hearted and emotional; he loved his mother, his 
wife, and Ireland, aud had many attached friends ; but 
"dining-ont did not deepen his cliaractcr." Byron said 
of him, " he dearly loved a lord." Moore was at his best 
in his "Irish Melodies." They seem to be inseparable 
from the music to which he skilfully wedded them, and 
many have the elements of an enduring reputation. But 
it would be better for Moore's chance of future fame if 
two-thirds of what he wrote could be expunged. 

While in Philadelphia, Moore made the acquaiut.inec 
of Joseph Dcnnie (1708-1812), an elegant scholar and 
genial companion, and editor of the first good American 
magazine, Tlie Hirlfutio. Dennic was a native of Boston, 
Slass., and a graduate of Harvard, but passed the latter 
years of his life in Philadelphia. Here Moore was one 
of his gnosts, wrote songs for T/ic I\>ilj'iJio, and joined in 
the nightly gayetics. In one of his poems are these 
lines, referring to the friends he met at Duniiic's : 

" Yet, vet forfrive me, O yc fncrcd few I 
Whom late by Delaware's Kiccii banks I knew; 
Whom, known and loved thrni];;h many a Biicial eve, 
TwuB Ulis9 to live with, and 'twa.^ pain to leave. 
Not with more joy the lonely exile Bcaniicd 
The MTiiinj traced apon the de.«ert'e ennd. 
Where his lone heart but litilc hoped to itnd 
One trace nf life, one Plamp of humankind, 
Than did I bail the pure, the enlivhlciied zeal, 
Thq strength to reason ond the warmth to feel. 
The manly polish and the illumined taste. 
Which— 'mid the melancholy, hcartle»8 waste 
My foot has traversed — O yon socred few ! 
I found by Delaware's green banks with you." 

Joseph Dcnnie died in 1812, at the early age of forty- 
four years. T/ie Unifiilio did not long survive him. 



THE MEETING OF THE 'WATERS.' 

There is uot iu the wide world a valley so sweet 
As that vale iu whose bosom the bright waters 

meet ;■ 
Oh ! the last ray of feeling and life must depart, 
En; the bloom of that valley .shall failo from my 

heart. 

Yet it teas not that iiaturo had shed o'er the scene 
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill — 
Oh no! — it was something more exquisite still. 

'Twas that friends the beloved of my bosom were 

near, 
AVho made every dear .scene of enchantment more 

dear, 
And who felt how the best charms of natnre improve. 
When we see them reflected from looks that we love. 

Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm ootihl I rest 

In thy bo.soni of shade with the friemls I love best, 

AVhere the storms that we feel iu this cold world 

should cease, 
And our hearts, like thy waters,be mingled iu peace. 



BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING 
YOUNG CHARMS. 

lielicve me, if all those endearing young ch.irms 

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day 
^Vere to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, 

Like fairy-gifts fading away. 
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou 
art. 

Let thy loveliness fade as it will ; 
And around the dear ruin each w ish of my heart 

AVonId entwine itself verdantly still. 

It is not while beauty and yonlh are thine own, 

Aud thy cheeks unprofaued by a tear, 
That the fervor and faith of a soul can he known 

To which time will but make thee more dear; 
No, the heart (hat has truly loved never forgets, 

IJnt as truly loves on to the close, 
As the suullower turns on his god when lie sets 

The same look which she turned when he rose. 

' "The Meeting of the Waters" forms a port of Ihiit heaitll- 
fiil scenery which lies between Kathdnim and Arklow, in the 
ctMinty of Wicklow, and these lines were suu:<;esled by a vlf it 
to this romantic spot, in the summer of ISO". 

' The rivers of Avon and Avocu. 



346 



CYCLOPJSDIA OF BEITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE TURF SHALL BE MY FKAGRANT SHRINE. 

The turf shall be my fragrant sbriue ; 
My temple, Lord ! tbat arch of thiue ; 
My censor's breath the monntaiu airs, 
And silent thoughts my only prayers. 

My choir shall be the moonlight waves, 
When murmuring homeward to their caves, 
Or -niien the stillness of the sea. 
Even more thau music, breathes of Thee ! 

I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown, 
All light and silence, like thy throne ! 
And the pale stars shall be, at night, 
The only eyes that watch my rite. 

Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look, 
Shall be my pure and shining book. 
Where I shall read, in words of flame, 
Tlie glories of thy wondrous name. 

I'll read thy anger in the rack 

That clouds awhile the day-beam's track ; 

Thy mercy in the azure hue 

Of sunny brightness breaking through ! 



THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S 
HALLS. 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed. 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls 

As if that soul were fled. 
So sleeps the pride of former days. 

So glory's thrill is o'er, 
And hearts that ouce beat high for praise 

Now feel that pulse no more. 

No more to chiefs and ladies bright 

The harp of Tara swells : 
The chord alone, that breaks at night. 

Its tale of ruin tells. 
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, 

Tbe only throb she gives 
Is when some heart indignant breaks, 

To show that still she lives. 



There's nothing bright above, below. 
From flowers that bloom to stars that 
But in its light my soul can see 
Some feature of thy Deity .' 

There's nothing dark below, above. 
But in its gloom I trace thy love. 
And meekly wait that moment when 
Thy touch shall turn all bright again ! 



;low, 



OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.' 

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade. 
Where cold and unhouored his relics are laid : 
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed, 
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head ! 

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it 

weeps. 
Shall brighten with verdure tlie grave where ho 

sleeps ; 
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls. 
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. 

1 111 refeieuce ti> the eloquent yoiiii^' Robeit Emmet, executed 
iu Diililiu, ill 1S03, for high-tre.as(iii. 



OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT. 

Oft, iu the stilly night. 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me : 
The smiles, the tears. 
Of boyhood's years. 
The words of love then spoken ; 
The eyes that shone. 
Now dimmed and gone, 
The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
Thus in the stilly night. 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 

The friends, so linked together, 
I've seen around me fall. 

Like leaves in wintry weather, 
I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted. 
Whose lights are fled, 
Whose garlands dead. 
And all but he departed ! 
Thus in the stilly night. 

Ere Slumber's chain lias bound me. 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of oflier days around me. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



347 



TIIOSE EVKNIXG BELLS. 

Thosii evening bells! those evening bells! 
How ni.-iiiy a tale tbcir music tells, 
Of ydiitli, anil home, and tliat sweet time 
When last I Lcaid tbcir soothing chime. 

Those joyous hours arc passed away ; 
And many a heart that then was gay 
Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
And bears no more those evening bells. 

And so 'twill bo when I am gone; 
That tnnofnl peal will still ring on, 
While other bards shall walk these dells, 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells ! 



FAREWELL !— BUT, WHENEVER YOU WEL- 
COME THE HOUR. 

F.arewell ! — bnt, whenever you welcome the hour 
That awakens the night -song of niirtli in your 

liower, 
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too. 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. 
His griefs may return — not a hope may remain 
Of the few that have brightened bis pathway of 

pain — 
Bnt he ne'er will forget the sliort vision that threw 
Its enchantment around liini, wliile lingering with 

you ! 

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up 
To tlit^ higliest top sparkle each heart and each cnp. 
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, 
lly soul, happy friends! shall bo with you that night, 
Shall join in your revels, yonr sports, and your wiles. 
And return to mo beaming all o'er with your 

smiles! — 
Too blesseil if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, 
.Some kind voice had murmured,"! wish ho were 

here !" 

Let Fato do ber worst, there arc relics of joy, 
I'riglit dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy ; 
Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care. 
And bring back the features that joy u.sed to wear. 
Long, long bo my heart with such memories filled ! 
Like the vaso in which roses have once been dis- 
tilled— 
Vou may break, yon may ruin the vase, if you will, 
l!ut the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 



OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WOKLD 
OF OURS. 

Oh, could we do witli this worI<l of ours 
As thou dost with thy garden bowers. 
Reject the weeds, and keep the flowers. 

What a heaven on earth we'd make it ! 
So bright a dwelling should bo our own, 
So warranted free from sigh or frown. 
That angels soon would be coming down. 

By the week or mouth to take it. 

Like those gay flies that wing through air. 
And in themselves a lustre bear, 
A stock of light still ready there 

Whenever they wish to use it — 
So, in this world I'd m;ike for thee. 
Our hearts should all like fire-flies be. 
And the flash of wit or poesy 

Break forth whenever we choose it. 

Wliile every joy that glads onr sphere 
Hath still some shadow hovering near. 
In this new world of ours, my dear, 

Such shadows will all be omitted: — • 
Unless they're like that graceful one 
Which, when tlum'rt dancing in the sun, 
.Still near thee, leaves a charm upon 

Each spot where it hath flitted! 



REMEMBER THEE. 

Remember thee! Yes; while tliere's life in this 

heart 
It shall never forget thcc, .all lorn a.s thou .art ; 
Sloro dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy 

showers. 
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours. 

Wert thou all lliat I wish thee — great, glorious, 

and free. 
First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea — 
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow ; 
But oh, could I love thee more deeply than now? 

No; thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it 

runs. 
But make thcc more painfully dear to thy sons, 
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's 

nest. 
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy 

breast. 



348 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISII AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THOU ART, O GOD. 

Thou art, O God, tlio life .aiul light 
Of all this woudious -world ■vve see ; 

Its glow by day, its smile by night 
Are but reflections caught from thee. 

Where'er we turu thy glories .shiue, 

And all thiugs fair and bright are thine. 

When Day, ^vit^l farewell beam, delays 
Among the opening clouds of Even, 

And we can almost think we gaze 
Through golden vistas into lieaven — 

Those hues that make the sun's decline 

So soft, so radiant. Lord, are thine. 

When Night, with wiugs of starry gloom, 
O'ershadows all the earth and skies. 

Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose pliun<> 
Is sparkliug with iiuuumbered eyes — 

That sacred gloom, those fires divine, 

So grand, so couutless, Lord, are thine. 

Wlien youthful Spring arouud ns breathes, 
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; 

And every flower the Summer wreathes 
Is boru beneath that kindling eye. 

Where'er we turn thy glories shiue. 

And all things fair and bright are thine. 



THE LAST EOSE OF SUMMER. 

'Tis the last ro.se of summer 

Left blooming alone ; 
All her lovely companions 

Are faded and gone ; 
No flower of her kiudred 

No rose-bud is nigh, 
To reflect back her blushes 

Or give sigh for sigh. 

I'll not leave thee, thou loue one. 

To pine ou the stem ; 
Since the lovely are sleeping. 

Go, sleep thou with theui. 
Thus kindly I scatter 

Thy leaves o'er the bed 
Where thy mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead. 

So soon may / follow. 
When friendships decay. 



And from Love's shining circle 
The gems drop away. 

When true hearts lie withered, 
And fond ones are flown. 

Oh ! who would inhabit 
This bleak world aloue ? 



THE MODERN PUFFING SYSTEM. 

From an Kpistle to Saml'EL P.ocEtts, Esq. 

Uulike tho.so feeble gales of praise 

Which critics blew in former days, 

Our modern pulfs are of a kiud 

That truly, really "raise the wind;" 

And since they've fairly set in blowing. 

Wo find them the best "trade-winds" goiug. 

What steaui is on the deep — and more — 
Is the vast jiower of Puft' ou shore, 
Which jumi)S to glory's future tenses 
Before the present eveu commences, 
And makes "immortal" aud "divine" of us 
B<'fore the world has jead one line of iis. 

lu old tiuies, when the god of song 
Drove his own two-horse team along, 
Carrying inside a bard or two 
Booked for posterity " all through," 
Their luggage a few close-packed rhymes 
(Like yours, my friend, for after-times). 
So slow the pull to Fame's abode 
That folks oft slumbered ou the road ; 
And Homer's self sometimes, they say, 
Took to his nightcap on the way. 

But now how dift'erent is the story 
With our new galloping sons of glory, 
Who, scorning all such slack aud slow time, 
Dash to posterity in no time ! 
Raise but one general blast of puflf 
To start your author — that's enough ! 

In vain the critics set to watch him 
Try at the starting-post to catch him : 
He's off — the pufl'ers carry it hollow — 
The critics, if they please, may follow ; 
Ere they've laid down their flr.st positions, 
He's fairly blown through six editions ! 

In vain doth Edinburgh dispense 
Her blne-and-yellow pestilence 
(That plague so awful in my time 
To young aud touchy sons of rhyme) ; 
The Quarterly, at three months' date. 
To catch the Unread One comes too late ; 
And nonsense, littered in a hurry. 
Becomes " immortal," spite of Murray. 



THOMAS MOORE. 



34'J 



I SAW FKO.M THE BEACH. 

I saw rnmi the beach, when the morning was sliining, 
A bark o'er tbo waters move gloriously ou ; 

I oaino when the snn o'er that beach was declining — 
The bark was still there, bnt the waters were gone. 

And snch is the fate of onr life's early promise, 
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known ; 

Each wave that wo danced on at morning ebbs 
from lis, 
And leaves us, at eve, ou the bleak shore alone. 

Ne'er tell mo of glories serenely adorning 

The close of onr day, the calm eve of onr night ; 
I Give mo back, give mo back the wild freshness of 
Morning ! 
Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's 
best light. 

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning. 

When passion first waked a new life through his 

frame, 

I And his soul, like the wood that grows precious in 

burning. 

Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame? 



LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 

Ob! the days are goue when Beauty bright 

Jfy heart's chain wove ! 
When my dream of life, from nioru till niglit, 

Was love, still love ! 

Now hope may bloom. 

And days may couio 
Of milder, calmer beam. 
But there's nothing half so sweet in life 

As Love's young dream ! 
Oh I there's nothing half so sweet in life 

As Love's young dream ! 

Though the bard to purer fame may soar, 

When wild youth's past; 
Tliough ho win the wise, who frowned before, 

To smile at last ; 

He'll never meet 

A joy so sweet, 
lu all his noon of fame. 
As when first ho sang to wounin's car 

His soul-felt flame. 
And, at every clo.se, she blushed to hear 

The one loved name I 



Oh ! that hallowed form is ne'er forgot 

Which first love traced ; 
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 

Oil memory's waste ! 

'Twas odor fled 

As soon as shed ; 
'Twas uiiuiiiug's wing<?d dream ; 
'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again 

On life's dull stream! 
Oil ! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again 

Ou life's dull stream. 



Oil, THOU WHO DKVST THE MOURNER'S 
TEAR. 

Oh, Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear. 

How dark this world would be. 
If, when deceived and wounded here, 

Wo could not lly to Thee I 
TIio friends who in our sunshine live, 

AVlieu Winter comes, are flown ; 
And he who has but tears to give, 

Must weep those tears alone. 
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, 

Which, like tbo plants that throw 
Their fragrance from the wounded part, 

Breathes sweetness out of woe. 

Wlien joy no longer soothes or cheers, 

And e'en the hope that threw 
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears 

Is dimmed, and vanished, too. 
Oh, who w(Mild bear lifi^'s stormy doom. 

Did not Thy wing of love 
Come, brightly wafting thiough the gloom 

Our iicace-braueh from above f 
Then sorrow touched by Thee grows bright 

With more than rapture's ray; 
As darkness shows us worlds of light 

Wo never saw by day. 



COME, YE DISCONSOLATE. 

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er yon languish ; 

Come, at God's altar firvenlly kneel; 
Here bring your wounded hearts, heio tell your 
anguish — 

Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal. 

.loy of the desolate. Light of the straying, 
Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure, 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRT. 



Here speaks the Comforter, in God's name sayiug, 
"Earth lias uo sorro^y that Heaven cannot cure." 

Go, ask the iuflilel what boon he brings ns. 
What charm for aching hearts lie can reveal 

Sweet as that heavenly iiromise Hope sings ns, 
"Earth has uo sorrow that God cannot heal." 



TO GREECE WE GIVE OUR SHINING BLADES. 

The sky is bright — the breeze is fair, 

And the main-sail flowing, full and free — 

Our farewell word is woman's prayer. 
And the hope before us — Liberty t 

Farewell, farewell. 
To Greece we give onr shining blades, 
And onr hearts to you, young Zean Maids ! 

The moon is iu the heavens above, 
And the wind is on the foaming Bea — ■ 

Thus shines the star of woman's lovo 
On the glorious strife of Liberty ! 

Farewell, farewell. 
To Greece we give onr shining blades. 
And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids ! 



iDasljingtou ;?lll5ton. 

AMERICAN. 

Allston (1779-184.3) was born in Charleston, S. C, was 
educated at a private school iu Newport, R. I., and grad- 
uated at Harvard in 1800. His iirst wife was a sister 
of Clianning. Iu 18:30 he was married to a sister of the 
poet Dana, and resided iu Cambridgcport, Mass., the 
rest of his life. While in Europe he formed the intimate 
friendship of Coleridge. Studying art in London and 
Rome, he attained to the highest eminence as a paint- 
er. He published " The Sylph of the Seasons, and other 
Poems," also "Moualdi," a prose romance. Honored 
and beloved, he passed a blameless and noble life. 



SONNET ON COLERIDGE. 

And thou art gone, most loved, most honored friend ! 
No, nevermore tliy gentle voice shall blend 
With air of earth its pure Ideal tones, 
Binding in cue, as with harmonious zones, 
The heart and intellect. And I uo nioro 
Shall with thee gaze on that unfathomed deep. 
The Human Soul ; as when, pushed oft' the shore, 
Tby mystic bark would through the darkness sweep, 



Itself the while so bright ! For oft we seemed 

As on some starless sea — all dark above, 

All dark below — yet, onward as we drove. 

To plough up light that ever round us streamed. 

But he who mourns is not as one bereft 

Of all he loved : thy living Truths are left. 



AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. 

All hail ! thou noble land, 
Our fathers' native soil ! 
Oh, stretch thy mighty hand, 
Gigantic grown by toil, 
O'er the vast Atlantic waves to onr shore ; 
For thou, with magic might. 
Canst reach to where the light 
Of Phcebus travels bright 
The world o'er. 

The Genius of our clime, 

From his pine-embattled steep. 
Shall hail the great sublime ; 
While the Tritons of the deep 
With their conehs the kindred league shall jiroclaim. 
Then let the world combine — 
O'er the main our naval line. 
Like the Milky Way, shall shine 
Bright in fame ! 

Though ages long have passed 

Since our fathers left their home. 
Their pilot in the blast 

O'er uutravelled seas to roam, — 
Yet lives the blood of England in our veins! 
And shall we not proclaim 
That blood of honest fame, 
Which no tyranny can tame 
By its chains ? 

While the language, free and bold. 

Which the bard of Avon sang, 
In which our Milton told 

How the vault of heaven rang 
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host; 
AVhile this, with reverence meet. 
Ten thousand echoes greet, 
From rock to rock repeat 
Round our coast ; 

While the manners, while the arts 
That mould a nation's soul 



CLEMEXT C. MOORE.— CALEB C. COLTOX. 



351 



Still cling arouiul oiir hearts, — 
HctwiHMi kt Ocean roll, 
Our jiiiiit tiiinnninioii brojikiiij; with tliu Siiii : 
Vet still, from either beach, 
Tlio voice of blood shall reach, 
More audible thnu speech, 
"We are Ouo!" 



(Clement C. illooic. 

AMERICAN. 

Tlic eon of a bishop, Mooic (1779-1803) was a native 
of the city of New York, and a gnuluate of Columbia 
College in K'JS. He piiblislicd a volume of poems, dedi- 
cated to his children, in 1!W4. "I have composed tUcm 
nil," he writes, "as eaicfidly and conectly as I could." 
Of these productions one at least, founded ou an old 
Dutch tradition, seems to have in it the elenieuts of 
vitality. Moore bore the title of LL.D. 



A AaSIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 

'Twas the ni^lit before Christmas, when all through 

the house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; 
Tlie stockings were hung by the chimney with care. 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soou would bo there. 
Tbe children were nestled all snug in their beds, 
While visions of sugar-plums danced through their 

heads ; 
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, 
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap. 
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
1 sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. 

Away to the wiiulow I (lew like a flash, 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 
The moon ou the breast of the ncw-fallcu snow 
(Jave the lustre of mid-day to objects below ; 
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, 
Ihit a miniature sleigh, ami eight tiny reindeer. 
With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
.More rapid than eagles his coursers they came. 
And ho whistled, and shouted, and called them by 

name : 
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, I'rancer! and 

Vixen ! 
On, Comet ! on, Cupid ! on, Donder and Blitzcn ! 
To the top of the porch ! to the top of the wall ! 
Now dash away! da.sh away! da.sh away all!" 

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, 
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, 



So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, 
With the sleighfnl of toys, and St. Nicholas too. 
And then, iu a twiukling, I heard ou the roof 
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 

As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. 
He was dressed all iu fur, from his head to his foot, 
And his clothes were all taruished with ashes and 

soot ; 
A bundle of toys he had flung ou his back. 
And ho looked like a peddler just opening his pack. 
His eyes, how they twinkled ! his dimples, how 

merry ! 
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry ! 
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow. 
And the beard of his eliin was as while as the 

snow ; 
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth. 
And the smoke it eucireled his head like a wreath. 
He had a broad face, and a little round belly 
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. 
He wa.s chubby and plump — a right jolly old elf — 
.\nd I laughed, when I saw him, iu spite of myself; 
A wink of his eye, aud a twist of liis head, 
Soou g.ave me to know I had nolhiug to dread; 
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, 
Aud Ulled all the stockings ; then turned with a jerk, 
And laying his finger aside of his nose, 
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 
Ho sprang to his sleigh, to the team gave a whistle, 
And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle. 
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!" 



Caleb (T. (foltoii. 

Colton (177'J-ls:W) was, like Chureliill, one of the 
mauvaht sujet.t of literature and the Cliureli. A native 
of England, he was educated at Cambridge, took orders, 
and became vicar of Kcw and Pctersliam. Gambling, 
extravagance, and eccentric habits forced him to leave 
England, and he resided some time in the United States 
and in I'aris. At one period in Fmnec he was so sue- 
ceisful as a gambler that he realized i!i5,000. He was 
the author of " Lacon ; or, Many Tldngs in Few Words " 
(IS'iO)— an excellent collection of apothegms and moral 
relleetions, which had a great sale. He corresponded for 
the London Murnwn Chronicle under the once famed sig- 
nature of O. P. Q. Notwithstanding his dissolute life, he 
was the earnest advocate of virtue, lie committed sui- 
cide at Fontainehlcau — it was said, to escape the pain 
of a surgical operation from which no danger could be 
apprehended. In his "Lacon" we find these words: 
"The gamester, if he die a martyr to his profession, is 
doubly ruined. He adds his soul to every other loss, 



352 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



and by the act of suicide renounces cartli to forfeit 
liuavcn." Colton putalisliud several poems, of wliich we 
give tlie best. His "Modern Antiquity, and otber Lyri- 
cal Pieces," appeared after liis dualli. 



LIFE. 



How long sUall man's imprisoned spirit groan 
'Twixt doubt of heaven and deep disgust of earth? 

Where all worth knowing never can be known, 
And all that can be known, alas ! is nothing worth. 

Untaught by saint, by cynic, or by sage. 

And all the spoils of time that load their shelves, 

We do not quit, but change our joys in age — 
Joys framed to stifle thought, and lead us from 
ourselves. 

The drug, the cord, the steel, the ilood, the flame. 

Turmoil of action, tedium of rest, 
And lust of change, though for the worst, proclaim 

How dull life's banquet is — how ill at ease the 
guest. 

Known were the Lill of faro Ijeforo we taste. 
Who would not spurn the banquet and the board — 

Prefer the eternal but oblivious fast 

To life's frail-fretted thread, and death's sus- 
l)ended sword ? 

He that the topmost stone of Babel planned. 
And he that braved the crater's boiling bed — 

Did these a clearer, closer view command 

Of heaven or hell, we ask, than the blind herd 
they led? 

Or ho that in Vald.arno did jirolong 

The night her rich star-studded page to read — 
Could lie point out, 'mid all that brilliant throng, 

His fixed and final home, from fleshy thraldom 
freed ? 

Minds that have scanned creation's vast domain, 
And secrets solved, till then to sages scaled, 

While nature owned their intellectual reign 

Extinct, have nolhimj known or nothing have 
revealed. 

Devouring grave ! we might the less deplore 
The extinguished lights that in thy darkness dwell, 

Wonldst thou, from that last zodiac, one restore, 
That might the enigma solve, and doubt, man's 
tyrant, qnell. 



To live in darkness — in despair to die- 
Is this, indeed, the boon to mortals given ? 

Is there no port — no rock of refuge nigh ? 

llierc is — to those who fix their anchor-hope in 
heaven. 

Turn then, O man ! and cast all else aside ; 

Direct thy wandering thoughts to things above : 
Low at the cross how down — in that coniide. 

Till doubt be lost in faith, and bliss secured in love. 



fjovttce SmitI). 



Horace Smith (1779-1849), a native of London, and 
son of an eminent lawyer, was a more voluminous writ- 
er than his brotlier James. He was tlie author of 
"Brambletye House," and some dozen other novels — 
no one of marlced merit. As a poet, he was more suc- 
cessful. His "Address to the Mummy," "Hymn to the 
Flowers," and some smaller poems, liave attained a mer- 
ited celebrity. Slielley once said of Horace Smith: "Is 
it not odd that the only truly generous person I ever 
knew, who had money to be generous with, should be a 
stock -broker?" Shelley also wrote these lines, more 
truthful tlian poetical, in his praise : 

"Wit and sense, 
Virtue and hum.'in knowled,<,'e — ah that might 
Muke this (lull \vi>rld a bnsiuess of deli^^ht — 
Are all combined in H. S." 

Horace Smith died at the age of seventy, widely re- 
spected and beloved. A collection of his poems was 
published in London in 1846, and republished in New 
York, 1859. See the account of James Smith. 



ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONl'S 
EXHIBITION. 

And thou hast walked about (how strange a story!) 
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago, 

When the Memnoninm was in all its glory, 
And time had not begun to overthrow 

Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, 

Of which the very rnins are tremendous ! 

Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted dummy : 
Thou hast a tougne — come, let us hear its tune ; 

Thou'rt standing on thy legs above-ground, mummy, 
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon ! 

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures. 

But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and featnres. 

Tell ns — for doubtless thou canst recollect — 
To whom we should assign the Sphinx's fame. 

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 

Of either pyramid that hears his name ? 



HORACE SMITH. 



■X-,: 



Is Pompey's Pillar really a misiioiiier f 

llail Tliclios a luinilied gates, as suug by Ildiiui? 

Perliaps tlioii wcrt a mason, auil forbidden 
By oatb to tell the secrets of tliy trade — 

riien say, what secret melody was hidden 
In Mcinnon's statue, which at sunrise played ? 

rerliaps lliou wert a priest; if so, my strnggle.s 

Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its jnggles. 

Perchance that very band, now pinioned flat. 
Has hi)1>-a-nobbcd with riiaraoh, glass to glass, 

Or dropped a half-jienny in Homers bat, 

Or dotVed thine own to let Qnecn Dido pass, 

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 

A torch at the great Temple's dedication. 

I need not ask thee if that hand, when arinoil, 
Has any Konian soldier nianUd and knueUled ; 

I'or thou wert dead and buried and embalmed 
Ero Romulus and Kennis had been suckled: 

Anti<iuity apjiears to have begun 

Lung after thy primeval race was run. 

Thou eonldst develop, if that withered tongue 
Might tell ns what those sightless orbs have seen, 

IIow the world looked when it was fresh and young, 
And the great deluge still had left it greeu ; 

Or was it then so old that history's pages 

Contained no record of its early agesf 

.'^till silent, incommuuicativo elf! 

Art sworn to secrecy t then keep thy vows; 
liut prithee tell us something of thyself— 

Keveal the secrets of thy prison-house: 
Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered. 
What hast thou seen — what straugc adventures 
numbered ! 

Since first thy form was in this box extended, 
We have, above-ground, seen some strange mu- 
tations : 

The Roman Kmpiro has begun and ended. 

New worlds have risen, we have lost old nations, 

And countless kings have into dust been humbled, 

While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 

I'idst thon not hear the pother o'er thy heart 
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, 

Marched armieso'crthy tomb with thnndering tread, 
O'erlhrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, 

And shook the ]iyramids with fear and wonder 

When the gigantic Meninon fell asiunier T 



If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed. 
The nature of thy private life unfold : 

A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, 
And tears adowu that dusky cheek have rolled ; 

Have children climbed those knees and kis.scd that 
face ? 

What w:is thy name and station, ago and race ? 

Statue of flesh ! immortal of the dead ! 

Imperishable typo of evanescence ! 
Posthumous man, who quit'st thy narrow bed, 
• And staudest undecayed within onr presence! 
Tliou wilt hear nothing till the. judgment morniug. 
When the great trump shall thrill tliee with its 
warning. 

Why should this worthless tegument endure. 
If its undying guest be lost forever f 

Oh, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 
In living virtue, th.at, when both must sever. 

Although corruption may our frame con.snmc, 

The inunortal spirit in the skies may bloom. 



MORAL COSMETICS. 

Vc who would save your features florid, 
Lithe limbs, bright eyes, nnwrinkled forehead, 
From Age's devastation horrid, 

Adopt this plan, — 
'Twill make, in climate cold or torrid, 

A hale old man : — 

Avoid in youth, luxurious diet ; 
Restrain the passions' lawless riot; 
Devoted to domestic quiet. 

Bo Avisely gay ; 
So shall ye, spite of Age's fiat. 

Resist decay. 

Seek not in Mammon's worship pleasure ; 
But find your richest, dearest treasure 
In books, friends, music, polished leisure : 

The mind, not sense. 
Make the solo scale by which to measure 

Your opulence. 

This is the solace, this the science — 
Life's purest, sweetest, best appliance — 
That disappoints not man's reliance, 

Whatc'er his state ; 
But challenges, with calm defiance. 

Time, fortune, fate. 



354 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BUITISS AND AMERICAN FOETRT. 



SONNET. 

Eterual and Omnipotent Unseen ! 

Who bad'st the world, -with all its lives complete, 

Start from tlie void and thrill beneath thy feet, 

Thee I adore with reverence serene : 

Here in the fields, thine own cathedral meet, 

Built by thyself, star-roofed, and hung with green. 

Wherein all breathing things, in concortl sweet, 

Organed by winds, perpetual hymns repeat — 

Here hast thou spread that Book to every eye. 

Whose tongue and truth all, all may read and 

prove. 
On whose three blessiSd leaves, Earth, Ocean, Sky, 
Thine own right hand hath stamped might, justice, 

love : 
Grand Trinity, which binds in due degree 
God, man, and brute in social unity. 



THE ITRST OF MARCH. 

The bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud, 
And Earth's beginning now in her veius to feel the 

blood 
Which, warmed by summer suns in the alembic of 

the vine, 
From her founts will overrun in a ruddy gush of 

wine. 

The perfume and the bloom that .shall decorate the 

flower 
Are quickening in the gloom of their subterranean 

bower ; 
And the juices meant to feed trees, vegetables, fruits. 
Unerringly proceed to their iireappointed roots. 

The Summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinioned 

day 
Is commissioned to remark whether Winter holds 

his sway : 
Go back, thou dove of peace, with the myrtle on 

thy wing ; 
Say that floods and tempests cease, and the world 

is ripe for spring. 

Thou hast fanned the sleeping Earth till her dreams 
are n\\ of flowers, 

And the waters look in mirth for their overhang- 
ing bowers ; 

The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves, 

And the very skies to glisten in the hope of sum- 
mer eves. 



The vivifying spell has been felt beneath the 

wave, 
By the dormouse in its cell, and tho mole within 

its cave ; 
And the summer tribes that creep, or in air expand 

their wing 
Have started from their sleep at the summons of 

the spring. 

The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and 
the hills, 

And the feathered race rejoices with a gush of tune- 
ful bills; 

And if this cloudless arch fill the jioet's song with 
glee, 

Oh thou .sunny First of March, be it dedicate to 
thee! 



HYiMN TO THE FLOWERS. 

Day-stars! that ope your eyes with man, to 
twinkle. 
From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation. 
And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle 
As a libation — 

Ye matin worshippers ! who, bending lowly, 
Before the uprisen sun, God's lidlcss ej-e. 
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
Incense on high ! 

Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty 

The floor of Nature's temple tesselate, — 
What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
Y'our forms create ! 

'Neath clustered boughs, each floral bell that 
swingeth. 
And tolls its perfume on the jiassing air. 
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
A call for in'ayer ! 

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column 

Attest the feebleness of mortal hand ; 
But to that firne, most catholic and solemn, 
Which God hath planned ; 

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 

Whoso finencbless lamps tho sun and moon 
supply- 
Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder. 
Its dome the sky! 



HORACE tmiTU.—l'AlL MOON JAMES.— WILLIAM DlilOMi. 



355 



I'lirro, as in solitude and sb.ido I ivandcr 

Tliroiigli tbo green aisles, or stretched uiiou the sod, 
Awed by the silence, rovorciitly iiondcr 
Tlie ways i)f God — 

Your voiceless lips, O llowcis, are living preachers, 

Kach cup a, pnlpit, and each leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 

Floral apostles! that in dewy splendor 

" Weep without woo, and blush without a crime," 
Ob, may I deeply learn and ne'er surrender 
Your lore sublime! 

" Thon wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory, 

Arrayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours: 
How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory 
Are human flowers !" 

In the sweet-sceiiti'il iiictiH-es, Heavenly Artist! 
Willi which IIiDU paintcst Nature's wido-sprcad 
hall, 
What a ilrlightful lesson thou impartesfc 
Of love to all ! 

Not useless arc ye. tlowers, though made for pleasure, 
lilooming o'er field and wave, by day and night ; 
From every source your sanction bids mo treasure 
Harudess delight! 

Ephemeral sagos ! what instructors hoary 

Fur such a world of thought could furnish scope? 
Kach fading calyx a hic»ich/o wiori, 
Y'et fount of hope ! 

I'osthiimons glories! angel-like collection! 

I'praiscd from seed or bulb interred in earth. 
Ye arc to mo a tyjio of resurrection 
And secoiul birth. 

Were I, O God ! in churchle.ss lands remaining. 

Far from all voieo of teachers and divines. 

My sold would find, in tlowers of thy ordaining, 

Tiiests, sermons, shrines! 



|Jaul illooii iJixmcs. 

Jnmcs (ITSO-IS.'M), who owes liis fume to one brief 
lyric, which has been often claimed for Jloorc, was for 
many years a banker in Birminglmm, England. "Though 
i|uitc a man of business," writes bis niece, Miss Lloyd 



(1878), " my uncle never allowed it to interfere with bis 
domestic engagements. In the early morning his giir- 
dcn, conservatory, and pet birds, and in the evening read- 
ing anil drawing, were among the pleasant resources of 
liis liiisure hours." His earliest poems were published 
in n'J8; "The Beacon" in 1810. 



TIIK BKACOX. 

The scene was more beautiful, far, to tlio eye. 

Than if day in its pride had arrayed it : 
The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure-arched sky 

Looked pure as tho spirit that made it. 
The murmur rose soft, as I silently gazed 

On the shadowy waves' playful motion. 
From the dim, distant i.sle, till the light-hou.se firo 
blazed 

Like a star in the midst of the ocean. 

No longer tho joy of the sailor-boy's breast 

Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers; 
The sea-bird had down to her wave-girdled nest. 

The lisherniau sunk to his slnnibcrs. 
One moment I looked from the hill's gentle slope, 

All hushed was the billows' commotion ; 
And o'er them the light -house looked lovely as 
hope, — ■ 

That star of life's tremulous ocean. 

The time is long past, and the scene is afar, 

Y'et, when my head rests on its pillow. 
Will memory sometimes rekindle tho star 

That blazed on the bre.ast of the billow : 
In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flics. 

And death stills the heart's la.st emotion, 
Oh, then may tho seraph of Slercy arise, 

Like a star ou eternity's ocean ! 



lllilliitm Dimoni). 

Dimond was born about tbo year 1780, at Bath, Eng- 
land, where his father was a patentee of the Tlu-atic 
Koyal. William had a good education, and was entered 
a student of the Inner Temple, with a view to the Bar. 
He wrote dramas, of which "The Foundling of the For- 
est" (1809) seems to have been the last. He published, 
besides, a volume entitled "Petrarclud Sonnets." His 
poem of "The Mariner's Dream'' is the only one of bis 
proiluctions that seems to be held in remeinbnincc. He 
was living in 1812, but is believed to have died soon after. 
Among bis pieces for the stage arc " A Sea-side Story," 
an operatic drama (1801) ; "The Hero of the North," an 
historical play(I80S); " Tlic Hunter of tho Aljis" (1804); 
" Youth, Love, and Folly," a comic opera (1805); "The 
Young Hussar," an operatic piece (1807). 



356 



CTCLOP^DIA OF IlEITISU AM) AMEHICA2f POETET. 



THE MARINER'S DREAM. 

Ill slumbers of iniiluight tLe sailor-boy lay, 

His hammock swung loose at the sjiort of tbe 
wind ; 

But, watcb-worii and weary, liis cares flew away, 
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. 

He dreamed of his home, of bis dear native bowers, 
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; 

While memory each scene gayly covered with 
flowers. 
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. 

Then Fancy her m.agical pinions spread wide, 
And bade tbo young dreamer in ecstasy rise ; — 

Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, 
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 

The jessamine clambers, in flower, o'er the thatch, 
And the swallow sings sweet fi'om her nest in the 
Willi ; 

All trembling with transport he raises the latch, 
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight ; 

His cheek is bedewed with a mother's w.arm tear; 
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite 

With the lii>s of the maid whom his bosom holds 
dear. 

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast; 

Joy quickens his pnlses,^ — his hardships seem o'er; 
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest, — 

'• God ! thon hast blessed me ; I ask for no 



All! whence is that flame which now glares on his 
eye? 
Ah ! what is that sound which now bursts on his 
ear ? 
'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the 
sky! 
'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the 
sphere ! 



He springs from his hammock, — he flics to the deck ; 

Amazement confronts him with images dire ; 
Wild winds and mad Wiives drive the vessel .awreck, 

The masts fly in splinters ; the shrouds are on fire ! 

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell : 
In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save; 



Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his kuell, 
And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the 
wave. 

O sailor-boy ! woe to thy dream of delight ! 

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss ; 
Where now is the picture th.at Fancy touched bright, 

Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed 
kiss ? 

O sailor-boy ! sailor-boy ! never again 

Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay ; 

Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main. 
Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. 

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, 
Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge ; 

But the white foam of waves shall thy winding- 
sheet be. 
And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge! 

On abed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be laid; 

Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; 
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, 

And every part suit to thy mansion below. 

D.ays, months, years, and .ages shall circle away, 
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll : 

Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye, — 
O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul! 



(©corgc (Croln. 



Croly (1780-1860), rector of St. Stephen's, London, was 
a native of Dublin, and was educated at Trinity College. 
He is the author of two volumes of poetry (1S30); "Cat- 
iline," a tragedy, containing some forcible scenes; va- 
rious novels; and several theological and historical 
works. A brief memoir of Croly was published by his 
son in 1863. 



THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS. 

It was the wild midnight, 

A storm w.as in the sky ; 
The lightning gave its light. 

And the thunder echoed by. 
The torrent swept the glen. 

The ocean lashed the shore ; 
Then rose the Spartan men. 

To make their bed in gon^ ! 
Swift from the deluged ground 

Three hundred took the shield, 



OEORGE CltOLY. 



:io7 



Tlien, silent, gathered round 
The leader of the Held. 

He- spoUe no warrior-word, 

IIo bade no trumpet blow; 
lint the signal thunder roared. 

And they ruslii<l upon the foe. 
'I'he fiery clement 

fallowed, with one mighty gleam, 
Ivnnipart, and ilag, and teut. 

Like the spectres of a dream. 
All up the mountain-side. 

All down the woody vale, 
All by the rolling tide 

Waved the I'ersiau banners pale. 

And King Lconidas, 

Among the slumbering band, 
Sprang foremost from the pass, 

Like the lightning's living brand : 
Then double darkness fell, 

And the forest ceased to moan ; 
But there came a clash of steel. 

And a distant dying groan. 
Anon a trumpet blew. 

And a fiery sheet burst high, 
That o'er the midnight threw 

-V blood-red canopy. 

A host glared on the hill, 

A host glared by the bay; 
lint the Greeks rushed onward still. 

Like leopards iu their play. 
The air was all a yell. 

And the earth was all a llame, 
Wlicie the Spartan's bloody steel 

On the silken turbans came; 
And still the Greek rushed on, 

lieneath the fiery fold. 
Till, like a rising sun. 

Shone Xerxes' tent of gold. 

Tlioy found a royal feast. 

His midnight banquet, there! 
And the treasures of the East 

Lay beneath the Doric spear. 
Then sat to the repast 

The bravest of the bravo ; 
That feast must be their last, 

That spot must bo their grave. 
They pledged old Sparta's uamo 

In cups of .Syrian wine, 



And tlio warrior's deathless fame 
Was sung iu strains divine. 

They took the rose-wreathed lyres 

From eunuch and from slave. 
And taught the languid wires 

The sounds that I'leedom gave, 
lint now the morning-star 

Crowned Oita's twilight brow. 
And the Persian horn of war 

From the hill began to blow : 
Up rose the glorious rank. 

To Greece one cup poured high ; 
Then, li.ind-in-hand, they drank 

■•To Immortality!'' 

Fear on King Xerxes fell, 

AVhen, like spirits from the tomb, 
With shout and trnnipet-knell, 

lie saw the warriors come ; 
IJnt down swept all his power 

With chariot and with charge ; 
Down poured the arrowy shower, 

Till sank the Dorian's targe. 
They marched within the tent. 

With all their strength unstrnug; 
To Greece one look they sent. 

Then on high their torches Hung : 

To heaven the blaze uprolled, 

Like a mighty altar-lire ; 
And the Persians' gems and gold 

Were the Grecians' funeral pyre. 
Their king sat on the throne. 

His captains by his side. 
While till' llame rushed roaring on, 

And their p.-ean loud replied ! 
Thus fought the Greek of old : 

Thus will ho light again ! 
Shall not the self-same mould 

Bring forth the sull-saine men? 



THE SEVENTH PLAGUE OF EGYPT. 

'Tvvas morn : the rising splendor rolled 
On marble towers and roofs of gold ; 
H.ill, court, and gallery, below. 
Wore crowded with a living flow; 
Egypti.an, Arab, Nubian, there, — 
The bearers of the bow and spear, 



358 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



The hoary priest, the Chaldeo sage, 
The slave, the gemmed and glitttriiig page, — 
Helm, turban, aud tiara shone 
A dazzling riug round Pharaoh's throne. 
There came a man : — the human tide 
Shrank backward from his stately stride: 
His cheek with storm and time was tanned ; 
A sheplierd's staff was in his hand ; 
A shudder of instinctive fear 
Told the dark king ^vhat step was near : 
On throngh the host the stranger came, 
It parted round his form like flame. 

He stooped not at the footstool-stone, 
He clasped not sandal, kissed not throne ; 
Erect ho stood amid the ring, 
His only -words, "Be just, O king!" 
On Pharaoh's cheek the blood flushed high, 
A fire was in his sullen eye ; 
Yet on the chief of Israel 
No arrow of his thousands fell ; 
All mute and moveless as the grave, 
Stood, chilled, the satrap and the slave. 

"Thon'rt come!" at length the monarch spoke 
(Haughty and high the words outbroke) ; 
"Is Israel -weary of its lair. 
The forehead peeled, the shoulder bare ? 
Take back the answer to your band : 
Go, reap the -uiud! go, plough the sand! 
Go, vilest of the living vile. 
To build the never-ending pile. 
Till, darkest of the nameless dead, 
The vulture on their flesh is fed ! 
What better, asks the howling slave. 
Than the base life our bonuty gave ?" 

Shouted in pride the turbaued peers, 
Upplashed to heaven the golden spears. — 
'■'King! thou and thine are doomed! — Btjhold !" 
The prophet spoke, — tlio thunder rolled ! 
Along the pathway of the sun 
Sailed vapory mountains, wild and dnu. 
" Yet there is time," the prophet said : 
He raised his staff, — the storm was stayed: 
" King ! be the word of freedom given ! 
What art thou, man, to war with Heaven ?" 

There came no word. — The thunder broke ! — 
Like a huge city's final smoke; 
Thick, lurid, stilling, mixed with flame, 
Throngh court and hall the vapors came. 
Loose as the stubble in the field. 
Wide flew the men of spear and shield ; 
Scattered like foam along the wave. 
Flew the proud pageant, prince and slave; 



Or, in the chains of teri-or bound. 
Lay, corpse-like, on the smouldering ground. 
"Speak, king! — the wrath is but begun! — 
Still dumb !— then, Heaven, thy will be done !" 

Echoed from earth a hollow roar. 
Like ocean on the midnight shore! 
A sheet of lightning o'er them wheeled. 
The solid ground beneath them reeled; 
In dust sank roof and battlement ; 
Like webs the giant walls -n'ere rent ; 
Red, broad, before his startled gaze 
The monarch saw his Egypt blaze. 
Still swelled the itlagne, — the flame grew palc,^ 
Burst from the clouds the charge of hail ; 
With arro-wy keenness, iron weight, 
Down poured the ministers of fate ; 
Till man and cattle, crushed, congealed. 
Covered with death the boundless field. 

Still swelled the plague, — uprose the blast. 
The avenger, fit to be the last : 
On ocean, river, forest, vale, 
Thundered at once the mighty gale. 
Before the whirlwind flew the tree. 
Beneath the wliirlwind roared the sea; 
A thousand sliips were on the wave — 
Where are they? — ask that foaming grave! 
Down go the hope, the pride of years, 
Down go the myriad mariners ; 
The riches of earth's richest zone 
Gone! like a flash of lightning, gone! 

And lo! that first fierce triumph o'er, 
Swells ocean on the shrinking shore ; 
Still onward, onward, dark ami wide. 
Ingulfs the land the furious fide. — 
Then bowed thy spirit, stubborn king, 
Thou seri>ent, reft of fang and sting! 
Humbled before the prophet's knee. 
He groaned, "Be injured Israel free!" 

To heaven the sage upraised his hand: 
Back rolled the deluge from the laud ; 
Back to its caverns sank the gale ; 
Fled from the noon the vapors pale ; 
Broad burnt agiiiu the joyous sun : 
The hour of wrath and death was done. 



DEFIANCE TO THE KOMAN SENATE. 

FiioM " Catiline." 

"Traitor?" I go— but I return. This trial! 

Here I devote your senate ! I've had wrongs 
To stir a fever in the blood of age, 



JAMES KESXEY.—HDWM:!! hovel inVRLOW (LORD THVliLOfV). 



359 



Or uiako the infant's sinew strong as steel. 

Tills day's the Iiiilli of sorrows ! Tliis liour's work 

Will breed proscrijitions. Look to your hearths, 

my loixls! 
For there lieiioefortli shall sit. for household gods, 
Sliai>os hot IVom Tartarus; all shames and crimes! 
Wau Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn ; 
Suspicion, i>oisoniug the brother's eup ; 
Naked Rebellion, with the torch aud axe, 
>raking his wild sport of your blazing thrones; 
Till Anarchy conu'S down on you like Night, 
Aud Massacre seals Komc's eternal grave !' 



3aiiKG luuiuii. 

Kcnncy (17>0-ltvl'.li, ii native of Ireland, was for some 
time a clerk in a luiikiiig-liousc. In 1803 he published 
"Society, in tivo parts, with other Poems." lie was 
the author of several siieeessful farces and plajs ; among 
them, " Raising the Wind," and " Swectlicarts and 
Wives." From the latter the following song is taken. 



WHY ARE YOU "WANDERING HERE T 

'• Why are you wandering here, I pray ?'" 
An old man asked a maid one day. — 
'• Looking for poppies, so bright and red, 
Father," said she, '• I'm hither led." 
"Fie, fie!" she heard him cry, 
" Poppies 'tis known, to all who rove, 
Grow ill the field, and not iu the grove." 

" Tell me," again the old man said, 

"Why are you loitering here, fair maid?" — 

"The nightingale's song, so sweet and clear, 

Father," said she, " I'm come to hear." 

" Fie, fie !" she heard him cry, 

"Nightingales all, so people s.ay. 

Warble by night, and not by day." 

The sage looked grave, the maiden shy. 
When Liibiu jumped o'er the stile hard by ; 
The sage looked graver, the maid more glum, 
Lnbin, he twiddled his finger and thumb. 
" Fie, fie I'' was the old maifs cry ; 
"Poppies like these, I own, arc rare, 
Aud of such nightingales' songs beware !" 



' Byrrni, who did not fcrnple to descend to ecarrility ot 
tlmeti, refers to Croly Id tlie following liues: 

".Xnd Po;s.«ns hnth a psalmodic amble 

Itotieatli the very Reverend Ritwlcy Powley, 
Who fhiH's the glorious animal with etilti*, — 
A modem Ancient Pistol,— by the hilta !'' 



(ftiiDarii fjoncl iLl)urloui 'Corb (ri)urloui]. 

Tills nolilemini (1781-1829) is sometimes confounded 
witli Lord Tluirlow, the celebrated Lord High Chauccl- 
lor of England ; but he was (|uitc a different person. 
His poems were ridiculed by Moore and Byron, but, 
with many faults, show some rare beauties. His "Se- 
lect Poems" were published in 18"J1. 



TO A BIIUJ THAT IIAINTKD TlIK WATERS 
OF LAKEN IN THE WINTER. 

O melancholy bird I a winter's day. 

Thou standest by the margin of the pool. 

And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school 

To patience, which all evil can allay : 

God has appointed thee the fish thy prey, 

Aud given thyself a lesson to the fool 

Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, 

And his unthinking course by thee to weigh. 

There need not schools nor the professor's chair, 

Though these be good, true wisdom to impart : 

He who has not enough for these to spare 

Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart, 

Aud teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair: 

Nature is always wise iu every part. 



SONG TO UXY. 

May, queen of blossoms 
And fulfilling flowers, 

With what pretty music 
Shall we charm the hours f 

Wilt thou have pipe aud reed, 

Blown iu the open mead ? 

Or to the lute give heed 
In the green bowers f 

Thou hast no need of ns, 

Or pipe or wire. 
Thou hast the golden bee 

Ripened with fire ; 
And many thousand more 
Songsters that thee adore. 
Filling earth's gra.ssy floor 

With new desire. 

Thou bast thy mighty herds, 
Tame, aud free livers; 

Donbt not, thy music too, 
In the deep rivers ; 



360 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



And tbe whole plumy flight, 
WaibliDg the day and night ; 
Up at the gates of light, 
See, the lark quivers! 

When with the jacinth 

Coy fountains are tressed; 

And for the mournful bird 
Green woods are dressed, 

That did for Tereus piue ; 

Then shall our songs be thine, 

To whom our hearts incline : 
May, be thou blessed ! 



(fbcuejcr (Elliott. 

Elliott (1T81-1849) was born at Masborougb, in Tork- 
sliire. His father was an iron-founder, and he himself 
wrought at tlie business for many years. His vigorous 
"Corn-Law Rhymes," published between 1830 and 1836, 
did much to compel Government to abolish all restric- 
tions on tlie importation of corn. The champion of the 
poor and oppressed, an intense hater of all injustice, he 
was no Communist, as the following epigram sliows ; 

"Wh.it is a Comniuuist? One who has yeavniags 
For equal division of unequal earnings." 

Elliott had a genuine taste, and the eye of an artist for 
natural scenery. He was by nature a poet. Tliere is a 
tenderness and grace that has rarely been excelled in 
some of his descriptive touches. In the religious senti- 
ment and a devout faith in the -compensations of Divine 
Providence he was also strong. His career was manly 
and honorable; and in the latter part of his life his cir- 
cumstances, through his own exertions, were easy, if not 
affluent. 



Dream-like he passeth, cloud-like he wasteth, 
E'en as a shadow over thee hasteth. 

Oh, when thy poet, weary, reposes. 
Coffined in slander, far from thy roses. 
Tell all thy jiilgrims, heart-breaking River, 
Tell them I loved thee — love thee forever! 

Yes, for the spirit blooms ever vernal : 
River of beauty ! love is eternal : 
While the rock reeleth, storm-struck and riven, 
Safe is the fountain flowing from heaven. 

There wilt tliou hail me, joyfully chiming 
Beauty is music. Sister of Wiming ! 
Homed with the angels, hasten to greet me, 
Glad as the heath-tioner, glowing to meet theo. 



FAREWELL TO RIVILIN. 

Heantifnl River! goldeuly shining 
Where with theo cistus and woodbines are twiniug, 
(Birklands around thee, mountains above thee) : 
Rivilin wildest! do I not love thee? 

Why do I love thee, heart-breaking River ? 
Love thee and leave thee ? leave thee forever ? 
Never to see thee, where the storms greet thee ! 
Never to hear thee, rushing to meet me.' 

Never to hail theo, joyfully chiming 
Beauty is music, Sister of Wiming! 
Playfully mingling laughter and sadness, 
Eibblediu's Sister, sad iu thy gladness ! 

Why must I leave thee, mournfully sighing 
Man is a shadow? River undying! 



FROM "LYRICS FOR MY DAUGHTERS." 

For Spring, and tlowcrs of Spring, 
Blossoms, and what they bring, 

Be our thauks given ; 
Thanks for the maiden's bloom, 
For the sad prison's gloom, 
And for the sadder tomb. 

Even as for heaven ! 

Great God, thy will is done 
When the soul's rivers run 

Down the worn cheeks ! 
Done when the righteous bleed. 
When the wronged vainly plead, — 
Done in the nnended deed. 

When the heart breaks ! 

Lo, how the dutiful 
Snows clothe in beautiful 

Life the dead earth! 
Lo, how the clouds distil 
Riches o'er vale and hill, 
While the storm's evil will 

Dies in its birth ! 

Blessed is the uupeopled down. 
Blessed is the ci'owded town, 

Where the tired groan : 
Pain but appears to be ; 
What are man's fears to thee, 
God, if all tears shall bo 

Gems on thy throne ? 



EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 



301 



IIYMX. . 

Xmso of the ril<;rim sires, who sought, 

Huyoml tins Allantic foam, 
For IViirless truth ami honest thought, 

A refuge ami a home ! 
Who wouKl not be of them or theo 

A not unworthy son, 
That hears, ami<l the chained or free, 

The name of Washington T 

Cradle of Shakspeare, Milton, Knox! 

King-shaming C'romweU's throne! 
Home of tbo Kussells, Watts, and Lockcs! 

Karth'a greatest arc thine own : 
And shall thy ehildren forgo base chains 

Tor men that would be free? 
No! by thy Klliots, llanipdens. Vanes, 

Pyms, fiyilneys, yet to be! 



Hath made their victims wise, 
While every lie that fraud hath forged 

Veils wisdom from his eyes: 
lint time shall change the despot's mood : 

And mind is mightiest then, 
When turning evil into good, 

And nuinsters into men. 

If round the soul the chains are bound 

That hold tlie world in thrall — 
If tyrants laugh when nieu are found 

In brnlal fray to fall — • 
L(ud ! let not liritain arm her hands. 

Her sister states to ban ; 
But bless through bcr all other lands. 

Thy family "f man. 

For freedom if thy Hami)den fonght ; 

For peace if Fallilaml fell ; 
I'or peace and love if Ueutham wrote. 

Anil liurns sang wildly well — 
Let knowledge, strongest of the strong, 

liid bale and iliscord cease ; 
lie this Uie linrden of her song — 

'• Love, lilierty, and peace!" 

Then, Father, will the nations all, 

As with the sound of seas. 
In univci-sal festival, 

l^ing words of joy, like these: — 
Let each love all, ami all be free, 

Kccciviug as they give; 



Lord! — Jesus died for love and thee! 
So let thv children live! 



NOT FOR NAUGHT. 

Do and suffer uangbt in vain ; 

Let no trifle trifling be : 
If the salt of life is pain. 

Let even wrongs bring good to thee ; 
Good to others, few or many, — 
Good to all, or good to any. 

If men cureo tbee, plant their lies 

Where for truth they best may grow ; 

Let the railers make thee wise, 
Preaching peace where'er thou go : 

God no useless plant hath idauted. 

Evil (wisely used) is wanted. 

If the nation-feeding corn 

Thriveth under iced snow ; 
If the small bird on the thorn 

I'scth well its guarded sloe. — 
Bid thy cares thy comforts double, 
Gather fruit from thorns of trouble. 

Sec the rivers! how they run. 

Strong in gloom, and strong in light I 

Like the never-wearied sun, 

Throngh the day and through the night, 

Each along his path of duty, 

Turning coldness into beauty! 



SPRING: A SONNET. 

Again the violet of our early days 

Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun. 

And kindles into fragrance at his blaze; 

The streams, rejoiced that winter's work is dour, 

Talk of to-morrow's cowslips as they run. 

Wild apple ! thou art bursting into bloom ; 

Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossomed thorn! 

Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tcuub; 

And thou, shjide-loving hy.acinth, be born I 

Then haste, sweet rose! sweet woodbine, hynni the 

nuirn, 
Whose dew-drops shall illume with pearly light 
Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands 
From sea to sea ; while daisies infinite 
L'plift in prai.se their little glowing hands, 
O'er every hill that under heaven expands. 



362 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE DAY WAS DARK. 

The (liiy ■was dart, save 'wlieu tbo beam 

Of iioou tlirough tlarkuess broke : 
lu gloom I sat, as iu a dieaiu, 

Beneath uiy orchard oak, 
Lo, sjilcudor, like a spirit, came ! 

A shadow like a tree ! 
While there I sat, and named her name 

Who ouce sat there with me. 

I .started from the seat in fear, 

I looked around in awe ; 
But saw no beauteous spirit near, 

Though all that was I saw : 
The seat, the tree, where oft iu tears 

She mourned her hojies o'erthrowu, 
Her joys cut off in early years. 

Like gathered flowers half-blown. 

Again the bud and breeze were met. 

But Mary did not coiue ; 
And e'eu the rose which she had set 

Was fated ne'er to bloom ! 
The thrush proclaimed in accents sweet 

That Winter's relgu w as o'er ; 
The bluebells thronged around my feet. 

But Mary came no more. 

I think, I feel — but when will she 

Awake to thought again ? 
A voice of comfort answers me. 

That God does naught lu vain : 
He wastes nor flower, nor bud, nor leaf, 

Nor wind, nor cloud, nor wave ; 
And will he waste the hope which grief 

Ilalli planted in the grave? 



A rOET'S EPITAPH. 

Stop, Mortal ! Here thy brother lies, 

The Poet of the poor : 
His boidcs were rivers, woods, and skies. 

The meadow and the moor ; 
His ieaebors were the torn heart's wail. 

The tyrant, and the slave. 
The street, the factory, the jail, 

The palace — and the grave ! 
Sin met thy brother everywhere ! 

And is thy brother blamed ? 
From passion, danger, doubt, and care 

He no exemption claimed. 



The meanest thing, earth's feeblest Tvorui, 

He feared to scorn or hate ; 
But, honoring in a peasant's form 

The equal of the great. 
He blessed the steward whose wealth makes 

The poor man's little more ; 
Yet loathed the haughty wretch that takes 

From iilnudercd labor's store. 
A haiul to do, a head to i^lan, 

A heart to feel and dare — 
Tell man's wonst foes, here lies the man 

Who drew them as they are. 



^cnrn yicKcring. 

AMERICAN. 

Pickering (1781-1838) was a native of Newburgh, New 
York, where he was born in a house once the lieail-quar- 
teis of Washington. In 1801 his fatlier, who was quar- 
termaster-general of the army, and had been with Wash- 
ington at the siege of Yorktown, returned to his native 
State, Massaeliusetts, and Henry engaged in merc.intile 
pursuits at Salem. Unsuccessful in business, he removed 
to New York, and resided several years at Rondoul and 
other places on the banks of the Hudson. An edition 
of "The Buckwheat CaUe," a poem in blank verse, in 
the moek-heroic style, but of triUlng merit, from his 
pen, was publislied in Boston in 1831. 



THE HOUSE IN WHICH I WAS BORN. 

(ONCE THE HEAD-QUARTERS OF WASHINGTON.) 
I. 
Square, and fongh-hewn, and solid is the mass, 
And ancient, if aught ancient here appear 
Beside yon rock-ribbed bills : but many a year 
Hath into dim oblivion swept, alas ! 
Since, bright iu arms, the worthies of the land 
Were here assembled. Let me reverent tread ; 
For now, nieseems, the spirits of the dead 
Are slowly gathering round, while I am fanned 
By g.ales unearthly. Ay, they hover near — 
Patriots and Heroes — the august and great — 
The founders of a yonng and mighty State, 
Whose grandeur who shall tell 1 With holy fear, 
Whili' tears unbidden ray dim eyes suffuse, 
I mark them one by one, and, marvelling, muse. 



I gaze, but they have vanished! Ami the eye, 
Free now to roam from where I take my stand. 
Dwells on the hoary pile. Let no rash hand 
Attempt its desecration ; for though I 



SEGIXALIJ UEDKll. 



363 



Beneath tlic sort shall sleep, and memory's sigh 
He there forever stille<l in this breast, — 
Yet all who boast tlieni ol' a laiul so blessed, 
Whose pilgrim feet may some day hither hie, 
Shall melt, alike, and hindle at the thon;;ht 
Tliat tliese rude walls have ecluiod to the sonnd 
or the great Patriot's voice! that even the ground 
I tread was trodden too by him who fonght 
To make us free; and whose unsullied name, 
Still, like the sun. illustrious shines the same. 



ncginalb Ijcbcr. 



Ilelier (178-'}-1836), the son of a clerj^yman, was born 
at Miilpas, in Cheshire. A precocious youth, he was ad- 
mitted of Brasenosc College, Oxford, in ISOO. After 
taking a prize for Latin hexameters, he wrote the best 
of University prize poems, " Palestine." Previous to its 
recitation in tlie theatre he re.id it to Sir Walter Scott, 
then at Oxford, who remarked that in the poem the fact 
was not mentioned tliat in the construction of Solo- 
mon's Temple no tools were used. Young Ilebcr re- 
tired for a few minutes to the corner of the room, and 
niurued with these beautiful lines, which were added: 

'• No hammer fell, no pnnderons axes riini; ; 
Like snnic tall pnlin tlic mystic fabric sprung. 
M.ijeslic silence T" 

In ISO" Ilebcr took ordei-s in the Cliurch, and in 1809 
married a daughter of the Dean of St. Asaph, and 
Milled at Hodnet. Contrary to the advice of prudent 
friends, he accepted in ISilJ the Bishopric of Ciileutta. 
Ill April, 18-Jt;, a few days after his arrival at Triehi- 
nojioly, he died of an apoplectic attack while taking a 
bath. Hcbcr was a man of exalted piety, earnest and 
faithful in the discbarge of his clerical duties, and an 
industrious writer. There is a gnice and tinish in his 
poems, showing a biiih degree of literary culture as well 
OS genuine poetical feeling. 



FROM BISHOP HliBEUS JOfKNAL. 

If thou wert by my side, my love! 

How fa.st would evening fail 
III green Bengal.i's palmy grove. 

Listening tlio uightingalc .' 

ir thou, my love I wert by my side, 

My babie.s at my knee, 
How gayly would our pinnace glide 

<-)"er Ciuuga's mimic sea! 

I miss theo at the dawning gray 
When, on our deck reclined. 

In careless ease my limbs I lay, 
And woo the cooler wind. 



I miss thee when by Gnuga's stream 
. My twilight steps I guide, 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam, 
I miss thee from my side. 

I spread my books, my pencil try, 

The lingering noon to cheer, 
But miss thy kind approving eye, 

Tliy meek, atteutive car. 

B.nt Avlien of morn and eve the star 

Beholils me on my knee, 
I fi'cl, though thou art distant far, 

Thy prayers ascend for me. 

Then on ! then on ! where duty leads. 

My course be onward still, 
O'er broad Ilindostan's sultry meads. 

O'er black Ahnorah's hill. 

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, 

\or wild Malwah detain, 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits, 

By youder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, tbcy say, 

Across the dark blue sea ; 
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay, 

As then shall meet in thee! 



TlIK WIDOW OF NAI.V. 

Wake not, O mother! sounds of lamentation! 

Weep not, O widow ! weep not hopelessly ! 
Strong is His arm, the Bringer of .Salvation, 

Strong is the AVord of Ood to succor thee! 

Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear him : 
Hide his pale features with the sable pall: 

Chide not the sad one wildly weeping near him : 
Widowed and childless, she has lost her all ! 

Why pause the mourucrs ? Who forbids our weep- 
ing f 

Who the dark pomj) of sorrow h.as delayed f 
"Set down the bier,— ho is not dead, but sleeping! 

Y'oung man, arise!" — He spake, and was obeyed! 

Change then, O sad one! grief to exnltatiim : 
WiMship and f;ill before Messiah's knee. 

Strong was His arm, tlip liriiiger of Salvation ; 
Strong was the Word of God to succor tboel 



364 



CYCLOl'JiDIA OF BlilTISH AND AMEUICAN POETRY. 



MISSIONARY HYMN. 

From Grecnlauil's icy monutains, 

From India's coral straiul, 
Wliorc Afric's siiiiuy fouutaiiis 

lioll (lo\Yii their goltleu saud ; 
From many au aucieut river, 

From many a palmy plain, 
They call us to deliver 

Their land from error's chain! 

What though the spicy breezes 

Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle, 
Though every prospect pleases. 

And only man is vile : 
In vain with lavish kindness 

The gifts of God are strown, 
The heathen iu his blindness 

Bows down to wood and stone ! 

Can we, whose souls are lighted 

With wisdom from on higli, 
Cau we to men beuighted 

The lamp of life deuy ? 
Salvatiou ! oh. Salvation ! 

The joyful souud ijroclaira. 
Till each remotest nation 

Has learned Messiah's uame ! 

Waft, waft, ye winds, his story, 

Aud you, ye waters, roll. 
Till, like a sea of glory. 

It spreads from pole to pole ! 
Till o'er our rausomed uature, 

The Lamb for sinuers slain. 
Redeemer, King, Creator, 

In bliss returns to reign! 



CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning ! 

Dawn on our darkness, and lend us Thine aid ! 
Star of the East, the horizon adorning. 

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid ! 

Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are shining, 
Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall ; 

Angels .adore Him in slumber reclining. 
Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all ! 

Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion. 
Odors of Edom, aud oflcriugs divine ? 



Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean, 
Myrrh from the forest or gold from the mine ? 

Vainly wo otfer each ampler oblation ; 

Vainly with gifts would His favor secui'e : 
Richer by far is the heart's adoration ; 

Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning ! 

Dawn on our darkness, and lend ns Thine aid! 
St.ir of the East, the horizon adorning. 

Guide where our iufaut Redeemer is laid ! 



EARLY PIETY. 

By cool Siloam's shady rill 

How sweet the lily grows ! 
How sweet the breath beneath the hill 

Of Sharon's dewy rose ! 
Lo! such the child whose early feet 

The iiiiths of peace have trod, 
Whose secret heart with influence sweet 

Is upward drawn to God I 

By cool Siloam's shadj' rill 

Tlie lily must decay ; 
The rose that blooms beneath the hill 

Must shortly fade away. 
And soon, too soon, the wintry hour 

Of man's maturer age 
Will shake the soul with sorrow's power. 

And stormy passion's rage ! 

O thou, whose infant feet were found 

AVithiu thj' Father's shrine ! 
Wlu)se years with changeless virtue crowned 

Were all alike divine ! 
Dependent on thy bounteous breath, 

We seek thy grace alone, 
In childhood, manhood, age, aud death, 

To keep ns still thy own! 



THE MOONLIGHT MARCH. 

I see them on their winding way. 
About their ranks the moonbeams play ; 
Their lofty deeds aud daring high 
Blend with the notes of victory. 
Aud waving arms, and baiuiers bright, 
Are glancing iu the mellow light : 



REGINALD nEBER.—JAM: TAYLOR. 



•M', 



They're lost, — nml gduo — the moon is past, 
The wood's dark shade is o'er thcra cast ; 
And fiiiiitcr, fainter, fainter still 
The nianli is rising oVr tlie hill. 

Again, again, the jifaling drum. 
The clashing horn, — they come ; they come ! 
Throngh rocky pass, o'er wooded steep. 
In long and glittering tiles they sweep; 
Anil nearer, nearer, yet more near. 
Their softened chorns meets the ear; 
Forth, forth, and meet them on their way; 
The tranijiling hoofs hrook no delay; 
With thrilling fife and pealing drnm. 
Anil clashing horn, they come ; they come ! 



MAY-DAY. 

Qneen of fresh flowers, 

Whom vernal stars obey. 
Bring thy warm showers, 
liring thy genial ray. 
In nature's greenest livery dressed, 
Descend on earth's expectant breast. 
To earth and heaven a welcome gnest, 
Thon merry mniitli of May! 

Mark ! how we meet thee 
At dawn of dewy day ! 
Hark ! how avo greet thee 
With onr roniidelay ! 
While all the goodly things that be 
In earth, and air, and ample sea. 
Arc waking np to welcome thee, 
Thou merry mouth of May ! 

Flocks on the mountains. 

And liirds upon the spray. 
Tree, tnrf, and fountains 
All hold holiday ; 
And love, the life of living things, 
Love waves his torch and claps his wings, 
And loud and wide thy praises sings, 
Thou merry month of May. 



3ant itaiilor. 

Jane Taylor (17S.3-1834) was a native of London, but 
brouglit up cliiitly at Laienham, in SulTolk. Her father, 
Isaac Taylor (1T.");»-1S'J0), wa.« an cnsnwer, and ultimately 
pastor of an Independent Congreg-.ilion at Ongar, in Es- 
sex, and a voluminous author. Jane's mother (ti<<c Ann 



Martin) also wrote books. Jointly with her sister Ann 
(17S3-1800), Jane produced "Original Poems for Infant 
Minds." The sisters also wrote "Hymns for Infant 
Minds," wiiich were very popular. Their two lilllc po- 
ems, " My Mother," and " Twinkle, twinkle, little star," 
will not readily become obsolete in the nursery. Jane 
was the author of " Display," a novel (1S1.5), of "Essays 
in Rhyme" (1810), and " Contributions of Q Q." She had 
a brother, Isaac Taylor (178T-I8I»), wlio wrote "Physi- 
cil Theory of Another Life," and other much esteemed 
works. 



TEACHING FKOM THE STAKS. 

Stars, that on your wondrous way 
Travel throngh the evening sky, 

Is there nothing you can say 
To such a little child as I f 

Tell me, for I long to know. 

Who has made you sparkle so f 

Y"es, mcthinks I hear yon say, 
" Child of mortal race atteiul ; 

While wo run our woiulrons way, 
Listen ; we would be your friend ; 

Teaching yon that name divine. 

By whose mighty word we shine. 

"C'liild, as truly as wo roll 

Through the dark and distant sky, 
You have an immortal soul, 

Born to live when wo shall die. 
Suns and planets pass away : 
.Spirits never can decay. 

" When some thousand years at most, 
All their little time have spent. 

One by one onr sp.irkling host. 
Shall fors.ike the firmament: 

We shall from our glory fall ; 

You must live beyond us all. 

" Y'cs, and God, who bade us roll, 
God, who hung us in the sky. 

Stoops to watch an infant's soul 
With a condescending eye; 

And esteems it dearer far, 

More in value than a star ! 

" Oh, then, while yonr breath is given, 
Let it rise in fervent prayer ; 

Anil beseech the God of heaven 
To receive yonr spirit there. 

Like a living star to blaze. 

Ever to your Saviour's praise." 



3G6 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BllUlSH AND AMERICAN POETUT. 



JIol)n Kcnjiou. 



The son of a wealthy English West Indian merchant, 
Kenj'on (1783-1850), a native of Jamaica, iniierited a 
large fortune. He cultivated the society of literary 
men ; and among his associates were Byron, Words- 
worth, Procter, Browning, and otlier eminent poets. 
Dying, he hestowed more than £100,000 in legacies to 
his friends. He wrote "A Rhymed Plea for Tolerance" 
(1833); "Poems, for the most part Occasional" (1838); 
and "A Day at Tivoli, with other Poems" (1849). 



CHAMPAGNE EOSfi. 

Lily oil liquid roses floating — 

So floats yon foam o'er pink champagne ;- 
Fain would I join such pleasant boatiug, 

And prove that ruby main, 

And float away on wine! 

Those seas are dangerous, graybeards swcar,- 
Whoso sea-beacU is the goblet's brim ; 

And true it is they drown old Care — 
But what care we for him, 

So we but float ou wine! 

And ti'ue it is they cross in pain 
Who sober cross the Stygian ferry ; 

But only make our Styx champagne, 
And we shall cross quite merry, 
Floating away in wine ! 

Old Charon's self shall make him mellow, 
Then gayly row his boat from shore ; 

■\Vhile we, and every jovial fellow, 
Hear unconcerued the oar 

That dips itself in wine ! 



^llan t!lunnuuiil)ain. 

Poet, novelist, and miscellaneous writer, Cunningham 
(1784-1842) was born of humble parentage in Dumfries- 
shire, Scotland.' lie began life as a stone-mason: in 
1810 he repaired to London, got an appointment of trust 
in the studio of the sculptor Chantrey, and there settled 
for life. He had early shown a taste for literature, and 
written for the magazines of the day. His taste and at- 
tainments in the line arts were remarkable. His warm 
heart, his upright, independent character, attracted the 
atfeetionate esteem of all who enjoyed his acquaintance. 
He left four sons — Joseph D., Alexander, Peter, and 
Francis — all of whom have won distinction in literature. 
Cunningham was the author of "Paul Jones," a success- 
ful romance (1826) ; and from 182'J to 1833 he produced 



for " JIurray's Family Library" his most esteemed prose 
work, "The Lives of the most eminent British Painters, 
Sculptors, and Architects," in six volumes. 



A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast, 
And fills the white and rustling sail, 

And bends the gallant mast ; 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 

While, like the eagle free, 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old England on the lee. 

Oh for a soft and gentle wind! 

I heard a fair one cry ; 
But give to mo the snoring breeze. 

And white waves heaving high ; 
And white waves heaving high, my boys. 

The good ship tight and free — 
The world of waters is our home. 

And merry men are we. 

There's tempest in yon horned moon. 

And lightning in yon cloud ; 
And hark, the music, mariners. 

The wind is piping loud ! 
The wind is piping loud, my boys. 

The lightning flashing free — 
While the hollow oak our palace is. 

Our heritage the sea. 



IT'S IIAME, AND IT'S HAME. 

It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be. 
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my aiu conntrie ! 
When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is ou 

the tree. 
The lark shall sing me hame iu my ain conntrie : 
It's hame, and its hame, hame fain wad I be. 
An' it's hame, hanu', hame, to my aiu conntrie ! 

The green leaf o' loyalty's beginning for to fa'. 
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a'; 
But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie. 
An' green it will grow iu my aiu conntrie. 
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be. 
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain conntrie! 

There's naught now frao ruin my country can save. 
But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave, 



ALLAN CCXNIXGHAM.— WILLIAM TENXANT. 



■M7 



That :i' the iioblo martyrs who died for loyaUic, 
M:iy riso asaiu and light for thrir ain cimiitrio. 
It's haiiio, and it's haiiii", haiiio fain wad I be, 
An' it'8 liaiue, banic, hauie, to my ain conntrie! 

Tlio great now are gane, a' who vi'iihired to save; 
Tlio new grass is springing on llie tap o' I heir grave ; 
lint the snn thro' tlie mirk blinks blithe in my e'e : 
" I'll sliine on you yet in your ain conntrie !'' 
It's Iiame, and it's hame, liamc fain wad I be, 
An' it's bame, hame, hanie, to my ain eouutrio ! 



THE SPRING OF TlIK VKAR. 

Gone were but tlie winter cold. 
And gimc were but Iho snow, 

I conhl sleep in the wilil woods 
Where primroses blow. 

Cold's the snow at my head, 

And eold at my fei't ; 
And (he linger of death's at my een, 

Closing them to sleep. 

Let none tell my father, 

Or my mother so dear, — 
I'll meet them both in heaven 

At tho spring of the year. 



Ulilliam itcunant. 

Tennant (I7S4-1S48) was a native of Anstrutlier, Scot- 
land, who, while tilling tlic Bituation of clerk in a mer- 
cantile house, studied ancient and modern litci-ature, and 
taught himself Hebrew. He is known In literature by 
his niock-hcrolc poem of "Anster Fair" (ItSl'J), written 
in the ottninrima stanza, afterward adopted by Frcre and 
Hyron. The suljjcet was the marriage of Maggie Lauder, 
the famous heroine of Scottish song. The poem was 
l)raiscd by Jeffrey in the KiVmbnigh Itevkv; and several 
editions of it were published. After strugjrling with 
lioverty till 1n:54, Tennant received the appointment of 
I'rofessor of Orientid Languages in St. Mary's College. 
In IfM.! he published " Hebrew Dnnnas, founded on In- 
cidents in Bible History." A memoir of his life and 
writings appeared In IS^il. 



DESCRIPTION OF MAGGIE LALTJER. 

Her form was as tlio Morning's blitlicsomo star, 
That, eapiied with lustrous coronet of beams, 

Hides up the dawning orient in lier car. 
Now-washed, and doubly fulgent from the streams : 



The Chaldee sheplierd eyes her light afar. 

And on bis knees adores ber as she gleams ; 
So shono fbo stately form of Maggie Lander, 
And so tho admiring crowds pay homage and ap- 
plaud her. 

Each little step her trampling palfrey took, 
Shaked ber majestic person into grace. 

And as at times his glossy sides sbu strnok 
Endearingly with whip's green silken laee, 

The praneer seemed to court sueb kind rebuke, 
Loitering witb wilful tardiness of pace — 

Hy Jove, the very waving of ber arm 

Had power a brutish lout to unbrutify and charm I 

Her face was as tho summer cloud. whiTcon 
The dawning sun d<?liglits to rest his rays! 

Com])arc(l with it, old Sharon's vale, o'ergrown 
Witb flauntiug roses, bad resigned its praise: 

For why ? Her face witb heaven's own roses shone, 
Mocking the morn, and witching men to gaze ; 

And be that gazed witb cold, unsmitten soul, 

That Idoekbead's heart was ice thrice baked be- 
neath the Pole. 

Her locks, apparent tufts of wiry gold. 
Lay on ber lily temples, fairly dangling, 

And on each bair, so harmless to behold, 
A lover's soul bung mercilessly strangling; 

Tho piping silly zephyrs vied to unfold 

Tbo tresses in their arms so slim and tangling. 

And thrid in sport these lover-noosing snares. 

And played at hide-aud-scek amid tho golden hairs. 

Her eye -was as an bouored palace, where 

A choir of lightsome Graces frisk and dance ; 

What object drew ber gaze, bow mean soo'er, 
Got dignity and honor from tlie glance ; 

Woo to tho man on whom she unaware 
Did the dear witchery of her eye elance! 

'Twas such a thrilling, killing, keen regard — 

May Heaven from such a look preserve each ten- 
der bard ! 

So on she rode in virgin majesty, 

Charming the thin dead air to kiss her lips, 
And with the light and grandeur of her eye 

.Shaming tho proud sun into dim eclipse ; 
While round ber presence clustering far and nigh. 

On horseback some, witb silver spurs and whips, 
.\ii(l some afoot witb shoes of dazzling bnikles, 
Attended knights, and lairds, and clowns with 
bornv knuckles. 



:i08 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BHITLSH AND AMEIIICAK POETRY. 



'^\txa\\iitx Uotincr. 



Rodger (1T84-1840) was a native of East-CaUler, Scot- 
lauil. In 1797 he was apprenticed to a weaver in Glas- 
gow. He married, and liad a large family, some of 
■whom emigrated to the United States. Having written 
some articles against the Government in a radical news- 
]niper, he was imprisoned for some time. His first ap- 
pearance as an anthor was in 1827, when he published a 
\olunie of poems. Some of his songs are still very 
popnlar. 



BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK. 

Behave yoursel' before folk, 
Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
Ami illnua be so rude to me 
As kiss me sae before folk. 

It wadua gi'e me mickle pain, 
Gin we were seen aud heard by uaue, 
To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane, 
But, guidsake ! no before folk ! 
Behave yonrsel' before folk. 
Behave yoursel' Ijcfore folk ; 
Whate'er you do when out o' view, 
Be cautious aye before folk. 

Consider, lad, bow folk will crack, 
And what a great affair they'll uiak' 
O' uaethiug but a simple smack 

That's gi'eu or ta'en before folk. 

Behave yoursel' before folk. 

Behave yoursel' before folk ; 

Nor gi'o the tongue o' auld or young 

Occasion to come o'er folk. 

It's no through hatred o' a kiss 
That I sae plainly tell you this; 
But, losh ! I tak' it sair amiss 
To be sae teased before folk. 
Behave yoursel' before folk, 
Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
■When we're our lane you may tak' ane, 
But fient a ane before folk. 

I'm sure wi' you I've been as free 
As ony modest lass should be ; 
But yet it doesna do to see 

Sic freedom used before folk. ^ 
Behave yoursel' before folk, 
Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
I'll ne'er submit again to it — 
So mind vou that — before folk. 



Yo tell me that my face is fair : 
It may be sae — I diuna care ; 
But ne'er agaiu gar 't blush sae sair 
As ye lia'e done before folk. 
Behave yoursel' before folk, 
Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
Nor heat my checks wi' your mad freaks. 
But aye be douce before folk. 

Ye tell me that my lips are sweet : 
Sic talcs, 1 doubt, are a' deceit ; 
At ony rate, it's liardly meet 

To pree their sweets before folk. 
Behave yoursel' before folk, 
Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
Gin that's the case, there's time aud place. 
But surely no before folk. 

But gin you really do insist 
That I should suffer to be kissed, 
Gae, get a license frao the priest. 
And mak' me yours before folk. 
Behave yoursel' before folk, 
Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
Aud when we're ane, baitb Ih-sh and banc. 
Ye may tak' ten — before folk. 



Bcnuari) 33avtou. 

Barton (1784-1849) has often been spoken of as "the 
Quaker poet." He became a banker's clerk at the age 
of twenty-six, and continued in that position, like Lamb 
in the East India House, to the end of his life. Pure, 
gentle, and amiable, his poetry reflects his character. To 
the "Sonnet to a Grandmotlicr," Cliarles Lamb affixed 
the characteristic comment, "A good sonnet. D'lxi. — C. 
Lamb." Barton's "Poems and Letters" were published, 
with a memoir, by his daughter, in 185.3. 



TO A GRANDMOTHER. 

"Okl age is dark and unlovely." — Ossian. 

Ob, say not so ! A bright old ago is thine. 

Calm as the gentle light of summer eves. 

Ere twilight dim her dusky mantle weaves; 

Because to thee is given, in thy decline, 

A heart that docs not thanklessly repine 

At aught of which the baud of God bereaves, 

Yet all he sends with gratitude receives. 

May such a quiet, thankful close be mine ! 

And hence thy fireside chair appears to mo 

\ peaceful throne — which thou wevt formed to fill; 



BEnSARD BAIiTON.—LEVI FRISBIE. 



309 



Tliy cliildioii ministers who do tby will ; 

And llioso grandohildron, sporting roniul tliy knee, 

Thy little subjects, looking np to tlieo 

As one who chiinis their foud alloKiauco still. 



FAREWELL. 

Kay, sliiink not from the word "farewell," 
As if 'tttcro friendship's Knal knull .' 

Snoli fears may jirove bnt vain : 
So changeful is life's lieeting day, 
Wlieiie'er we sever, Hope may say, 

"Wo part — to meet again!" 

E'on the last parting heart can know 
Brings not nnntterablo woe 

To sonis that heavenward so.ir ; 
For humble Faith, with steadfast eye, 
Points to a brighter world on high, 
Where hearts that hero at parting sigh 

May meet — to part no more. 



A WINTER NKUIT. 

\ winter night! the stormy Avind is high, 
Koeking the lealless branches to and fro : 
The sailor's wife shrinks as she hears it blow, 
And mournfully surveys the starless sky; 
The hardy sbei>herd turns out fearlessly 
To tend his lleeey charge in drifted snow ; 
And the poor homeless, houseless chiUl of woe 
Sinks down, perchance, in dumb despair to die ! 
Happy the fireside student — happier still 
The social circle round the blazing hearth, — 
If. while these estimate aright the worth 
Of every blessing which their cup may till. 
Their grateful hearts witli sympathy can thrill 
For cverv form of wretclicduess ou earth. 



Ccni j^risbic. 

AMERICAN. 

Frisliie (17H4-1SJ3) w.is the son of a clergyman of Ips- 
wich, Ma-i?. He was educated at Harvard, and did much 
to defray his own expenses by teaeliing. After finishing 
his coui"sc, he was sncccssively Latin tutor, Professor of 
Latin, and Professor of Mond Pliiloso]>liy. A volume 
containing some of his pliilosopliieal writings and a few 
poems, and edited l)y bis frieml, .\iii1iihs Norton, was 
published in ISiS. 

•24 



A CASTLE IN THE AIR. 

rU tell yon, friend, what sort of wife, 
Whene'er I scan this scene of life. 

Inspires my waking schemes, 
And when I .sleep, with form so light, 
Dances before my ravished sight. 

In sweet aerial dreams. 

The rose its blushes need not lend. 
Nor yet the lily with them blend, 

To captivate my eyes. 
Give mo a cheek the he.art obeys. 
And, sweetly mutable, displays 

Its feelings as they rise ; 

Features, where pensive, more than gay. 
Save when .a rising smile doth play. 

The sober thought you see ; 
Eyes that all soft and tender seem — 
And kind affections round them beam, 

lint most of all ou me! 

A form, though not of finest nmiild, 
^A'here yet a something you behold 

Unconsciously doth please ; 
llauncrs all graceful, without art. 
That to each look and word impart 

A modesty and ease. 

But still her air, her face, each charm, 
Must speak a heart with feeling warm. 

And mind inform the whole; 
With mind her mantling check must glow, 
Iler voice, her beaming eje, must show 

An all-inspiring soul. 

Ah I could I such a being find. 

And were her fate to mine but joined 

By Hymen's silken tie. 
To her myself, my all, I'd give, 
For her al(^ne delighted live. 

For her consent to die. 

Whene'er by anxious care oppressed. 
On the soft pillow of her brea.st 

My aching head I'd lay; 
At her sweet erailo each care should cease, 
Her kiss infuse a balmy peace. 

And drive my griefs away. 

In turn, I'd soften all her care. 

Each thought, each wish, each feeling, share ; 



370 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISB AND AMERICAN POETUT. 



SljouliI sickness e'er invade, 
My voice slaonld soothe each rising sigh, 
My baud the cordial sliould supply ; 

I'd watch beside her bed. 

Should gathering clouds our sky deform. 
My arms should shield her from the storm ; 

And, were its fury burled. 
My bosom to its bolts I'd bare. 
In her defence undaunted dare 

Defy the opposing world. 

Together should our prayers ascend ; 
Together would we humbly bend 

To praise the Almighty name ; 
And when I saw her kindling eye 
Beam upward to her native sky, 

My soul should catcli tlie liame. 

Thus nothing should our hearts divide, 
But on our years serenely glide. 

And all to love ho given ; 
And, when life's little scene was o'er. 
We'd part to meet and part no more. 

But live and love in heaven. 



ficiglj t]uiit. 



Tlic son of a West Intlian wlio settled iu Engliinil and 
became a clergyman, James Ilenrj' Leigh Huut (17S4- 
ISS'J) was born at Soutligate, and educated at Christ's 
Hospital, London. In connection with his brother he 
establislicd the Examiner newspaper in 1S08, and became 
the literary associate of Coleridge, Lamb, Campbell, 
Hood, Byron, Shelley, and other men of note. Having 
called the Prince Kegent "an Adonis of fifty," he and 
Ills brother were condemned to two years' imprison- 
ment, with a fine of i:.500 each. On Hunt's release, Keats 
addressed to him one of his finest sonnets. Improvident 
and somewhat lax in money matters, and often in want 
of "a loan," Hunt's life was spent in struggling with 
influences contrary to his nature and temperament. In 
1S22 he went to Italy to reside with Lard Byron ; and in 
1S:3S he published " Lord Byron, and some of his Con- 
temporaries," for which he was bitterly satirized by 
Moore, in some biting verses, as an ingrate. Certain af- 
fectations in his style caused Hunt to be credited with 
founding the "Cockney School of Poetry." 



TO T. L. H., SIX YEARS OLD, DURING SICKNESS. 

Sleep breathes at last from out thee, 

My little patient hoy; 
And balmy rest about thee 

Smooths otV the day's annoy. 



I sit me down and think 
Of all thy winning ways ; 
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, 
That I had less to praise. 

The sidelong pillowed meekness, 

Tliy thanks to all that aid. 
Thy heart, iu jiaiu and weakness. 

Of fancied faults afraid ; 

Tiie little trembling hand 

Tliat wipes thy quiet tears. 
These, these are things that may demand 

Dread memories for years. 

Sorrows I've had, severe ones, 

I will not think of now ; 
And calmly 'mid my dear ones, 

Have wasted with dry brow ; 

But when thy fingers press 

And pat my stooping head, 
I cannot bear the gentleness, — 

The tears are in tlieir bed. 

Ah, first-horn of thy mother. 

When life and hope were new ; 
Kind playmate of thy brother, 

Thy sister, father, too ; 

My light where'er I go. 

My bird wlicn iirison-bound. 
My liand-in-liand companion — no, 

My jirayers shall ln>ld thee round. 

To s.ay — " He has departed " — 

" Ilis voice — his face — is gone !" 
To feel impatient-hearted, 

Y'et feel we must bear on ; 

Ah, I could not endure 

To whisper of such woe. 
Unless I felt this sleep insure 

That it will not be so. 

Yes, still he's fixed and sleeping; 

This silence too, the wliile — 
Its very hush and creeping 

Seems whispering us a smile : 

Something divine and dim 

Seems going by one's ear. 
Like iiarting wings of Serapliim, 

■W'ho sav, "We've finished hero!"' 



' John Wilson, nuce tlie lusty nssnilniit of Hnnt, called 
liiin at last "tlie most vivid of poets aiul most cordial of 
critics." 



LEIGH inWT. 



:t7i 



AliOU ]ii:N AUIILM AND Till: ANGEL. 

Aliou 15eu AiUieiu (may his tribo increase !) 
Awoko one iiij;lit Aom a doep dream of peace, 
Anil saw, witliin lln; inoonliglit in his room, 
Jlakiii;; it rich, anil lilio a lily in bloom, 
An angel, writing in :i book ol' golil : — 
Exoeeiliuj; peace hail wailo Ben Ailhcni boUl, 
Anil to tko presence in the room ho said, 
''Wliat writest thon ?" — The vision raised its head. 
And, with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answered, ''The nantes of those wlio love the Lord." 
"Anil is mine one?" said Abon. "Nay, not so," 
Keplied the angel. Abou spake more low, 
Hnt cheerily still ; and said, " I pray thee, then. 
Write mo as ono that loves his fellow-men." 

The angel wrote, and vanislied. The next night 
It came again with a great wakening light. 
And showed the names whom lovn of God had 

bli-sscd, 
.\nd h) .' I'liii Adhein's name led all the rest. 



AN ITALIAN MolJNlNG IN MAY. 

From "Tiik Stohv of IIimim." 

The sail is n]>, and 'tis a morn of Jlay 

Kimnd old liavenna's clear-shown towers and bay; 

.V morn, tlie loveliest wliich the year has si^cn, 

L.ist of the spring, yet fresh with all its green ; 

Tor a warm eve, and gentle rains at niglit. 

Have left a sparkling welcome fur the light. 

And there's a crystal clearness all abont ; 

The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out ; 

A balmy briskness eomcs Upon the breeze ; 

Tlio smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees ; 

And when you listen, you may hear a coil 

Of bubbling springs abont the gra.ssier soil ; 

.Vnd all thr scene, in short, — sky, earth, anil sea, — 

llreathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out 

openly. 
'Tis imtnre, full of spirits, waked and springing : — 
The birds to the delicious time are singing, 
Darting with freaks anil snatches up and down. 
Where the light woods go seaward from the town; 
While happy faces, striking through the greeu 
Of le.ify roads, at every turn are seen ; 
Ami the far ships, lifting their sails of white 
Like joyful hamls, come up with scattered light. 
Come gleaming up, true to the wi>heil-fi)r day, 
.\nd chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the 

bay. 



THOUGHTS ON THE AVON, SEPT. 2S, 1817. 

It is tho loveliest day that we have had 
This lovely month — sparkling, and full of cheer; 
The siiu has a sharp eye, yet kind and glad ; 
Colors are doubly bright: all things apiiear 
Strong outlined in tho spacious atmosphere ; 
And through tho lofty air the white clouds go, 
As on their way to some celestial show. 

The banks of Avon nuist look well to-day : 
Autunui is there in all his glory and treasure; 
The river must run bright, the ripples play 
Their crispest tunes to boats that rock at leisure ; 
Tho ladies are abroad with cheeks of pleasure ; 
And the rich orchards, iu their sunniest robes, 
Are pouting thick with all tluir winy globes. 

And why must I bo thinking of the pride 

Of distant bowers, as if I had no nest 

To sing in here, though by tlje houses' side f 

As if I could not iu a minute rest 

In leafy fields, rural, and self-possessed. 

Having on one side Hampstead for my looks. 

On t'other, London, with its wealth of books t 

It is uot that I envy autuiun there. 

Nor the sweet river, though my liclds have uouo ; 

Nor yet that iu its all-piodnclive air 

Was born Humanity's divincst son. 

That sprightliest, gravest, wisest, kindest one, 

Shakspearo ; nor yet — oh no — that here I miss 

.Souls not unworthy to be named with his. 

No; l)ut it is that on this very day. 
And upon Shakspcare's stream — a little lower. 
Where, drunk with Delphic air, it comes away, 
Dancing in perfumo by tho Peary. Shore — 
AVas boiii the lass that I love more aiul more; 
A fruit as lino as in the Hesperian store, 
Smooth, roniuUy smiling, noble to tho core ; 
An eye for art ; a nature that of yore 
Mothers anil daughters, wives and sisters wore, 
W'lieu in the Golden Age one Inuo they bore — 
Marian, — who makes my heart and very rhymes 
run o'er. 



MAY AND THE POETS. 

There is Jlay in books forever: 
May will )p:irt fnun Spenser never; 
JIay's in Jlillon, JIay's in Pryor, 
May's iu Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer; 



372 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH ASD AMEHICAX POETRY. 



May's in all the Italian books : 
She has old and modern uoolcs, 
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves 
lu happy places they call shelves, 
And will rise and dress yonr rooms 
With a drapery thick with hlooms. 
Come, ye rains, then, if ye will ; 
May's at home, and with me still: 
Bnt come rather, then, good weather. 
And find ns in the fields together. 



DEATH. 

Death is a road our dearest friends have gone : 
Why, with such leaders, fear to say, "Lead on?" 
Its gate repels, lest it too soon be tried, 
But turns in halm on the immortal side. 
Mothers have passed it; fathers, children ; men 
Whose like we look not to behold again ; 
Women that smiled away their loving breath : — 
Soft is the travelling on the road of Death ! 
But guilt has jiassed it? — men not fit to die? 
Oh, hush — for He that made ns all is by! 
Human were all — all men, all born of mothers ; 
All our own selves in the worn-out shape of others; 
Our vseil, and oh, be sure, not to be iH-used brothers. 



JENNY KISSED ME. 

Jenny kissed me when wo met. 

Jumping from the chair she sat in : 

Time, you thief, who love to get 
Sweets into your list, put that in ! 

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad ; 

Say that health and wealth have missed me ; 

Say I'm growing old, but add — 

.Jennv kissed me ! 



3amc5 Nelson Barker. 

AMERICAN. 

Barker (1TS4-1S.58), better known as a tb-amatie writer 
than by his other proihielions, was a native of Pliilaclel- 
pliia, and a son of General John Barker, an officer of llie 
Revohition, and at one time mayor and slieritf of the 
city. James was a captain in the artillery daring the 
war of 1813 with Great Britain, was for one year mayor 
of Philadelphia, and afterward collector of the port. 
In 1807 he produced a comedy, entitled "Tears and 
Smiles;" in 1817, "How to Try a Lover," never per- 
formed; and in lSi3, a tragedy, "Superstition," one of 



the principal parts in which is Goff, the regicide. Bar 
kcr was also the author of some si^rightly poems, one of 
which we subjoin. 



LITTLE KED EIDING-HOOD. 

She was, indeed, a pretty little creature ; 
So meek, so modest ! What a pity, madam. 
That one so young and innocent should fall 
A prey to tlie ravenous wolf! 

The wolf, indeed! 

You've left the nursery to but little purpose 
If yon believe a wolf could ever speak, 
Tliongh in the time of iEsop or before. 

Was 't not a wolf, then ? I have read the st(U-y 

A hundred times, and heard it told ; nay, told it 

Myself to my younger sisters, when we've shrunk 

Together in the sheets, from very terror, 

And, with protecting arms, each round the other, 

E'en sobbed ourselves to sleep. But I remember 

I saw the story acted on the stage 

Last winter in the city, I and my school-mates, 

With our most kind preceptress, Mrs. Bazely : 

And so it was a robber, not a wolf. 

That met jioor little Kiding-hood i' the wood ? 

Nor wolf nor robber, child : this nursery tale 

Contains a hidden moral. 

. Hidden ? Nay, 

I'm not so young but I can spell it out, 

And thus it is: C'liildren, when sent on errands, 

Must never stop by the way to talk with wolves. 

Tut ! wolves again ! Wilt listen to me, child ? 

Say on, dear grandma. 

Thus, then, dear my danghter: 

In this young person, culling idle fiowers, 
You see the peril that attends the maiden 
Who, in her walk through life, yields to temptation. 
And quits the onward iiath to stray aside, 
Allured by gaudy weeds. 

Nay, none but children 

Could gather buttercups and May-weed, mother; 
But violets, dear violets — methinks 
I could live ever on a bank of violets, 
Or die most happy there. 

You die, indeed ! 

At your years die! 

Then sleep, m.a'ani, if you please, 

As yon did yesterday, in that sweet spot 
Down by the fountain, where you seated you 
To read the last new novel — what d'ye call it ? — 
"Tlie Prairie," was it not? 

It was, my love ; 

And there, as I remember, your kind arm 
Pillowed my ag(5d head. 'Twas irksome, sure. 



i 



JAMES XELSOX BAIiKEIl. 



■iT.i 



To your yotiug limbs auil spirit. 

No, believe iiic : 

Ti) ki'Oj) tins insects from disturbing you 
Was swoot employment, or to Can your cboelc 
Wlien the breeze lulled. 

You're a dear child! 

And tbcu 

To gaze on such a scene ! the grassy bank, 

.So gently sloping to tbo rivulet, 

All luirple with my own dear violet. 

And sprinkled over with spring llowere of each tint! 

There was that pale and bumble little blossom, 

Looking so like its namesake. Innocence ; 

The fairy-fonned, flesh-hued anemone. 

With its fair sisters, called by country people 

Tair maids o' the spring; tlie lowly cimine-foil, too, 

And statelier marigold ; the violet sorrel, 

IJlnshing so rosy-red in bashfulness. 

And her companion of the season, dressed 

In varied pink ; the partridge evergreen, 

Hanging its fragrant wax-work on each stem, 

And stinlding the green sod with scarlet berries, — 

Did you see all thosi' llowers ? I marked them 

not. 

Oh, many more, whose names I have not learned! 

And then to se(- the light-blue bnttertly 
K'oaniing about, like an enchant<-d thing, 
From llower to tlower, and the bright honey-bee — 
.\nd there, too, was tlie fountain, overhung 
With bush and tree, dr.aped by the graceful vine 
Where the white blos.soms of the dog-wood met 
Tin; crimson redbnd, and the sweet birds .sang 
Their madrigals; while the fresh springing waters, 
.lust stirring the green fern that bathed within them, 
heaped .joyful o'er their fairy mound of rock. 
And fill in music, then jiassed prattling on 
l!c-twi'en the flowery banks that bent to kiss them. 

1 ilreanied not of these sights or sounds. 

Then just 

Uryoiul the brook there lay a narrow strip, 

l.iko a rich ribbon, of enamelled meadow, 

cirt by a jiretty precipice, whose top 

Was crowned with ro.sebay. Half-way down there 

stood, 
>ylph-like, the light, faut.istie Columbine, 
As ready to leap down unto licr lover, 
llarleipiin liartsia, iu his painted vest 
I If green and crimson. 

Tut ! eimugli, enough ! 

Your madcap fancy runs too riot, girl. 
Wo must shut np your books of botany, 
.\nd give you graver studies. 

Will vou shut 



The book of nature too f — for it is that 
I love and study. Do not take nio back 
To the c(dd, heartless city, with its forms 
And dull routine, its artificial manners 
And arbitrary rules, its cheerless iileasnres 
And mirthless masking. Yet a little longer. 
Oh let me hold communion here with nature! 

Well, well, we'll see. But we neglect our lecture 

Upon this picture — 

Poor Ked Kiding-hood ! 

Wi' had forgotten her: yet mark, dear machini. 
How patiently the poor thing waits our leisure. 
And now the hidden moral. 

Tims it is: 

Mere children read such stories literally, 

15ut the more elderly and wise deduce 

A moral from the fiction. In a word. 

The wolf that you must guard against is — LOVE. 

1 thought love w.as an infant — "toiijoiirs enfanl" 

The world and love were young togethei-, child, 

And innocent — ■ Alas! time changes all things. 

True, I remember, love is now a man, 

.\nd, the song says, "a very saucy one;" 
lint how .a wolf.' 

In ravenous appetite, 

I'npilying and unsparing, p.i-ssion is oft 
A beast of prey: as the wolf to the hunb. 
Is ho to innocence. 

1 shall remember. 

For now I see the moral. Trust me, madam, 
Should I e'er meet this wolf-love iu my way, 
l?e he a boy or man, I'll take good heed. 
And hold no converse with him. 

You'll do wisely. 

Xor e'er in field or forest, idain or jiathway. 

Shall he from me know whither I am going, 
Or whisper that he'll meet me. 

That's my iliild. 

Xor in my grandam's cottage, nor elsewhere. 

Will I (''er lift the latch for him myself, 
Or bid him pull the bobbin. 

Well, my dear. 

You've learned your lesson. 

Yet one thing, my nnitlier. 

Somewhat perplexes nie. 

.Say w h:it, my love, 

I will explain. 

The wolf, the story goes. 

Deceived poor grandam first, and ate her up: 
What is the nnual here f Have all our grandmas 
Been first devoured by love ? 

Let US go in : 

The air grows cool. You aro a forwai'd chit. 



374 



CYCLOF^DIA OF BIHTISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



iloljn lllilson. 



Professor John Wilson (1785-1854), son of an opulent 
manufacturer, was a native of Paisley, Scotland. Edu- 
cated at Oxford, he houg'ht the beautiful estate of El- 
leray, on Lalce Windermere, married, built a house, kept 
a yacht, wrote poetry, cultivated the society of Words- 
worth, and eujoyed himself sjenerally. Reverses came, 
however, and he was compelled to woi'k in earnest. He 
was appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy in the 
University of Edinburgh, took the editorship of Black- 
viood's Jlar/iizine, aud tliere made for himself quite a rep-' 
utation, iu his day, under the nom de j^lumc of Christo- 
pher North. Scott speaks of him, in one of his letters, 
as "an ecceutric genius." The poetical works of Wilson 
consist of "The Isle of Palms" (1812), "The City of the 
Plague" (1810), and several smaller pieces. Iu reference 
to his prose writings, Hallara characterized him as "a 
living writer of the most ardent aud enthusiastic genius, 
whose eloquence is as the rush of miglity waters." In 
1851 Wilson was granted a peusion of £300 per annum. 
An iuleresting memoir of him by his daughter, Mrs. 
Gordon, appeared iu 1863. 



ADDRESS TO A WILD-DEER. 

Magnificent creature ! so stately aud bright ! 
Iu the pride of thy spirit piinsuiug thy flight ; 
For wh.at hath the child of the desert to dread, 
Wafting up his own mountains that far beaming 

head ; 
Or borne like a whirlwind down on tlio vale! — 
Hail ! king of the wild aud the beantiful I — Iiail ! 
Hail! idol divine! — whom nature hath borne 
O'er a hundred hill -tops since the mists of flic 

morn. 
Whom the pilgrim lone wandering ou nionntaiu 

aud moor, 
As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore; 
For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free, 
Are spread iu a garment of glory o'er thee, 
Up! up to you cliff! like a king to his throne! 
O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone — 
A throue which the eagle is glad to resign 
Unto footsteps so fleet aud so fearless as thine. 
There the bright heather springs np iu love of 

thy breast, 
Lo ! the clouds iu the depths of the sky are at 

rest ; 
And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill! 
In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers, lie still! — 
Though your branches now toss in the storm of 

delight 
Like the arms of the pine ou you shelterless 

lieight. 



One moment — thou bright apparition — delay ! 
Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun from the day. 

Aloft on the ■weather-gleam, scorning the earth, 
The wild spirit hung in nuijestical mirth ; 
In dalliauce with danger, he bounded iu bliss 
O'er the fathomless gloom of each moaning abyss ; 
O'er the grim rocks careering with prosperous 

motion, 
Like a ship by herself in full sail o'er the ocean ! 
Then proudly he turned ere he sank to the dell. 
And shook from his forehead a haughty farewell. 
While his liorus in a crescent of radiance shone. 
Like a flag burning bright when the vessel is gone. 

Tlie ship of the desert hath passed ou the wind, 
And left the dark ocean of mountains behind! 
But my spirit will travel wherever she flee. 
And behold her in pomp o'er the rim of the sea — 
Her voyage pursue — till her anchor bo cast 
In some cliff-girdled haven of beauty at last. 

Wluit lonely magnificence stretches around! 
Each sight how sublime ! and how awful each 

sound ! 
All hushed aud serene as a region of dreams. 
The monutains repose 'mid the roar of the streams. 
Their glens of black umbrage by cataracts riven, 
But calm their blue tops in the beauty of heaven. 



HYMN. 

Fkom *' LoliD Ronald's Guild." 
FIRST VOICE. 

Oh beautiful the streams 

That through our valleys run. 

Singing and dancing in the gleams 
Of summer's cloudless sun. 

The sweetest of them all 

From its fairy banks is gone ! 

And the nuisic of the water-fall 
Hath left the silent stone ! 

LTp among the mountains 

In soft aud nmssy cell. 
By the silent springs and fountains 

The happy wild-flowers dwell. 

The queen-rose of the wilderness 
Hath withered iu the wind, 



jonx jriLsox. 



375 



And tliu sbcphcrds see no loveliness 
111 ilio blossoms left bcbiail. 

Birds cbccr our lonely groves 

Witli many a beauteous wing — ■ 
Wlieii bapjiy in tlieir barniless loves, 

llmv tenderly tbey sing! 

O'er all tlio rest was heard 

One wild and mournfnl strain, — 
But busbed is tbo voice of tbat byiuuing bird, 

.Sbe ne'er must sing again ! 

Brigbt tlirongb tbo yew-trees' gloom, 

I saw a sleeping dove ! 
On the silenee of her silvery plume, 

Tbo suuligbt lay in love. 

The grove seemed all ber own 

Round tbe beauty of tbat breast — 

— But tbe startled dove afar is flown ! 
Forsaken is ber uest ! 

In yonder forest wide 

A lioek of wild-deer lies, 
Beauty breatbcs o'er each tender side 

And sbades tbeir peaceful eyes ! 

Tbe biintcr in tbe iiigbt 

Hatb singled out tbe doe, 
111 whose light the raonntain-flock lay bright, 

AVboso hue was like the snow ! 

A Iboiisaiid stars shine forth, 

With imre and dewy ray — 
Till by night tbe mountains of our norib 

Seem gladdening in tbe day. 

Oh empty all the heaven! 

Tbongh a thousand lights be there — 
Fur clouds o'er the evening-star are driven. 

And slicini ber golden hair! 

SECOND VOICE. 

— What thongli the stream be dead. 

Its banks all still and dry! 
It mnriniireth now o'er a lovelier bed 

III the air-groves of tbo sky. 

What though our prayers from ilcalh 

The <|Ueen-rosc might not save ! 
With brighter bloom and balmier breath 

She springctb from the grave. 



What though our bird of light 
Lie mute with plumage dim ! 

In heaven I see ber glancing brigbt — 
I hear her augel hymu. 

Whiit though tbe dark tree smilo 

Xo uKire — with our dove's calm sleep! 

She folds her wing on a sunny islo 
III heaven's untroubled deep. 

True that our beauteous doo 

Hatb left ber still retreat — 
But purer now in heavenly snow 

She lies at Jesus' feet. 

Oh star ! untimely set ! 

Why should we weep for thee ! 
Thy bright and dewy coronet 

Is rising o'er the sea! 



THE EVEXIXG CLOUD. 

A cloud lay cradled near the .setting sun; 
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow ; 
Long had I watched the glory moving on, 
O'er the still radiaucc of tbe lake below. 
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow, — 
Even in its very motion there was rest; 
While every breath of eve tbat chauced to blow 
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west : — 
Emblem, metbought, of tbe departed soul. 
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given ; 
And, by the breath of Jlercy, iiiado to roll 
Iiigbt ouwai-d to the golden gates of Jieaveu ; 
Where, to tbo eye of faith, it peaceful lies. 
And tells to man his glorious destinies. 



THE SHIPWRECK. 
FnoM "The Isle of Palsis." 

It is the midnight hour : — the beauteous sea, 
Calm as tbo cloudless heaven, tbo heaveu dis- 
closes, 
While many a sparkling star, iu quiet glee, 
Far down within tbo watery skj- reposes. 
Tbe mighty moon, she sits above, 
Encircled with a zone of love ; 
A zone of dim and tender light, 
Tbat makes ber wakeful eye more bright ; 
She .seems to shine with a sunny ray, 
And the night looks like a mellowed day. 



376 



CYCLOPJLDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



And, lo ! upon the murmuring waves 

A glorious slrape appearing ! 
A broail-wiuged vessel, througb the sliower 

Of glimmering lustre steering ! — 
As if the beauteous sliip eujoyed 

The beauty of the sea, 
She Ijfteth up her stately head, 

And saileth joyfiillj'. 
A lovely patli before her lies, 

A lovely path behind ; 
SJio sails amid the loveliness 

Like a thing with heart and mind. 

Fit pilgrim through a scene so fair. 

Slowly she beareth on ; 
A glorious phantom of the deep, 

Risen up to meet the moon. 
The moon bids her teuderest radiance fall 

On her wavy streamer and snow-white wings, 
And the quiet voice of the rocking sea, 

To cheer the gliding vision, sings. 
Oh, ne'er did sky and water blend 

In such a holy sleep. 
Or bathe in brighter quietude 

A roamer of the deep. 

But, list ! a low and moaning sound 

At distance heard, like a spirit's song ! 
And now it reigns above, around. 

As if it called the ship along. 
The moon is sunk, and a clouded graj' 

Declares that her course is run. 
And, like a god who brings the day. 

Up mounts the glorious sun. 
Soon as his .light has warmed the seas. 
From the parting cloud fresh blows the breeze ! 
And that is the spirit whose well-known song 
Makes the vessel to sail in joy along. 

No fears hath she ! her giant form 
O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm. 
Majestically calm would go 
'Mid the deep darkness white as snow ! 
But gently now the small waves glide 
Like playful lambs o'er a mountain side. 
So stately her bearing, so proud her array. 
The main she will traverse forever and aye. 
Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast ! 
Hush, hush, thou vain dreamer ! this hour is her 
last. 

Five hundred souls in one instant of dread 
Are hurried o'er the deck; 



And fast the miserable ship 

Becomes a lifeless wreck. 
Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock, 

Her iilauks are torn asunder, 
And down come her masts with a reeling shock. 

And a hideous crash like thunder. 
Her sails are draggled in the brine, 

Th.at gladdened late the skies. 
And her pennant that kissed the fair moonshine 

Down many a fathom lies. 
Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow-hues 

Gleamed softly from below, 
And flung a warm and sunny flush 

O'er the wreaths of murniuring snow. 
To the coral rocks are hurrying down. 
To sleep amid colors as bright as their own. 

Oh, many a dream was in the ship 

An hour before her death ; 
And sights of home with sighs disturbed 

The sleeper's long-drawn Iireath. 
Instead of the murmur of the sea. 
The sailor heard the humniiug tree, 

Alive through all its leaves. 
The hum of the spreading sycamore 
That grows before his cottage door. 

And the swallow's song in the eaves. 
His arms enclosed a blooming boy, 
AVho listened with tears of sorrow and joy 

To the dangers his father had passed ; 
And his wife — by turns she wept and smiled. 
As she looked on the father of her child 

Keturned to her heart at last. 

He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll. 
And the rush of waters is in his soul. 
Astounded the reeling deck he paces, 
'Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces ; — 

The whole ship's crew are there. 
Wailings around and overhead. 
Brave spirits stupefied or dead. 

And madness and despair. 

Now is the ocean's bosom bare, 

Unbroken as the floating air ; 

The ship hath melted quite away. 

Like a strnggling dream at break of day. 

No image meets ray wandering eye, 

But the new-riseu sun and the sunny sky. 

Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapor dull 

Bedims the waves so beautiful ; 

While a low and melancholy moan 

Mourns for the glory that hath flown. 



sexiiY KiuKE irniTE.—sjiiVEL woornroRTH. 



:j7 



tlciirn Kirk'c llUjitc. 

White (ITSo-Isor.), tlic fiMi of :i buldicr, was born in 
Notlinijliuin, Eiifilaml. llis juvuuilc verses attracteil tlio 
atteiitioii ol ;;eiKioiis patrons, psirtieiiliirly Mr. Soutlicy. 
At seventeen lie imblislied a volume of poems. He had 
{Tot admission to the Univci-sity of Canibrid};<'i ii'd "'»* 
fast aeiiuirini; distinction, when too much brain -work 
terminated his life. Sonthey wrote a brief biot;rapliy of 
him, and edited his " Remains ;" and Byron consecrated 
some spirited lines to his memory, from which we quote 
tlie following;: 

"So the slrnck cnglp, stretched npou the plain, 
No more lhroiij:h rolling clotuts to soar a^aiu, 
Viewed his own feather on the fatjd dart, 
Aud wiugcd the shaft that quivered to bis heart." 

I See tlie two lines by Katharine Phillips, page 119 of 
this volume.) A Uiblet to White's memory, with a me- 
dallion by Chantrey, wa.s placed in All Saints' Church, 
Cambridge, England, by a yonng American, Francis Boot 
of Boston. In judging White's poetry wo must remem- 
ber that it was all written before his twentieth year. 



TIME. 



Time iiiovetli not; our being 'tis that moves; 
.\uil we, swift gliding down life's lapiil stream, 
I>ream of swift age.s, and revolving years, 
' M'daiucil to cbrouiele our passing days : — 
~ 1 tbe young sailor, in the gallant bark, 
.'»<'udding before tlio wind, beludds tbo coast 
Keceding from liis eye, and lliiiiks the while. 
Struck with amaze, that ho is luotionlcss. 
And that the land is sailing. 



rOXCLUDING STANZ.VS OF "THE CIIRI.STLVD." 

Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme, 

With self-rewarding toil; tliiis far have sung 
Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem 

The lyro which I in early days have strung; 

.\ud now my spirits faint, and I have hung 
Till' shell, that solaced me in saddest hour, 

On the dark cypress! and the strings which rung 
With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, 
I )r when the breeze comes by, raonn, and are heard 
no more. 

And must the harp of .ludah sleep again T 
•Shall I no more reanimate tbe lay f 

Oh I thou who visitcst tbo sons of men, 

Thou who dost listen when the humble ]iray. 
One little space prolong my mournfid day! 

One little lapse suspend thy last decree! 



I am a youthful traveller in the way. 
And this slight boon would coii.secrate to thee. 
Ere I with Death shako hands, aud smile that I 
am free. 



TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! 
Whose modest form, so delicately 6ne, 

Was nursed in whirling storms, 

Aud cradled in the winds : — 

Thee when young Spring first questioned Wiutci's 

sway, 
Aud dared tbe sturdy blusterer to the light, 

Thee on this bank he threw 

To mark the victory. 

In this low vale, the promise of the year, 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale. 

Unnoticed aud alone. 

Thy tender elegance. 

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 
Of chill adversity; in some lone walk 

Of life she rears her head, 

Obscure aud unobserved ; 

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows 
Chastens her spotless purity of breast, 

Aud hardens her to bear 

Serene the ills of life. 



Saimul lUooiiuiortl). 

AMERICAN. 

Woodworth (1785-1842), known clilclly by h(s one 
homely but vigorous lyric, Avas a native of Scituatc, 
Mass. Removing to New York, he became a printer by 
trade, and was connected with a number of not prosper- 
ous periotlical publications. " Except his one famous 
song," says Mr. E. C. Stedrnan, " I can find nothing 
worth a day's remembrance in his collected poems." 



THE OLD O.VKEX BUCKET. 

How dear to this heart are tbe scenes of my child- 
hood. 
When fond recollection presents them to view! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wihl 
wood. 
And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; 



378 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BEITISU AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood 
by it, 

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it. 

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well ! 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket, which hung iu the well I 

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; 

For often, at noon, when returned fruni the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 

The purest and sweetest that Nature can yield. 
How ardeut I seized it, with hands that were 
glowing. 

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; 
Tbeu soon, with the emblem of truth overtlowiug. 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well ; 
The old oiikcn bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it. 

As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips ! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to 
leave it, 

Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved situation. 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. 



llobcrt (Brant. 

Tlie Riglit Hon. Sir Robert Grant (1785-1838) was a 
native of the county of Inverness, Scotland. He gradu- 
ated with high honors at Cambridge iu 1806, was called 
to the Bar in Lincoln's Inn in 1807, elected to Parlia- 
ment in 1820, and made governor of Bombay in 1834. 
An elesaut volume, entitled " Sacred Poems, by Sir Rob- 
ert Grant," was published by Lord Gleuelg in 1830. 



WHOM HAVE I IN HEAVEN BUT THEE? 

Lord of earth! thy bounteous hand 
Well this glorious frame h.ath planned ; 
Woods that wave and hills that tower, 
Ocean rolling in his power ; 
All that strikes the gaze imsought, 
All that charms the lonely thought ; 
Friendship — gem transcending price, — 
Love — a flower from Paradise ! 



Yet, amid this scene so fair, 
Slionld I cease thy smile to share, 
Wh.at were all its joys to me ! 
Whom have I in earth but Thee ? 

Lord of heaven ! beyond our sight 
Eolls a world of purer light; 
Tliere, in Love's unclouded reign. 
Parted bauds shall clasp again ; 
Slartyrs there, and prophets high, 
Blaze — a glorious company; 
While immortal music rings 
From nuuumbered seraph-strings. 
Oh! that world is passing fair; 
Yet if thon wert ab.scnt there, 
What were all its joys to me ! 
Whom have I iu heaven but Thee ? 

Lord of earth and heaven ! my breast 
Seeks iu thee its only rest ! 
I was lost — thy accents mild 
Ilduieward lured thy wandering child; 
I was blind — thy healing ray 
Charmed the long eclipse away; 
Source of every joy I know. 
Solace of my every woe ! 
Yet should once thy smile divine 
Cease upon my soul to shine. 
What were earth or heaven to me ! 
Whom have I in each but Thee ? 



(&corge Davlcn. 



Darley (178.5-1849) was a n.itive of Dublin, nud died iu 
London. He was both a mathematician and a poet ; 
producing "Familiar Astronomy" (1830), "Popular Al- 
gebra, third edition" (1836), etc., as well as "Poems: 
Sylvia, or the May Queen" (18,^7); "Ethelstan, a Dra- 
matic Chronicle" (1841); "Errors of Extasie and otiier 
Poems" (1849). Allan Cunningham says (1833): "George 
Darley is a true poet and excellent mathematician." He 
was an .accomplished critic, and the latter part of liis lite 
wrote for the Atheiueian. His verses are at times rug- 
ged and obscure, and liis use of odd or obsolete words is 
not always liappy. 



FROM "THE FAIRIES." 

Have yon not oft iu the still wiud. 
Heard sylvan notes of a strange kind. 
That rose one moment, and then fell, 
Swooning away like a far knell ? 
Listen ! — that wave of perfume broke 
Into sea-music, as I spoke, 



\ 



GEORGE DARLEY.—JOny I'lEllPOXT. 



:!T9 



Fainter tliiin that which seems to roar 
On the iniion's silver-saiuU'd shore, 
Wli'.'ii tluoiigli the silence of (lie night 
Is lii':iicl tho ehb and How of light. 

Oil, shut tho eyo and ope tlio car! 
Do you not hear, or think yon hear, 
A wide hush o'er the wooilland pass 
Like distant waving lielils of grass ? — 
Voices ! — ho ! ho ! — a h-md is coming, 
Lond as ten thonsaiid bees a-hnniniing, 
Or ranks of little merry men 
Tronilioning deeply finin the glen. 
And now as if they changed, and rnng 
Their citterns small, and ribhon-slnug, 
Over their gallant shoulders hung ! — 
A chant ! a chant ! that swoons and swells 
Like soft winds jangling meadow-bells; 
Now brave, as when in Tlora's bower 
Gay Zephyr blows a trniiipct-llower ; 
Xiiw thrilling tine, and sharp, and clear, 
Liko Diau's mooubeam dulcimer; 
But mixed with whoops, and infant laughter, 
Shouts I'ullowing one another after. 
As on a hearty holiday 
When youth is Hush and full of Jlay ; — 
Small shout«, indeed, as wild bees knew 
Both how to hum. and halloo too ! 



THE QL'EEN OF THE MAY. 

Here's a bank with rich cowslips and cuckoo-buds 
strewn. 
To exalt your bright look.s, gentle Queen of the 
May ! 
Here's a cushion of moss for your delicate shoon, 
Anil a woodbine to weave you a canopy gay. 

Here's a garl.and of red maiden-roses for you ; 

Such a delicate wreath is for beauty alone; 
Here's a golden kingcup, brimming over with dew, 

To be kissed by a lip just as sweet as its own. 

Here are bracelets of pearl from the fount in the 
dale, 
That the nymph of the wave on your wrists 
doth bestow ; 
Here's a lily-wrought scarf your sweet blushes to 
hide. 
Or to lie on that bosom, like .snow upon snow. 

Here's a myrtle enwrealhcil with a jes.samine band, 
To express tho fond twining of beauty and youth ; 



Take tho cnddem of lovo in thy exquisite hand, 
And do thou sway the evergreen sceptre of Truth. 

Then around you we'll dance, and around you we'll 

sing. 

To soft i>ipe and sweet tabor we'll foot it away ; 

And the hills and the dales and the forest .shall ring. 

While we hail you our lovely young Queen of tho 

Mav. 



.SUICIDE. 

From " Etiielst-^n." 

Fool ! I mean not 
That poor-souled piece of heroism, self-slaughter ; 
Oh no ! tho niiserablest day wo live 
There's luanv a better thing to do than die! 



Jol)u {3icrpont. 

AMERICAN. 

Pierpont (1785-1866) was born in Litchfield, Conn., 
and educated at Yale College. He studied law awhile, 
and then entered into meicaiitilc iiui'suits at Baltimore 
with John Neal, of Portland, Maine, who also bueame 
60mewh:it famous in litcratnrc, and was a man of mark- 
ed power. Failing in business in consequence of the 
War of 1813, Piei pont studied for the ministry, and was 
settled over Hollis Street Church in Boston. Ardent 
and outspoken on all subjects, especially those of iiitein- 
pcRince and slavery, he disiilTeeted some of his Iicaicis, 
and left his congregation. He was afterward settled over 
Unitarian societies in Troy, N. Y., and Mcdford, Mass. 
In his later years he became a Spiritualist, and advocated 
the new cause with his cliaraeteristic eloquence and zeal. 
He was employed, a few years before his death, in the 
Treasury Deiiartment at Washington. Pierponl's fust 
poeticid venture, "The Airs of Palestine," placed him 
high among the literary men of the day. lie wrote a 
number of hymns and odes, showing fine literary cult- 
ure. Bold, energetic, and devoted in all his uudcitak- 
ings, he left the reputation of a m:in of sterling integ- 
rity, generous temper, noble aspirations, and great in- 
trepidity in all his efforts for what he esteemed the right 
and true. See Bryant's lines on him. 



Tin: i'ii.(;iv'iM fathers. 

The Pilgrim Fatlins, where arc they f 

Tho waves that brought tlieiii o'er 
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray. 

As they break along tho shore — 
Still roll in tho bay as thoy rolled that day 

When tho Muii-Floiirr moored below. 
When the sea around was black with storms, 

And white the shora with snow. 



380 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



The mists that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep 

Still brood upou the tide ; 
Aud bis rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, 

To stay its waves of pride : 
But the suow-wbite sail that he gave to the gale 

Wheu the beaveus looked dark, is gone ; 
As au augel's wing through au opening cloud 

Is seen, and then withdrawn. 

The pilgrim exile — sainted name! 

The hill whose icy brow 
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's ilame. 

In the morning's flame burns now. 
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 

On the bill-side aud the sea. 
Still lies where he laid his houseless head ; 

But the pilgrim, where is be 1 

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest : — 

Wheu Summer is throned ou high, 
And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, 

Go, stand ou the hill where they lie : 
The earliest ray of the golden day 

On the hallowed spot is cast ; 
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 

Looks kindly ou that spot last. 

The pilgrim spiyit has not tied : 

It walks in noon's broad light ; 
And it watches the bed of tbo glorious dead, 

With the boljf stars by night : 
It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, 

And shall guard this ice-bound shore. 
Till the waves of the bay where the ilinj-Flowcr lay 

Shall foam aud freeze uo more. 



FROM "THE DEPARTED CHILD." 

I cannot make bim dead! 

His fair sunshiny bead 
Is ever bounding round my study-chair ; 

Yet when my eyes, now dim 

With tears, I turn to him, 
The vision vanishes — be is not there ! 

I know his face is bid 

Under the coffin-lid ; 
Closed are his eyes; cold is bis forehead fair 

My baud that marble felt ; 

O'er it iu prayer I knelt ; 
Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! 



I cannot make him dead! 

Wheu passing by the bed. 
So long watched over with parental care, — 

My spirit and my eye 

Seek it inquiringly. 
Before the thought comes that — he is not there ! 

When, at the cool gray break 

Of dny, from sleep I wake, 
With my first breathing of the morning air 

My soul goes up with joy 

To Him who gave my boy; 
Then conies the .sad thought that — he is not there I 

Wheu, at the day's calm close, 

Before we seek repose, 
I'm with bis mother offeriug up our prayer. 

Or evening anthems tuning, — 

In spirit I'm communing 
With our boy's spirit, though — be is not there! 

Not there ! — where, then, is be ? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that be u.sed to wear; 

The grave that now doth press 

Upon that cast-off dress 
Is but his wardrobe locked — he is not there! 

He lives! — in all the jiast 

He lives ; nor to the last 
Of seeing bim again will I despair. 

In dreams I see bim now ; 

And on his angel brow 
I see it written — -'Thou shalt see me there!" 

Yes, we all live to God! 

Father, thy chasteniug rod 
So help us, thine afJiieted ones, to bear. 

That, iu the Spirit-laud, 

Meeting at thy right band, 
'Twill be our heaven to lind that — ho is there r 



WHAT BLESSES NOW MUST EVER BLESS. 

Lord, thou knowest ! 

Man never knew me as thon knowest me. 

I never could reveal myself to man : 

For neither had I, while I lived, the power 

To those who were the nearest to my heart 

To lay that heai-t all open, as it was, 

And as thou. Lord, hast seen it ; nor could they. 

Had every inmost feeling of my soul 



JOUX riKRPOXT.—AXDREJrS XORTOX. 



381 



]iy si'iaplis' lips been uttered, o'er have had 

Tlie car to hear it, or tlie soul to feel. 

The worUi has seen the siiHaco only of nio : — 

Not that I've striven to hide myself from men ; — 

No, I have rather labored to bo known : — 

lint when I would have spoken of my faith, 

My eounuuuin^s with thee, my heavenward hope. 

My love for thee and all that thou hast made, 

The perfect peace in which I lo(d<ed on all 

Thy works of glorious beauty, — then it seemed 

That thou alono couldst understand me. Lord ; 

And so my lips were sealed — or the world's phrase, 

The courteous question, or the frank reply 

Alone escaped them. I have ne'er been known. 

My Father, but by tlieo : and I rejoice 

Tliat thon, who niad'st me, art to be my Judge ; 

Tor in llii/ judgments thou remeniherest mercy. 

1 cast myself ujiou them. Like thy laws. 

They are all tnie and right. The law that keeps 

This planet in her path aronnd the sun 

Keeps all her sister-planets too in theirs. 

And all the other .shining liosts of heaven. 

All worlds, all times, are under that one law; 

For what binds one, binds all. So all thy sous 

And daughters, clothed in light — liosts brighter far 

Thau suns and planets — spiritual hosts. 

Whoso glory is their goodness — have one law, 

The perfect law of love, to guide them through 

All worlds, all times. Thy Kingdom, Lord, is one. 

Life, death, earth, heaven, eternity, ami time 

Lie all within it; and what bles.ses now 

JIust ever bless, — Lovn or things Turn and kight. 



^nbrcius ^'orton. 

AMERICAN. 

Norton (1780-185.3) was a native of Hingham, Mass. 
He was educated at Harvard College, and became eminent 
as a Unitarian tlieolo^-ian. lie edited an American eililion 
of the poems of Mi-s. llcmans, wliose IViendsliip lie form- 
ed while in England. 



SCENE AITER A SUMMER SHOWER. 

The rain is o'er. How dense and bright 
Yon pearly clouds reposing lie! 

C'lonil above cloud, .1 glorious sight, 
Contrasting with the dark bluo sky! 

In grateful silence, earth receives 

The general blessing ; fresh ami fair, 

Each flower expands it.s littlo leaves, 
As glad the common .joy to share. 



The softened suubeams pour around 

A fairy light, uncertain, pale; 
The wind flows cool; the scented ground 

Is breathing odors on the gale. 

'Mid yon rich clouds' voliiptunus pile, 
Molhiuks some spirit of the air 

Might rest, to gazo below awhile. 
Then turn to bathe and revel there. 

The sun breaks forth ; from otf the scene 
Its floating veil of mist is flung ; 

And all the wilderness of green 

With trembling drops of light is hung. 

Now gaze on nature — yet the same — 
Glowing with life, by breezes fanned, 

Luxuriant, lovely, as she came. 

Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand ; 

Hear the rich music of that voice, 
Which sounds from all below, abo\e : 

She calls her children to rejoice. 

And round them throws her arms of love. 

Drink in her inflneiico ; low-born care, 
And all the train of nieau desire, 

Refuse to breathe this holy air. 
And 'mid this living light expire. 



TRUST AND SUBMISSION. 

My God, I thank thee ; may no thought 
E'er deem thy chastisement severe ; 

Bnt may this heart, by sorrow taught. 
Calm each wild wish, each idle fear. 

Thy mercy bids all nature bloom ; 

The 8Ui\ shines bright, and m.-ui is gay; 
Thy equal mercy .spreads the gloom 

That darkens o'er his little day. 

Full many a thndi of grief and pain 
Thy frail and erring child must know; 

IJiit not one prayer is breatherl in vain. 
Nor does one tear unheeded flow. 

Th}' various messengers employ, 

Thy purposes of love fulfil ; 
And "mid the wreck of human joy, 

Let kneeling Faith adore Ihv will. 



^32 



CYCLOFJEDIA OF ERITISR AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



illavn Husscll iUitforti. 

Miss Mitford (1780-1855) was tlie (laugliter of an Eiis- 
lisU physician, improvident and dissipated. Slie wrote 
sketclius of rural life under tlic title of " Our Village " 
(1S34) for her support; for her father had become a bur- 
den on her hands. Her success as a prose writer was 
considerable; but she published a volume of Sonnets and 
Poems, and wrote tlie plays of "Julian" (1833), "The 
Foscari" (1820), and "Rienzi," her best dramatic pro- 
duction (1838). In it she shows good literary taste, if 
not much force in the delineation of character. 



EIENZI'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS. 

From '^ Rienzi." 
Friends ! 
I coino not here to talk. Yc know too well 
Tho story of our thraldom. Wo are slaves ! 
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights 
A race of slaves! Ho sets, and his last beam 
Falls on a slave : not such as, swept along 
By the full tide of povcer, the conqueror leads 
To crimson glory and nudying fame, — 
But base, iguoble slaves ! — slaves to a lionlo 
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots ; lords, 
Rich in some dozen paltry villages ; 
Strong in some hundred spearmen : only great 
lu that strange spell — a name ! Each liour, dark 

fraiul, 
Or open rapine, or protected :nnrder. 
Cry out against them. Bnt this very day. 
An honest man, my neighbor, — there he stands, — 
Was struck — struck like a dog, by one wlio wore 
The badge of Orsiui ! because, for.sooth, 
He tossed not high his ready cap iu air, 
Nor lifted up Ins voice iu servile shouts. 
At sight of that great rufiian ! Bo we men. 
And suffer snch dishonor? Jleii, and wash not 
The stain away iu blood? Snch shames are comuiou. 
I have kuown deeper wrongs. I, that speak to ye, — 
I had a brother once, a gracious boy. 
Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope. 
Of sweet and quiet joy. There was the look 
Of heaven upon his face, which limners give 
To the beloved disciple. How I loved 
That gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years. 
Brother at once and sou ! He left my side, 
A summer bloom on his fair cheeks — a smile 
Partiug his innocent lips. In one short hour, 
The pretty, harmless boy was slain ! I saw 
The corse, the mangled corse, aud then I cried 
For vengeance ! Kouse, ye Eomaus ! Kouse, ye 

slaves ! 



Have ye brave sons? — Look iu the next fierce brawl 
To see them die! Have ye fair daughters? — Look 
To see them live, torn from your arms, distained, 
Dishonored ; aud, if ye dare call for justice. 
Be answered by the lash ! Y'et, this is Kome, 
That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne 
Of beauty ruled tho world ! Yet, we are Romans. 
Why, iu that elder day, to be a Roman 
Was greater than a King ! And once again — 
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread 
Of either Brutus ! — ouco again I swear 
The Eternal City shall bo free ! 



SONG. 

The sun is careering in glory and might, 

'Mid the deep blue sky aud the cloudlets white ; 

The bright wave is tossing its foam on high. 

And tho summer breezes go lightly by ; 

The air and the water dance, glitter, aud play, 

Aud why should not I be as merry as they ? 

The linnet is singing the wild wood through: 
The fawn's bounding footstep skims over the dew : 
The butterfly flits round the flowering tree, 
Aud the cowslip and bluebell are bent by the bee; 
AH the creatures that dwell in the forest are gay, 
And wh}' should not I be as merry as they ? 



;7llci'ani)cr f aiiig. 

Laing (1787-1857) was a native of Brechin, Forfarshire, 
Scotland. He was of humble origin, and followed the 
business of a packman the greater part of his life. In 
1816 he pulilished by subscription a collection of his 
poems and song.?, under tlie title of " Wayside Flowers." 
He edited two editions of Burns, and one of Taunahill. 



THE HAPPY MOTHER. 

An' O ! may I never live single again, 

I wish I may never live single again ; 

I ha'e a gude-mau, an' a hame o' my aiu. 

An' O ! may I never live single again. 

I've twa bounie bairnies, the fairest of .a'. 

They cheer up my heart when their daddie's awa'; 

I've ane at my foot, aud I've aue on my knee ; 

An' fondly they look, an' say "Mammie" to me. 

At gloamin' their daddie comes in frae fhi^ plough, 
The blink iu his e'e, an' the smile on his brow, 



ALEXANDER LAIXG.—IilCIIARD UEMIT DAXA. 



*?3 



Says, '"How arc jo, lassie, O! how are yo a', 
All' liow's tlio wee bodies sin' I gacd awa' f" 
III' siiijts i' the e'eiiiii' fu' cheery au' gay, 
lie tells (>' the toil au' tlio news o' the day; 
The twa iMiiinie lauiuiles he taU's on his hnce, 
An' lilinks o'er the injjle fii' eonthio to uie. 

O liaiipy's the l";ither tliafs happy at lianie, 
An' blithe is the niitlier that's blithe o' the name; 
The cares o' the warld they fear na to dree — 
The warld it is uaething to Johnny an' inc. 
Tlionj;h crosses will mingle wi' niitherly cares, 
Awa', bonnio lassies — awa' wi' your fears! 
(!in ye get a laddie that's loving and fain, 
Ve'll wish ve niav never live single again. 



UicliavLi tjcnvii Dana. 



Dana (1787-187S) was born in Cambridge, Mass.,passed 
tlireo years at Harvard College, and was admitted to the 
Bar in ISll. His principal poem, "Tlic Buccaneer," ap- 
peared in 1SJ7, and is sllU recognized as a work of gen- 
uine power. Ho wrote a scries of lectures on Sbak- 
speare; also a memoir of bis brother-in-law, the poet- 
painter, All.-ton. An edition of Dana's collceled works, 
in prose and verse, was published in IS-iO. A son, bear- 
ing bis name, distinguished himself early in life by his 
very successful prose work, " Tlircc Years before the 
Mivst." Beloved and esteemed, Dana, a year older than 
Byron, celebrated bis ninetieth birthday, November loth, 
1877, and died a year afterward. 



IMMORTALITY. 

From "Tue Hcsband's and Wife's Gilive." 

Oh ! listen, man ! 
A voice within us speaks that startling word, 
"Man, thou slialt never die!" Celestial voices 
Hymn it unto our souls; according harps, 
I!y angel lingers touched, Avlien the mild stars 
Of morning sang together, sound fintli still 
The song of our great immortality : 
Thick clustcriug orbs, and this our fair domain, 
The tall, dark mountains, and the Ueci>-t(meJ seas 
.loin in this solcjnn, universal song. 
Oh ! listen, ye. our spirits ; drink it in 
From all the air. Ti» in the gentle moonlight; 
■ I'is lloating 'mid Day's setting glories; Night, 
Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step 
Ciunes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears: 
Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve, 
All time, all bonmls, the limitless expan.sc. 
As Olio vast mystic instrument, are touched 



15y an nnsoen living Hand, and conscious chords 
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 
The dying hear it ; and, its sounds of e.artli 
Grow dull and distant, -wake their passing souls 
To mingle in this heavenly hanuonv. 



WASHINGTON jVLLSTON. 

I look through tears on Beauty now ; 
And Beauty's self less radiant looks on ine, 
Serene, yet touched with sadness is the brow 
(Once bright with joy) I see. 

Joy-waking Beauty, why so sad f 
Tell wlieic the radiance of the smile is gone 
At which my lieari: and earth and skies were glad — 
Tliat linked us all in one. 

It is not ou the mountain's brea.st ; 
It comes not to mo with the dawning day; 
Nor looks it from the glories of the west, 
.\s slow they piuss away. 

Nor on thoso gliding roundlets bright 
That steal their play among the woody shades, 
Nor on thine own dear children doth it light — 
The llowera along the glades. 

.\nd altered to the living miiul 
(The great high-priestess with her thought-born race 
Who round thine altar aye have stood and shined) 
The comforts of thy face ! 

Why shadowed thus thy forehead fair? 
Why on the mind low hangs n mystic gloom ? 
And spreads away upon the genial air. 
Like vapors from the tomb ? 

Why should ye shine, you lights above ? 
Why, little flowers, open to the heat f 
No more within the heart yo filled with lovo 
The living liaises beat! 

Well, Beauty, may you mourning stand ! 
Tile lino beli(d<ling eye wliosi; constant look 
Was turned on thee is dark — and cold the hand 
That gave all vision took. 

Nay, heart, be still! — Of heavenly birth 
Is Beauty sprung — Lor)k up! beliohl the place! 
There he who reverent traced her steps on earth 
Now sees her face to face. 



384 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF JiRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE ISLAND. 

From " The Buccaneer.'* 
The isl:iud lies iiiuo leagues aw.ay : 

Along its solitary shore 
Of craggy rock aud saudy bay, 
No sound but ocean's roar ! 
Save where the bold wild sea-bird makes her home, 
Her shrill cry comiug through the sparkliug foam. 

But when the light winds lie at rest, 

And on the glassy heaving sea 
The black duck with her glossy breast, 
Sits swinging silently, — 
How beautiful ! no ripples break the reach. 
And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach. 

And inland rests the green, warm dell; 

The brook comes tinkling down its side ; 
From out the trees the Sabbath bell 
Rings cheerful, far and wide. 
Mingling its sound with bleatiugs of the flocks. 
That feed about the vale among the rocks. 

Nor holy bell nor pastoral bleat, 

In former days within the vale! 
Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet; 
Curses were on the gale ; 
Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men ; 
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then. 

But calm, low voices, words of grace. 

Now slowly fall upon the ear ; 
A quiet look is in each face, 
Subdued aud holy fear : 
Each motion gentle, all is kindly done ; 
Come, listen how from crime this isle was won. 



THE riRATE. 
From "The Buccaneer." 

Twelve years are gone since Matthew Lee 

Held in this isle unquestioned sw.ay; 
A dark, low, brawny man was he ; 
His law, — " It is my way." 
Beneath bis thick-set brows a sharp light broke 
Ficim small gray eyes ; his laugh a triumph .spoke. 

CriK'l of heart, and strong of arm, 
Loud in his sport and keen for spoil. 

Ho little recked of good or harm. 
Fierce both in mirth and toil : 



Yet like a dog could fawn, if need there were; 
Speak mildly when he would or look in fear. 

Amid the uproar of the storm, 

Aud by the lightning's sharp red glare. 
Were seen Lee's face and stur<ly form ; 
His axe glauced quick in air : 
Whose corpse at morn is floating in the sedge ? 
There's blood and bair, Mat, on thy axe's edge. 



ftlis. (!;ninux €. lllillavb. 

AMERICAN. 

Miss Hart, by marriage Willard, was a native of New 
Berlin, Conn. She began the work of a teacher at six- 
teen, and in 1S21 established a tamous Female Seminary 
at Troy, N. Y. In 1S30 she publislied a volume of poems. 
IIci' "Rocked iu the Cradle of the Deep," admirably 
sung by Braham, attained deserved celebrity. She re- 
sided several mouths iu Paris, and on her return home 
published a voUmie of "Travels," the profits of which, 
amounting to twelve hundred dollars, were devoted to 
the founding of a school for female teachers in Greece. 
Born in 17s", she died in 1870. 



ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP. 

Rocked in the cradle of the deep 
I lay me down in peace to sleep ; 
Secure I rest upon the wave, 
For thou, O Lord ! hast power to save. 
I kuow thou wilt not slight my call. 
For Thou dost mark the sparrow's fall ; 
Aud calm and peaceful shall I sleep. 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep. 

When iu the dead of night I lie 
And gaze npon the trackless sky, 
Tlie star-bespangled heavenly scroll. 
The boundless waters as they roll, — 
I feel thy woudrous power to save 
From perils of the stormy wave : 
Rocked iu the cradle of the deep, 
I calmly rest and soundly sleep. 

And such the trust that still were mine, 
Tliongh stormy winds swept o'er the brine. 
Or though the tempest's fiery breath 
Roused me from sleep to wreck and death ! 
In ocean cave, still safe with Thee 
Tlie germ of immortality ! 
And calm and peaceful shall I .sleep, 
lioukcd in the cradle of the deep. 



URVAX njLI.KIi riKHTEi: (HARRY CORNWALL). 



385 



Bniau lUallcr 



JJroctcr 

wall J. 



fBavni (Toni- 



Proctcr (1787-1874), better Uiiown, in literature, by the 
pscudonjiii of "Barry Cornwall" (an ana!;rara of his 
name, less live letters), was a native of London. lie was 
educated at Harrow, wliere be was tlie sclioolfellow of 
Byron and Peel. In 1819 appeared liis " Dramatic Scenes, 
and other Poems;" in 1821, liis " Miranrtola; a Tragedy." 
He became a barrister at law, and one of the Commis- 
sionci-s of Lunacy. In 1857, Mr. John Kenyon, a wcaltliy 
West Indian gentleman, and author of some graceful 
verses, left more tlian i.'UO,(XK) in legacies to his friends : 
to Eli7Jibeth Barrett Browning, £4000; to Robert Brown- 
ing, £1)500 ; and to Procter, £().5(XI. Some of Procter's 
minor pieces have the true lyrical ring, and are likely to 
be lODg remembered. 



THE SE.V. 

Tlio 8oa ! the sea ! the open sea ! 

The bine, the fresh, the ever free ! 

Withont a mark, without a bound. 

It runneth the earth's wide regions round ; 

It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, 

Or like a cradled creature lies. 

I'm on the .sea I I'm on the sea ! 

I ara where I would ever be, 

■\Vith the blue above, anil the blue below, 

And silence where.soe'er I go. 

If a storm should come, and awake the deep, 

What matter? I shall ride aud sleep. 

I love, oil bow I lovo to rifle 
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, 
When every mad wave drowns tin; moon, 
Or whistles aloft his tempest tunc, 
And tells how goetli the world below, 
And wliy the .sou'-wcst blasts do blow ! 

I never was on the dull, tamo shore, 
lint I loved the great sea more and more, 
And backward Hew to her billowy brea.st, 
Like a bird that scuketli its mother's nest ; 
And a mother she was and is to nio, 
For I was boru on the opeu sea! 

The waves were while, and red the morn. 
In the noisy lionr when I was born ; 
And the whale it whistled, tlio porpoise rolled, 
And the didphins bared their backs of golil ; 
And never was heard snch an outcry wild 
As welcomed to life the ocean child ! 
25 



I've lived since then, in calm and strife. 
Full fifty summers a sailor's life. 
With wealth to spend, and a power to range, 
lint never have sought, nor sighed for change ; 
And Death, whenever ho comes to me. 
Shall come on the wild uubouudcd eca! 



THE RETURN OF THE AI).MIK.\L. 

IIow gallantly, bow merrily, 

We ride along the sea ! 
The morning is all sunshine. 

The wind is blowing free ; 
The billows are all sparkling. 

And bounding in the light. 
Like creatures iu who.se sunny veins 

The blood is running bright. 
All nature knows our triumph : 

Strange birds about us sweep ; 
Strange things come up to look at us, 

The masters of the deep ; 
In our wake, like any servant. 

Follows even the bold shark — 
Oh, proud must be our admiral 

Of such a bouny bark ! 

Proud, proud must be our admiral 

(Though he is pale to-day), 
Of twice live hundred iron men, 

Who all his nod obey ; 
Who've fought for him, aud conquered— 

Who've won, with sweat and gore, 
NohUity ! which he shall have 

Whene'er he touch the shore. 
Oh, would I were our admiral. 

To order, with a word — 
To lose a dozen drops of blood, 

Aiul straight rise up a lord! 
I'd shout e'en to yon shark there. 

Who follows in our lee, 
"Some day 1"11 make thee carry me, 

Like lightning through the sea." 

— The admiral grew paler, 

And paler as wo flew: 
Still talkeil he to Iiis oflicers, 

And smiled upon his crew ; 
And ho looked up at the heavens, 

And ho looked down on the sea. 
Anil at last ho spied the creature 

That ke])t following in our lee. 



386 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



He shook — 'twas but an iustant, 

For speetlily tlie pride 
Ran crimson to his heart, 

Till all chances he defied : 
It threw boldness on his forehead, 

Gave firmness to his breath ; 
And he stood like some grim warrior 

New risen up from death. 

That night a horrid whisper 

Fell on us where we lay, 
And we knew our old fine admiral 

Was changing into clay; 
And we heard the wash of waters, 

Though nothing conld we see. 
And a whistle and a plunge 

Among the billows in our lee ! 
Till dawn Tre watched the body 

In its dead and ghastly sleep, 
And next evening at snnsct 

It was slung into the Aec.\i ! 
And never, from that moment, 

Save one shudder through the sea, 
Saw we (or heard) the shark 

TUat had followed in our lee ! 



SONNET TO ADELAIDE. 

Child of my heart ! my sweet beloved First-born ! 
Thou dove, who tidings bring'st of calmer hours ! 
Thou rainbow, who dost shiue when all the showei's 
Are past — or passing! Rose which hath no thorn. 
No spot, no blemish, — pure and uuforloru ! 
Untouched, untainted! Oh, my Flower of flowers! 
More welcome than to bees are summer bowers, 
To stranded seamen life-assuring morn I 
Welcome, — a thousand welcomes! Care, who clings 
Round all, seems loosening now its serpent fold ; 
New hope springs upward, and the bright world 

seems 
Cast back into a youth of endless springs ! 
Sweet mother, is it so ? — or grow I old, 
Bewildered in divine Elysian dreams ? 



A PETITION TO TIME. 

Touch ns gently. Time ! 

Let us glide adowu thy stream 
Gently — as we sometimes glide 

Through a quiet dream ! 



Humble voyagers are we. 
Husband, wife, and children three 
(One is lost — an angel, fled 
To the azure overhead!) 

Touch us gently, Time ! 

We've not proud nor soariug wings; 
Our ambition, our content. 

Lies in simple things. 
Humble voyagers are we 
O'er life's dim, unsounded sea, 
Seeking only some calm clime ; — 
Touch ns (jenUij, gentle Time ! 



SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH. 

Softly woo away her breath, 

Gentle Death ! 
Let her leave thee with no strife, 

Tender, mournful, murmuring Life ! 
She hath seen her happy day; 

She hath had her bud and blossom ; 
Now she pales and shrinks away. 

Earth, into thy gentle bosom. 

She hath done her bidding here. 

Angels dear ! 
Bear her perfect sonl above. 

Seraph of the skies — sweet Love ! 
Good she was, and fair iu youth, 

And her mind was seeu to soar, 
And her heart was wed to truth ; 

Take her, then, for evermore — 

For ever — evermore ! 



LIFE. 



We are born ; we laugh ; we weep ; 

Wo love ; we droop ; we die ! 
Ah, wherefore do we laugh or weep ? 

Why do we live or die? 
Who knows that secret deep ? 

Alas, not I ! 

Why doth the violet spring 

Unseen by human eye ? 
Why do the radiant seasons bring 

Sweet thoughts that quickly fly; 
Why do our fond hearts cling 

To things that die? 



MliS. LAVISIA STODDARD.— CAROLIXE {BOWLES) SOUTUEY. 



.\S7 



Wc toil — tlirougli paiu aud wroug ; 

Wo fight— and fly; 
Wc love ; wo lose ; aud then, ero long, 

Stone-dead we lie. 
O Life ! is all thy song 

" Euduio and — die T" 



iUrs. £aoinia Sloiiiiaiii. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Stodilaid (1TS7-1S20) was the daughter of Elijah 
Stone, and a native of (juilford. Conn. Her fanuly re- 
moved to Paterson, X. J.; and in 1811 she was married 
to Dr. William Stoddard. Tlicy established an aeadcmy 
at Troy, N. Y. ; but in 1818 removed to Blakely, Ala., 
where Dr. Stoddard died, leaving his wife in poverty 
and among strangei-s. The one poem by which she is 
l\no\\n was prompted by her own sad and sincere ex- 
periences, aud written but a short time before her death. 
In her life, as in her poem of "Tlie Soul's Dctiance," 
slic excmplilicd the truth of these lines by Shelley : 

*' Wretched men 
Arc crndleil into poetry by \vroii;j: 
They learu ia guifcriug what they teach in soug." 



THE SOUL'S DEFIANCE. 

I said to Sorrow's awful storm 

That heat against my breast, 
" Rage ou, — thou mayst destroy this form, 

And lay it low at rest ; 
Hut still the spirit that now brooks 

Thy tempest, raging high, 
rndaiinted ou its fury looks, 

With steadfast eye." 

I said to rennry's meagre train, 

"Come on, — your threats I brave; 
My last poor life-drop yon may drain. 

And crush mo to tho grave ; 
Yet still the spirit that endures 

.Sliall mock your force the while. 
And meet each cold, eold grasp of yours 

With bitter smile.'' 

I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, 

" Pass ou, — I heed you not ; 
Ye may pnrsne me till my form 

-Vud being arc forgot ; 
Yet still tho spirit, which you sco 

irndaunted by your wiles. 
Draws from its own nobility 

Its high-boru smiles." 



I said to Friendship's nicuaced blow, 

"Strike deep, — my heart shall bear; 
Thou canst but add one bitter woo 

To those already there ; 
Yet still tho spirit that sustains 

This last severe distress 
Shall suiile upon its kecuost pains, 

And scorn redress." 

I said to Death's uplifted dart, 

"Aim sure, — oh, why delay f 
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart, 

A weak, reluctant prey : 
For still the spirit, firm and free, 

Unruffled by dismay. 
Wrapt in its own eteruity. 

Shall pass away." 



Ciaroliuc |I3ou)lcs) Soutl)cn. 

Caroline Anne Bowles, afterward Mrs. Southey (1787- 
1854), was the daughter of Captain Charles Bowles, and 
born at Buckland, Hants. She lost her parents while 
young, and in her country retirement cultivated litera- 
ture successfully. In 1839 she married Southey, poet- 
laureate, with whom she had long been well acquainted. 
There is an original vein of pathos distinguishing her 
poems. Her life, she tells us, was uneventful ; for "all 
her adventures were by the fireside or in her garden, 
and almost all her migrations from the blue bed to the 
brown." The following picture of her childhood is im- 
pressive : 

"My father loved the patient angler's art, 
And ninny a summer's day, from early mnni 
To latest eveuin;^, by some gtrenmlet's side. 
We two have tarried: strange companlouship ! 
A sad aud silent man ; a joyous cliild 1 
Yet those were days, as I recall them now, 
Supremely hapjiy. Silcut though he was, 
My father's eyes were oftcu ou his cliild 
Tenderly eloquent — and his few words 
Were liind and gentle. Xever angry tone 
ICepui^cd me if 1 broke upon his thoughts 
With childish qucslion. But I learned at last. 
Intuitively learned to hold my peace. 
When the dark hoar was ou him, aud deep sighs 
Spoke the perturbed spirit — only then 
I crept a little closer to his side, 
Aiul stole my band in his, or on Ids arm 
Laid my cheek softly: till the simple wile 
Won on his sad abstraction, aud he turned 
With a faint smile, aud sighed and shook his bead. 
Stooping toward me : so I reached at last 
Mine arm about his ueck and clasped it close, 
Printing bis pale brow with a silent kiss.'' 

This passage will be found in her "Birthday," a poem 
which may be ranked among the most graceful and 
touching productions of feminine genius. 



388 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISS AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE EIVEK. 

Kivcr! River! little Eiver! 

Bright you sparkle on your Tvay, 
O'er the yellow pebbles dauciug, 
Through the flowers ami foliage glancing, 
Like a child at Jilay. 

River! River! swelling River ! 

On you rush o'er rough and smooth — 
Louder, faster, brawling, leaping 
Over rocks, by rose-banks sweeping. 
Like impetuous youth. 

River! River! brimming River! 

Broad and deep and still as Time; 
Seeming still — yet still in motion, 
Tending onward to the ocean. 
Just like mortal prime. 

River ! River ! rapid River ! 

Swifter now you slip away ; 
Swift and silent as an arrow, 
Tliroiigb a channel dark and narrow, 
Like life's closing day. 

River! River! headlong River! 
Down you dash into the sea ; 
Sea, that line hath never sounded. 
Sea, that voyage hath never rounded, 
Like eternity. 



TO LITTLE MARY. 

I'm bidden, little Mary, 

To write verses upon thee ; 
I'd fiiin obey the bidding, 

If it rested but with me : 
But the Mistresses I'm bound to 

(Nino Ladies hard to please) 
Of all their stores poetic 

So closely keep the keys, 
It's only now and then — 

By good luck, as one may say — 
That a couplet or a rhyme or two 

Falls fairly in my way. 

Fruit forced is never half so sweet 
As that comes quite in season ; 

But some folks must be satisfied 
With rhyme iu apite of reason : 



So, Muses ! now befriend me. 

Albeit of help so chary. 
To string the jiearls of poesie 

For loveliest little Mary ! 

And yet, ye pagan Damsels, 

Not over-fond am I 
To invoke your haughty favors, 

Your ^uut of Castaly : — 
I've sipped a purer fountain, 

I've decked a holier shrine, 
I own a mightier Mistress — 

Nature ! Tliou art mine ; 
And Feeling's fount than Castaly 

Yields waters more divine ! 

And only to that well-head. 

Sweet Mary, I'll resort. 
For just an artless verse or two, 

A simple strain and short. 
Befitting well a Pilgrim 

Wayworn with earthly strife. 
To offer thee, j'ouug Traveller ! 

In the morning track of life. 

There's many a one will tell thee 

'Tis all with roses gay — 
There's many a one will tell thee 

'Tis thorny all the way : — 
Deceivers are they every one, 

Dear Child, who thus pretend : 
God's ways are not unequal — 

Make him thy trusted friend. 
And many a path of pleasantuess 

He'll clear away for thee. 
However dark and intricate 

The labyrinth may be. 

I need not wish thee beauty, 

1 need not wish thee grace ; 
Already both are budding 

In that infant form and face : 
I ivill not wish thee grandeur, 

I will not wish thee wealth — 
But only a contented heart, 

Peace, competence, and health — 
Fond friends to love thee dearly, 

And honest friends to chide, 
And faitliful ones to cleave to thee, 

Whatever may betide. 

And now, my little Mary, 
If better things remain, 



CAROLINE (BOWLES) SOUTHET. 



389 



Unheeded iu my bliuducss, 
Unnoticed in my strain, — 

I'll snm tlieni np sncciuctly 
111 " English nnik'lilcd," 

My mother-tongue's best bcnison : 
God bless thee, preeions Child I 



• SUFFICIENT UXTO THE DAY IS THE EVIL 
TIIEKEOF." 

Oh ! by that gracious rule, 

Wero we but wise to steer. 
On the wide sea of Thought, — 
Wliat moments trouble-fraught 
Wero spared ns here ! 

But we (perverse and blind), 

As covetous of pain, 
Xot only seek for more 
Yet hidden — but live o'er 

The past again. 

This life is called brief: 
JIan on the earth but crawls 

His threescore years and ten, 

At best fourscore — and then 
The ripo fruit falls. 

Yet, betwixt birth and death, 

Wero but the life of man 
Hy his thoughts moastirdd, — 
To what an ago would spread 

That little span! 

There are who 're born and die. 
Eat, sleep, walk, rest between. 

Talk — act by clock-work too, — 

So pass in order duo 
Over the scene. 

With these the past is past, 

The future, nothing yet; 
.\nil so, from day to day 
They breathe, till called to pay 

The last great debt. 

Their life, in truth, is brief; 

A speck — a point of time ; 
Whetlier in good old age 
Endetli their iiilgrimage. 

Or ill jls prime. 



But other some there are 
(I call them not more wise). 

In whom the restless mind 

Still lingereth behind, 
Or forward tlies. 

With thi'ge, things pass away ; 

Hut past things are not dead : 
In the heart's treasury. 
Deep, hidden deep, they lie 

Unwither(>d. 

And there the soul retires, 

From the dull things that are. 
To mingle oft and long 
With the time-hallowed throng 
Of those that were. 

Then into life stai't out 

The scenes long vanish(5d ; 
Then we behold again 
The forms that long have Iain 
-\raong the dead. 

We seek their grasp of love, 
We meet their beaming eye ; 

Wo speak — the vision's Uown, 

Dissolving with its own 
Intensity. 

Years rapidly shift on 

(Like clouds athwart the sky). 
And lo ! sad watch wo keep. 
When ill perturbed sleep 

The sick doth lie. 

Wo gaze on some pale face. 

Shown by tho dim watch-light. 
Shuddering, we gaze and pray. 
And weep, and wish away 
The long, long night. 

And yet minutest things, 

That mark time's tedious tread, 
Are on the feverish brain, 
Willi self-protracting pain. 

Deep minuted. 

The drops with trembling hand 
(Love steadi<?d) poured out ; — 

The draught rephnishdd, — 

The label oft re-road, 
Willi nervous doubt :— 



390 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



The watch that ticks so loud ; 

The wimliug it, for one 
Whose hand lies powerless ; — 
And then the feavfnl guess, — 

" Ere this hath run. . . ." 

The shutter, half unclosed, 

As the night wears away ; 
Ere the last stars are set — 
Pale stars ! — that linger yet, 
Till perfect day. 

The morn so oft invoked, 

That bringeth uo relief. 
From which, with sickening sight. 
We tnru, as if its light 

But mocked our grief. 

Oh, never after-dawn 

For us the east shall streak, 
But wc shall see again, 
With the same thoughts as then, 

That pale daybreak ! 

The desolate awakening, 

When first we feel alone ! 
Dread memories are these! — 
Yet who for heartless ease 
Would exchange one ? 

These are the soul's hid wealth. 
Relics embalmed with tears; 

Or if her curious eye 

Scarcheth futurity — 
The depth of years, — 

Tliere (fnun the deck of youth) 
Enchanted land she sees ; 

Blue skies, and sun-bright bowers, 

Keflected, and tall towers 
On glassy seas. 

But heavy clouds collect 

Over that bright-blue sky ; 
And rough winds rend the trees, 
And lash those glassy seas 
To billows high ! 

And then, the next thing seen 

By that dim light, may be 
With helm and rudder lost, 
A lone wreck, tempest-tossed, 
On the dark sea! 



Thus doth the soul extend 

Her brief existence here, 
Thus multiplieth she 
(Yea, to infinity !) 

The short career. 

Presumptuous and unwise! 

As if the present sura 
Were little of life's woe. 
Why seeketli she to know 

Ills yet to come ? 

Look up, look up, my soul, 

To loftier mysteries ; 
Trust in his word to thee. 
Who saitli, "All tears shall be 

Wiped from all eyes." 

And when thou turncst back, 
(Oh, what can cliain thee here ?) 

Seek out the Isles of light 

On ''Memory's waste" yet bright;— 
Or if too near 

To desolate plains they lie. 

All dark with guilt and tears, — 

Still, still retrace the past, 

Till thou aliglit at last 
On life's first years. 

There not a jiassing cloud 
Obscures tlie sunny scene; 

No blight on the young tree ; 

No thought of what may be. 
Or what h.ath been. 

There all is hope — not hope— 
For all tilings are po.ssessed ; 

No — bliss without alloy. 

And innocence ami joy, 
In the young breast ! 

And all-conlidiiig love. 

And holy ignorance ; 
Their bless61 veil ! Soon torn 
From eyes foredoomed to mourn 

For man's oftence. 

Oh! thither, weary spirit! 

Flee from this world defiled. 
How oft, heart-sick and sore, 
I've wished I were once more 

A little child ! 



CAKOLIXE (BOWLES) SOUTHET. 



3'Jl 



THE rALTEK'S DEATH-BED. 

Tread softly — bow tlio head — 
lu reverent silence bow : 

No passing-bell doth toll, 

Yet an ininioital soul 
Is passing now. 

Stranger! however great, 
With lowly reverence bow ; 

There's one in that poor shed — 

One by that paltiy bed, 
Greater than thon. 

Beneath that beggar's roof, 

Lo ! Death doth keep Lis state : 

Enter — no crowds attend — 

Enter — no gnard.s defend 
This palace gate. 

That iiaveraent, damp and cold. 

No smiling conrtiers tread ; 
One silent woman stands, 
Lifting with meagre hands 
A dying head. 

No mingling voices sound — 

An infant wail alone ; 
A sub suppressed — again 
That short, deep gasp, and then 

The parting groan. 

Oh, change ! — oh, wondrous change ! 

Burst are the prison bars! 
This moment Iherr, so low. 
So agonized, ami now 

Beyond the stars! 

Oh, change! — stupendous change! 

There lies the soulless clod ; 
Tlie Sun eternal breaks — 
The new Immortal wakes — 

Wakes with bis God. 



TO A DYING INIANT. 

Sleep, little baby, sleep ! 

Not in thy cradle-bed. 
Not on thy mother's breast 
Heticc'forlh shall be thy rest. 

Hut with the (juiet dead I 



Yes! witU the quiet dead, 

Baby, thy rest shall be ! 
Oh ! many a weary wight. 
Weary of life and light, 

Would fain lie down with tliec. 

Flee, little tender nursling! 

Flee to thy grassy nest ; 
There the first flowers shall blow ; 
The first pure flake of snow 

Shall fall upon thy breast. 

Peace! peace! the little bosom 
Labors with shortening breath : — 

Peace! peace! that tremulous sigh 

Speaks his departure uigh ! 
Those are the damps of death. 

I've seen thee iu thy beauty, 
A thing all health and glee ; 

But never then wcrt thou 

So bcautit'nl as now, 

Bab}', thou seem'st to me ! 

Thine upturned eyes glazed over. 
Like harebells wet with dew ; 

Already veiled and hid 

By the convulsed lid. 

Their pupils, darkly blue ; 

Thy little mouth half open — 

The soft lip quivering. 
As if, like summer-air. 
Ruffling the rose-leaves, there, 

Tliy soul were fluttering: 

Mount up, immortal essence! 

Young spirit, hence — depart ! 
And is this death? — Dread thing! 
If such thy visiting. 

How beautiful thou art ! 

Oh ! I could gaze forever 

Upon that waxen face ; 
So passionless, so pure ! 
The little shrine was sure 

An ang< I's dwelling-place. 

Thou wccpcst, childless mother ! 

Ay, weep — 'twill ease thine heart : 
lie was thy first-born son, 
Thy first, thine only one, 

'Tis hard from him to part. 



392 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BlilTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



'Tia bard to lay thy darliug 
Deep in the damp cold earth, 

His empty crib to see, 

His silent nursery, 

Late ringing -svith his mirth. 

To meet again in slnmher, 

His small mouth's rosy kiss ; 
Then, wakened with a start 
By thine own throbbing heart, 
His twining arms to miss ! 

To feel (half conscious why) 
A dull, heart-sinking weight. 

Till memory on the soul 

Flashes the iiainful whole, 
That tbou art desolate ! 

And then, to lie and weep. 
And tLink the livelong night 

(Feeding thine own distress 

With accurate greediness) 
Of every jiast delight ; 

Of all his wiuuing ways. 

His pretty, playful smiles, 
His joy at sight of thee, 
His tricks, his mimicry, 

And all his little wiles! 

Oh ! these are recollections 

Round mothers' hearts that cling,— 
That mingle with the tears 
And smiles of after years. 

With oft awakening. 

But thou wilt then, fond mother ! 

lu after years look back 
(Time brings such wondrous easing), 
With sadness not unpleasiug. 

Even on this gloomy track. 

Thou'lt .say, "My first-born blessing! 

It almost broke my heart. 
When thou .wert forced to go. 
And yet for thee, I know, 

'Twas better to depart. 

"God took thee in his mercy, 
A lamb, untasked, untried : 

He fought tbe fight for thee. 

He won the victory. 

And thou art sanctified ! 



" I look around, and see 

The evil ways of men ; 
And oh ! beloved child ! 
I'm more thau reconciled 

To thy departure then. 

" The little arms that clasped me. 
The innocent lips that pressed — ■ 

Would they have been as pure 

Till now, as when of yore 
I lulled thee on my breast ? 

"Now, like a dew-drop shrined 

Withiu a crystal stone, 
Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove ! 
Safe witli the Source of Love, 

Tlie Everlasting One! 

"And when the hour arrives, 

From flesh that sets me free, 
Thy spirit may await, 
Tbe first at heaven's gate. 
To meet and welcome me I" 



OH, FEAK NOT THOU TO DIE. 

Oh, fear not thou to die — 

Far rather fear to live — for life 

Has thousand snares thy feet to try, _ 

By peril, pain, and strife. 

Brief is the work of death ; 

But life — the spirit shrinks to .see 

How full, e'er Heaven recalls the breath. 

The cup of woe may be. 

Oh, fear not thou to die — 

No more to sutter or to sin — 

No snare without, thy faith to try — 

No traitor heart witbin ; 

But fear, oh rather fear 

Tbe gay, the light, the changeful scene — 

The flattering smiles that greet thee here, 

From heaven thy heart to wean. 

Oh, fear not thou to die — 

To die, and be that blcssc^d one 

Who in the bright and beauteous sky 

May feel his conflict done — 

May feel that never more 

Tbe tear of grief, of shame, shall come. 

For thousand wanderings from the Power 

Wlio loved and called thee home. 



SIB AUBREY DE FERE. 



■.ii)i 



Sir -Tlulncij iic lUvc. 

Sir Aubrey do Vere (ITSS-llWG) was a native of Cur- 
raijli Chase, Limericic County, Ireland. He was educa- 
ted at Harrow witli Byron and Peel, but never entered a 
univei-sity. lie was tlie autlior of two dniniatie poems, 
"Julian the Apostate" (1822), and "The Duke of Mer- 
eia" (1S23); also of "A Sons; of Faith, Devout Exer- 
eiscs, and other Poems" (IS42). Sir Aubrey dedicates 
this last volume to Wordsworth, and says, iu his letter, 
"To know that you have perused many of the follow- 
ins; poems with pleasure, and did not hesitate to reward 
them with your praise, has been to me cause of uumin- 
fjled happiness. In accepting the Dedication of this vol- 
ume, you permit me to link my name — which I have 
hitherto done so little to illustrate — with yours, the 
noblest of niortorn literature." Sir Aubrey must not be 
confounded with his third son, Aubrey Thomas de Vere 
( boru ltil4), and also a poet of considerable note. 



CRAXMER. 

Too feehly nerved for so severe a trial 
Wert thou, O Craumer! yet thy heart was true, 
And the Church owes thee much, and loves thee too. 
If thou didst faint beneath the fiercest vial 
That wrath could pour, oh let no harsh decrial 
'i'arnish the martyr's fame ! The Saviour knew 
How weak are even the hcst ! — ere the cock crew, 
IVtor thrice uttered the foretold denial! 
Think not of Craumer to his chains descending, 
IVar-palsied, and his mind .scarce half awake ; 
lint Craumer, with the faithful Ridley, bending 
Over the liturgy; Craumer as ho spako 
From his last pulpit ; Cranmor when extending 
His hand through llame, undaunted, at the stake! 



SOXXET. 

There is no remedy for time misspent ; 
No healing for the waste of idleness, 
Whose very languor is a punishment 
Heavier than active souls can feel or gness. 
O hours of indoleuco and discontent. 
Not now to be redeemed ! ye sting not less 
ISecausi' I know this span of life was lent 
For lofty duties, not for selfishness. — 
Not to bo whilcd away iu aindcss dreams. 
But to improve onrselvcs, and serve mankind, 
Life and its choicest faculties were given. 
Man should be ever better than he seems, 
And shape his acts, and discipline his mind. 
To walk adorning earth, with hope of heaven. 



SONNETS ON COLUMBUS. 

Cohimbns always considered that he was iuspired, and chO!=en 
f*)r the great sei'vice of discoveriu«j a new world aud couveyiiig 
to it the light uf salvatiou. 

I. 
Tlie crimson sun was siuking down to rest, 
Pavilioned on the cloudy verge of heaven ; 
And Ocean, on her gently heaving breast, 
Caught aud flashed back the varying tints of even ; 
When on a fragment from the tall clitl' riven. 
With folded arms, and doubtful thoughts oppressed, 
Columbus sat, till sudden hope was given — 
A ray of gladness, shooting from the West. 
Oh, what a glorious vision for niaukiud 
Then dawned above the twilight of his mind — 
Thoughts shadowy still, but iudistiuctly graud ! 
There stood his Genius, face to face, and signed 
(So legciuls tell) far .seaward with lnr hanil — 
Till a new world sprang up, aud bloomed Ijcncath 
her wand. 

II. 
He was a man whom danger could not daunt, 
Xor sophistry perplex, nor pain subline; 
A stoic, reckless of the world's vain taiuit, 
And steeled the path of honor to pursue : 
So, when by all deserted, still he knew 
How best to sootho the heart-sick or confront 
Sedition, sclnxded with eiinal eye to view 
The frowns of grief, and the liase pangs of want. 
But when ho saw that promised land arise 
In all its rare and bright varieties. 
Lovelier than fondest fancy ever trod ; 
Then softening nature melted in his eyes; 
Ho knew his fame was full, and blessed his God : 
Ami fell upon his face, aud kissed the virgin sod! 



Beautiful realm beyond tho western main. 
That hymns thee ever with resounding wave! 
Thine is the glmious sun's peculiar reign ; 
Fruit, flowers, ami gems in rich mosaic pave 
Tliy iiaths ; like giant altars o'er tho jdain 
Thy mountains blaze, loud thundering, 'mid the rave 
Of mighty streams that shoreward rush amain. 
Like rolyplieme from his Ktiiean cave. 
.Joy, joy for Spain! a seaman's hand confers 
These glorious gifts, and half tho world is hers! 
But where is be — that lijjht wliose radiance glows 
The load-star of succeeding mariners t 
Behold him! crushed beneath o'ermaslrring woes — 
Hopeless, heart-broken, chained, abandoned to his 
foes ! 



394 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH: AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



DIOCLETIAN AT SALONA. 

Ou being solicited by Maximiau to leassume the imperial 
purple, Diocletian i-cjected the ofler wiih a smile ol' pity, calmly 
observing that if he could show Maximiau the cabbages which 
he had planted with his owu hands at Salona, he should uo 
longer be urged to relinquish the enjoyment of happiness for 
the pursuit of power. 

Take back these vaiu insignia of command, 

Crown, trunclieon, golden eagle — banbles all — 

And robe of Tyriau dye, to me a pall ; 

And be forever alien to my hand, 

Though laurel-wreathed, War's desolating brand. 

I would have friends, not courtiers, iu my hall ; 

Wise books, learned converse, beanty free from thrall. 

And leisure for good deeds, thoughtfully planned. 

Farewell, thou garish world ! thou Italy, 

False widow of departed liberty! 

I scorn thy base caresses. Welcome the roll 

Between us of my own bright Adrian sea ! 

Welcome these wilds, from whoso bold heights my 

soul 
Looks down ou your degenerate Capitol! 



GLENGARIFF. 

A sun-burst on the bay! Turn and behold! 
The restless waves, resplendent in their glory, 
Sweep glittering past you purpled promontory, 
Bright as Apollo's breastplate. Bathed in gold, 
Yon bastioned islet gleams. Thin mists are rolled 
Translucent through each glen. A mantle hoary 
Veils those peaked hills, shapely as e'er in story, 
Delphic, or Alpine, or Vesnvian old, 
Minstrels have sung. From rock and headland juoud 
The wild-wood spreads its arms around the bay; 
The manifold mouutaiu cones, now dark, uow bright. 
Now seen, now lost, alternate from rich light 
To spectral shade ; and each dissolving cloud 
Reveals new mountains while it floats away. 



£orlr Biiron. 

George Gordon Noel Byron was born in London, Jan- 
uary 33d, 1788, and died at Missolonghi, Greece, April 
19tli, 18'24, aged tlih-ty-six years and three months. His 
lather, Captain Byron, nephew to the possessor of the 
fitmily title, was remarkable only for bis dissoluteness 
and iinprovidence. At the iigc of five the future poet 
was a pupil at a day-school in Aberdeen. At ten he 
became a peer of the realm and possessor of Newstead 
Abbey. His mother was a woman of ungovernable pas- 
sions, foolish and capricious, and her example had a dis- 



astrous influence on her son. Byron went to Harrow, 
then to Cambridge. At nineteen, when still a student, 
he published a collection of verses, entitled "Hours of 
Idleness." A touch of lordly conceit at the close of the 
little book caused the Edinburijh Review to laugh at it. 
Byron retorted in a poem, "English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers," whicli gave unexpected evidence of the 
youth's real powers. Two years of foreign travel (1809- 
1811) led to the first two cantos of "Childe Harold's 
Pilgrimage," written at the age of two-and-twenty. In 
1811 he returned to England, just in time to see his 
mother die. 

In 1813 Byron made his first speech in the House of 
Lords. "Childe Harold" liad caused him, in his owu 
words, "to wake up one morning, and find himself fa- 
mous." It was followed by poem after poem. In Jan- 
uary, 1815, he married Miss Milbanke ; his dauglitcr, 
Augusta Ada, was born December lOtli of the same year; 
two months afterward his wife parted from him ; and in 
April, 181B, he left England, never to return. He went 
first to Switzerland, where he wrote, the same year, the 
third canto of "Childe Harold" and the "The Prisoner 
ofChillon." In July, ISltJ, in las rcinarliable poem of 
"The Dream," he compared his luckless marriage with 
another that "might have been." In November, 1810, 
be went to Venice, tlien to Pisa and Genoa. Shelley's 
untimely death in 1833 affected him greatly. Before leav- 
ing Italy to espouse the cause of Greek independence, 
he wrote the fourth canto of "Childe Harold," "Bep- 
po," "Manfred," "Mazeppa," "Cain," " Don Juan," and 
many other poems. A violent cold caught at Misso- 
longhi ended his life. His remains were brought to 
England for interment. Burial in Westminster Abbey 
was refused, and they were deposited in the family vault 
in Hucknall Church, Nottinghamsliire, 

Both in bis emotional aud his intellectual nature Byiou 
shows the struggle of evil with good. In all his princi- 
pal poems his men and women are pictures of himself; 
aud to this inability to get out of the vicious circle of 
his own passions and prejudices may be attributed his 
failure as a dramatic writer. His success in attracting 
the public ear and eye of contemporaries was immeas- 
urably beyond that of Wordsworth, but posterity has 
rectified the injustice: Wordsworth is now the more 
conspicuous figure. Emerson tells us that "Byron bad 
nothing to say — and he said it beautifully." This may 
apply to him, considered as a philosopher, but not as a 
poet, in which capacity he exercises a genuine power 
over the emotional nature, with a mastery of apt, beau- 
tiful, and simple language excelled onl}' by Shakspeare. 
Surely it requires as much intellectual power to give 
apt and eloquent voice to mountains, cataracts, tem- 
pests, oceans, ruins, aud, above all, to the stormy emo- 
tions of the Imman heart, — making vivid the obscure and 
evasive, — as to dip deep into transcendental subtleties 
or ethical speculations. 

Byron may have been overrated in his day, but his place 
in English literature must ever be iu tlie front rank of 
the immortals. As Matthew Arnold says of him, — 

" When Byrou's eyes were shut in death 
"We bowed our head and held our breath. 
He taught ns little; but our soul 
Had felt him like the thunder's roll." 



LOUD BYKOX. 



395 



FROM "CHILDE HAROLD." 

orENIXG OF CAXTO III. 

Is tliy f;iPo likii thy inotlicr'.s, my l':iir cliild! 
Ada ! sole ilausliter of my lioii.sc anil licart ? 
When hi.-it I saw thy youii;; blue eyes they smiled, 
And tlii'n wo parted, — not as now wo part, 
But with a hope. — 

Awaking witli a start, 
The waters heave around nie ; and on liigli 
The winds lift up their voices: I depart, 
Whither I know not; hut the hour's gone by. 
When .Vlbion's le.s.sening shores could grieve or glad 
mine eye. 

Once more upon the waters! yet once more! 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
Tliat knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! 
Swift bo their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead! 
Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, 
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, 
Still mn.st I on ; for I am as a weed. 
Flung from the rock, on ocean's foam, to sail 
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 
prevail. 

In my youth's summer I did sing of one. 
The wandi'ring outlaw of his own dark iniiid ; 
Again 1 .seize the theme then but begun, 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wiinl 
Beare the cloud onward : in that talo I find 
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 
Which, ebbing, leav& a sterile track behind, 
O'er which all Iieavily the journeying years 
rioj the last sands of life, — where not a flower 
appears. 

Since my young days of passion — ^joy, or pain, 
Perchance my licart and harp have lost a string, 
And both nniy jar: it may be, that in vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling; 
So that it wcaii me from the weary dream 
Of seltish grief or gladness — so it fling 
Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 

He, who grown agdd in this world of woe, 
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, 
So that no wonder waiLs him ; uor below 
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, 
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell 



Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife 
With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
Still unimpaired, though old, in the somTs haunted 
cell. 

'Tis to create, and, in creating, live 
A being more inten.se, that w<! endow 
With form oiir fancy, gaining as we give 
The life wo inmge, even as I do now. 
What am I f Nothing ; hut not so art thou. 
Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth. 
Invisible but gazing, as I glow- 
Mixed with thy spirit, blended w ith thy birth, 
And feeling still with tliec in my crushed feelings' 
dearth. 

Yet must I think less wildly : — I 7mrc thought 
Too long and darkly, till my brain became. 
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwronglit, 
A w hirling gulf of phantasy and flame : 
And thu.s, untaught in youth my heart to tame. 
My springs of life were poi.soned. 'Tis too late ! 
Yet am I changed; though still enough the same 
In strength to bear what time cannot abate. 
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate. 



SCENES BY LAKE LEMAX. 

FnoM "CnlLDE IIahold." Canto III. 

Ye stars, which are the poetry of heaven. 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven. 
That, in our aspirations to be great. 
Our destinies o'erlcap their mortal state. 
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar. 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named them- 
selves a star. 

All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep. 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: — 
All heaven aiul earth arc still : from the high host 
Of stars to the lulled lake and monntain-coast, 
AH is concentered in a life intense. 
Where not a hcara, nor air, uor leaf is lost, 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 

Then stirs the feeling infinite, .so felt 
In solitude, where we are least alone ; 



306 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



A truth, which through our beiug then doth melt, 
And purifies from self: it is a tone, 
The soul and source of music, which makes known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm. 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, 
Binding all things with beauty; — 'twould disarm 
Tlie spectre Death, had he substantial power to 
harm. 

Not vaiuly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the pealc 
Of earth-o'ergaziug mountains, and thus take 
A fit and uuwalled temple, there to seek 
The spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak, 
Uprearcd of human hands. Come, and compare 
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
With nature's realms of worship, eartli and air. 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer. 

The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! Oh 

night. 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud. 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue. 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud. 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 

And this Is iu the night: — most glorious night! 
Tliou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shiues, a j>hosphoric sea. 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth. 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye ! 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Tilings that have made me watchful ; the far roll 
Of your departing voices is the knoll 
Of what in mo is sleepless, — if I rest. 
But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? 
Are ye like those within the human breast ? 
Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest ? 

Could I embody and unbosom now 

That whicli is most within me, — could I wreak 

My tlioughts upon expression, and thus throw 



Soul, heart, mind, jjassions, feelings, strong or 

weak, 
All that I would have sought, aud all I seek. 
Bear, know, feel, aud yet breathe — into one word, 
Aud that one word were Lightning,! would speak ; 
But as it is, I live and die unheard. 
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a 

sword. 



WATERLOO. 

From " Childe Harold," Canto III. 

There was a sound of revelry by night. 
And Belgium's capital had gatliered then 
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
The lamps .shone o'er fair women aud brave men : 
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 
Music arose with its voluiituous swell. 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake agaiu. 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; 
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising 
knell ! 

Did ye not hear it ? No ; 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street. 
On with the dance ! let joy be uncoufiued ! 
No .sleep till morn when Youth and Pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing hours witli flying feet — 
But hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
Aud nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
Arm! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's oiieniug roar! 

Within a windowed niche of th.nt high hall 
Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain : he did hear 
That sound the first amid the festival, 
Aud caught its tone with death's prophetic ear ; 
And when they smiled because he deemed it near. 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : 
Ho rushed into the field, aud, foremost tigliting, fell. 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro. 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale which but an hour ago 
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliuess; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated: who could gness 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could 
rise ? 



Lor.D nmox. 



397 



Ami there was nioniitiiig in hot haste : the steed, 
The miisteiiiig squadron, and the chittering ear 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar; 
And near, the beat of the ahirming drum 
Housed up the soldier ere the morning-star; 
■While thronged the citizens with terror dunih, 
Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! Tliey 
come, they come !'' 

And wild and high the "Cameron's g.ithering'' 

rose ! 
The war-note of Lochiel, wliich Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and beard, too, liave her Saxon foes — 
How in the noon of niglit that pibroeh thrills, 
Savage and shrill! I5ut with tlie breath whieli tills 
Tlieir mountain-pipe, so till the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
Tlu! stirring mcuiory of a thousand years; 
And Kvan's, Donald's fame rings in each clausra.in's 

ears 1 

Ami Ardi'nnes waves above them her green leaves. 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves. 
Over tlio unretnrning brave — .alas! 
En; evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now bencalh tlu-m, but above shall grow, 
111 its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valor rolling on the foe. 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold 
and low. 

L.ist noon beheld them full of lusty life. 
Last eve in IJeauty's circle proudly gay; 
The midnight brought the sign.al-sound of strife. 
The morn the marshalling in arms, — tlie day 
Battle's magnificently-stern array! 
The thnnder-cloiuls close o'er it, which, when rent. 
The earth is covered thick with other clay. 
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped .and pent, 
Kider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial 
blent ! 



ADDRESS TO THE Ot'EAX. 
Kbom "Ciiilde llAgoi.ti," Canto IV. 

Oh ! t hat the Desert were my dwelling-place. 
With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
That I miylit all forget the human race. 
And, bating no one, love but only her! 
Yo Elements I — iu whose ennobling stir 



I feel myself exalted — can \e iii>t 
Accord me such a being? Do 1 err 
III deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 

There is .a pleasure; in the pathless woods; 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore ; 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
Uy the deep Sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not Slan the less, but Nature nu>rc, 
Kronj these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before. 
To mingle with the Univerec, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean ! — roll ! 
T(;u thousand Ikets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore: — upon the wateiy jdain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A .shadow of man's r.avage, save his own. 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
Ho sinks into thy dejitlis with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave,uukuelled,uncotliued, and unknown. 

His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields 

Are not a spoil for him — thou dost ari.se. 

And shake liiiu fiom thee; the vilo strength he 

wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bo.som to the skies. 
And send'st him, shivering in thy jtlayfiil spr.iy 
And howling, to his God.s, where haply lies 
His jietty hope in some near port or bay. 
And dasbcst him again to earth; there let hira lay,' 

The arm.aments which thnndcrstrike the walls 
Of rock-bnilt cities, bidding nations quake. 
And monarclis tremble in tlieir capitals, 
Tlio oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; 
These are thy toys, and. as the snowy flake. 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all s.avo thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they f 
Thy waters w.asted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant fiince ; their shores obey 



' II will be romnrkcil tlint Inii is here used niijfrnminntionlly : 
but Byron w.ap in wnnt nt n rhyme. In the second Hue pre- 
ceding, he nscs the verb liea coricclly. 



398 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH JXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



The stiauger, slave, or savage ; tlieir decay 
Has (li'ietl \\\i realms to deserts : — not so tlioii, 
Uiichaiigeablo save to tby wild -waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 
Calm or convulsed — iu breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the liole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-beaviug; — boundless, endless and sublime — 
The imago of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible : even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zoue 
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathondess, 
alone. 

And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight; and if the fresbeniug sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 



EVENING. 

From "Dos Jtan," Canto III. 

Ave JIaria ! bless(5d be the hour ! 

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft. 
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower. 

Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, 
And uot a breath crept through the rosy air. 
And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with prayer. 

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer! 

Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love ! 
Ave JIaria! may our spirits dare 

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair ! 

Tho.se downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove — 
What though 'tis but a pictured image strike — 
That painting is no idol, 'tis too like. 
# # * # ^ 

Sweet hour of twilight ! — in the solitude 

Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, 

Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er, 



To where the last Cesarean fortress stood, 
Evergreen forest! \\'hich Boccaccio's lore 
And Uryden's lay made haunted ground to me, — 
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ! 

The shrill cicalas, people of the jiine, 

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, 

Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine. 
And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along : 

The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line. 

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng. 

Which learned from this example not to flj' 

From a true lover, shadowed my mind's eye. 

Oh Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things — 
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 

To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
The welcome stall to the o'er-labored steer ; 

Wliate'er of peace about our heartU-stoue clings, 
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear. 

Are gathered round us by thy look of rest ; 

Tlion bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 

St)ft hour! whicb wakes the wish and melts the 
heart 

Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart; 

Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way, 
As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 

Seeming to weep the dying day's decay : 
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? 
All! surely nothing dies but something mourns! 



THE ISLES OF GREECE. 
FnoM "Don Juan," Canto III. 

The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung,- 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose and Phtebus sprung ! 
Eternal snunner gilds them yet ; 
But all except their sun is set. 

The Sciau and the Teian muse, 
The hero's harp, the lover's Inte, 

Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
Their place of birth alone is mnte 

To sounds which echo farther west 

Than your sires' "Islands of the Blessed." 

The mountains look on Marathon, 
Aud Marathon looks on the sea; 



LOUD BYliOy. 



309 



And miising there an Lour alouc, 

I dreamed that Greece iiiiglit still bo free ; 
For, standing on the Persians' grave, 
I eould not deem myself a slave. 

A king sat on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salaniis ; 

And ships by thousands lay below, 
And men in nations: — all were his! 

Ho counted tlicm at break of day — 

And when the sun set, where were they? 

And where are they T — and where art thou, 
My country f On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuueless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Uegeni'iate into hands like mine? 

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though linked among a fettered race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

Fiu- Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Must wo but weep o'er days more blessed ? 

Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred gi-ant but three, 
To make a new Thermopyhe. 

What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ; — tho voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, "Let ono living head, 
But one arise, — wo come ; we come !" 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; 

Fill high tho cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 

And shed tho blood of .Seio's vino ! 
Hark! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold bacchanal ! 

You liavo tho Pyrrhic danco as yet, 
Where is tho Pyrrhic phalanx gone t 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
Tho nobler and the manlier one? 

You have tho letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave? 



Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

Wo Avill not think of themes like these ! 
It made Anacreon's song divine ; 

He served — bnt served I'olyerates — 
A tyrant; but onr masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

Tho tyrant of tho Chersonese 

Was freeiUun's liest and bravest friend, 
That tyrant wa.s Miltiades! 

Oh, that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Sucli chains' as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

On Soli's rock and I'arga's shore 
J^xists the remnant of a lino 

Such as the Doric mothers bore; 
And there, i)erhaps, some seed is sown. 
The Heracleidau blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells. 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
Tho only hope of courage dwells ; 

Ibit Turkish force and Ijatin fraud 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
I sec their glorious black eyes shine; 

But, gazing on each glowing nniid, 
>ry own the burning tear-drop laves. 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.' 

Place mo on Sunium's marbled steep. 
Where nothing save the waves and I 

Slay hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swan-like, let me sing an<l die: 

A laud of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! 



FROM THE "ODE OX VENICE." 

Tho name of Comraonwcalth is past and gone 

O'er tho three fractions of the groaning globe; 
Venice is crushed, and Holland deigns to own 

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe : 
If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone 
His chainless mountains, 'tis but for .1 time. 
For Tyranny of late is cunning grown. 
And in its own good setison tramples down 



400 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BHITISH AND AMERICAN FOETRY. 



The sparkles of onr ashes. One great clime, 

Whose vigorous ofl'spriug l»y dividing ocean 

Are Icopt apart and nursed in the devotion 

Of Freedom, which their fixthers fought for, and 

Bequeathed — a heritage of heart and hand. 

And proud distinction from each other laud, 

Whose sous must bow them at a niouarch's motion, 

As if his seuseless sceptre were a wand, 

Full of the magic of exploded science — 

Still one great clime, in full and free defiance. 

Yet rears her crest, nnconquered and sublime. 

Above the far Atlantic ! — She has taught 

Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, 

The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag. 

May strike to those whose red right hands have 

bought 
Eights cheaply earned with blood. — Still, still forever 
Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, 
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, 
Dammed like the dull eau.al with locks and chains, 
And moving, as a sick man in Lis sleep. 
Three iiaces, and then faltering : — better be 
Where the extinguished Spartans still are free, 
111 their proud charuel of Thcrmopylte, 
Than stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the deep 
Fly, and one current to the ocean add. 
One spirit to the souls our fathers had, 
One freeman more, America, to thee ! 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 

Slie walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half-impaired the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress. 
Or softly lightens o'er her face; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow. 

So soft, so calm, j-et eloquent. 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent ! 



"ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY- 
SIXTH YEAE." 

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 
Since others it hath ceased to move ; 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
Still let mo love! 

My days are in the yellow leaf; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone ! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
No torch is kindled at its blaze, — 
A funeral pile ! 

The hope, the fear, the je.alous care. 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot .share. 
But wear the chain. 

But 'tis not Ihiis — and 'tis not lure — 

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now 
Where glory decks the hero's bier. 
Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field. 
Glory and Greece, around me see ! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 
Was not more free. 

Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) 

Awake, my spirit! Think through u-Jiom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down. 

Unworthy manhood ! unto thee 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If tliou rcgrett'st thy youth, n'hij liref 

The land of honorable death 
Is here : — up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath ! 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground. 

And take thy rest. 
Missolonghi, Jaiuiiiry 22il, 1S24. 



LOUD BTROy. 



401 



THE DRKAM. 
I. 
Onr lifi' is twofold: Sli'cp liatli its own world, 
A boundary between tlie things misnamed 
Dcatli and existence : !>leop liatU its own world, 
And ;i wide realm of wild reality, 
And dreams in their development have breath, 
And tears, and tortures, and the tonch of joy ; 
They leave a weight npon onr waking thoughts. 
They take a weight from oft' onr waking toils. 
They do divide onr being; they become 
A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
And look like heralds of eternity: 
They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 
Like sibyls of (he future; they have power — 
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
They make us what wo were not — what thoy will. 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by, — 
The dread of vanished shadows. Are they so f 
Is not the past all shadow? What are they? 
Creations of the mind ? The 7uind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
I would recall a vision which I dreamed, 
Percliauce, in sleep, — for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering tlioughf, is capable of years. 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 



I saw two beings in the hues of yoiilh 
Standing uji'in a bill, a gentle hill, 
Green, and of mild declivity, — the last, 
As 'twere the cape, of a long ridge of snch, 
Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
Bnt a most living landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs; the hill 
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees in circular array, so fixed. 
Not by the sport of nature, bnt of man : 
The.se two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing; the one on all that was beneath — 
Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her : 
And both were young, and one was beautiful ; 
And both were young, yet not alike in youth. 
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, 
The maid was on the eve of womanhood; — 
The boy had fewer summei-s, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years ; and, to his eye, 
There was but one belovi^d face on earth — 
20 



And that was shining on him : ho had looked 

Upon it till it could not pass away; 

He had no breath, no being, but in hers: 

She was his voice; — he did not speak to her. 

But trembled on her words : she was his sight ; 

For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers. 

Which colored all his objects: — ho had ceased 

To live within himself; she was his life, — 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts 

Which terminated all : upon !i tone, 

A touch, of hers, his blood would ebb and tlow. 

And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 

Unknowing of its cause of agony. 

Bnt she in these fond feelings had no share : 

Her sighs were not for him ! to her he was 

Even as a brother, — but no more : 'twas much ; 

For brotherless she was, save in the name 

Her infant friendship had bestowed on him, — 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Of a time-honored race. It was a name 

Which ))leased him, and yet pleased him not, — and 

why ? 
Time taught him a deep answer — when .she loved 
Another ! even iioir she loved another ; 
And on the summit of that hill she stood 
Looking afar, if yet her lover's steed 
Kept pace with her expectancy and flew. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
There was an ancient mansion, and before 
Its walls there was a steed capari.soued : 
Within an antique oratory stood 
The boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone. 
And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon 
He sat him down, .and seized a pen, ami traced 
Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned 
His bowed head on his hands, and shook, as 'twere. 
With a convulsion, — then arose again. 
And with his teeth aiul quivering hands did tear 
What he had written; but he shed no tears: 
Aiul he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
Into a kind of quiet. As he paused. 
The lady of his love re-entered there ; 
She was serene and smiling then, — and yet 
She knew she was by him V>elovcd I she knew — 
For quickly comes snch knowledge — that his heart 
Was darkened with her shadow; and she saw- 
That ho was wretclied. — bnt she s.aw not all. 
He rose, .and, with a cold aiul gentle grasp. 
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face 
A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
W;is traced, — and then it fadcil as it came: 



402 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN FOETRT. 



He dropped the baud lie held, and with slow steps 
Retired, — but not as bidding her adien ; 
For they did jiart with iniitnal smiles: ho passed 
From out the massy gate of that old hall, 
And, monnting ou bis steed, he went his way. 
And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more ! 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
Of liery climes he made himself a home. 
And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt 
With strange and dusk}' aspects ; ho was not 
Himself like what he had been: on the sea 
Aud on the shore be was a wanderer! 
There was a mass of manj' images 
Crowded like waves upon mo ; but he was 
A part of all, — and in the last he lay 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couched among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruined walls that had survived the names 
Of those who reared them : by bis sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Wore fastened near a fountain ; and a man, 
Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while. 
While many of bis tribe shinibered around; 
Ami they were canopied by the blue sky, 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in heaven. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The lady of his love was wed with one 

Who did tiot love her better : in her home, 

A thousand leagues from his, — her native home. 

She dwelt begirt with growing infancy. 

Daughters and sons of beauty, — but behold ! 

Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 

The settled shadow of au inward strife, 

Aud an unquiet drooping of the eye, 

As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 

What could her grief be ? — she had all she loved ; 

And be who had so loved her was not there 

To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 

Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts. 

What could her grief bo? — she had loved bim not. 

Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved ; 

Nor could he bo a part of that which preyed 

Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The wanderer was returned. I saw him stand 



Before au altar with a gentle bride : 

Her face was fair, — but was not that which made 

The starlight of his boyhood ! As be stood 

Even at the altar, o'er his brow there camo 

The self-same aspect and the quivering shock 

That in the antique oratory shook 

His bosom in its solitude; aud then, 

As in that hour, a moment o'er bis face 

The tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, — and then it faded as it came ; 

And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 

The fitting vows, — but heard not his owu words ; 

And all things reeled .around him ! he could see 

Not that which was, nor that which should have 

been ; 
But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall, 
And the remembered chambers, and the place, 
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, — 
All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
And her who was his destiu}', came back, 
And thrust themselves between him and the light : 
Wh.at business had they there at such a time ? 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The lady of his love, — oh ! she was changed 
As by the sickness of the soul : her mind 
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,- 
Thcy had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth : she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things; 
And forms — impalpable and unperceived 
Of others' sight — familiar were to hers : 
And this the world calls frenzy ! but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift : 
W^hat is it but the telescope of truth ! 
Which strips the distance of its fantasies, 
And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real! 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The wanderer was alone, as heretofore ; 
The beings that surrounded him were gone, 
Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
For blight and desolation, — compassed round 
With hatred and contention : pain was mixed 
In all which was served up to him, until. 
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days. 
He fed ou poisons, and they had no jjower, — 
But were a kind of nutriment : he lived 



LOIW BYROX. 



4(Ki 



Tliroiigli tliat which had been death to many inoii, 

And made him friends of mountains: with the stars 

And tlie quick spirit of the universe 

Ho hchl Ills dialogues; and they did teach 

To liiui the magic of their mysteries; 

To him the booli of night was opened wide, 

And voices from the deep abysa revealed 

A marvel and a secret : — Bo it so. 



>Iy dream was past ; it had no farther change. 

It was of a strange order that the doom 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 

Almost like a reality — the one 

To end in madness — both in misery. 



THE DESTRUCTIOX OF SENNACHERIB. 

Tho A.s.syrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
-Vnd his ctdiorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And tho sheen of their spears was like stars on 

tho sea, 
Wheu tho blue wave rolls nightly on deeji Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen: 
Like tho leaves of the forest when autunni hath 

blown, 
That host on tlio morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast. 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he p.issed ; 
And tho eyes of tho sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
.\ud their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew 
still. 

And there lay tho steed with his nostril all wide, 
lint through it there rolled not tho breath of his 

pride ; 
.\nd tho foam of his gasping lay white on tho turf, 
And cold as the spray of tho rock-beating surf. 

.\mi1 there lay the rider distorted and pale. 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; 
And tho tents were all silent, tho banners alone, 
Tho lances unliftcd, tho trimipet unblown. 

.\nd tlio widows of Ashur am loud iu their wail. 
And tlie idols are broke iu the lempln of Baal, 
.Vnd the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the swonl. 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of tho Lord! 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED. 

Wheu wo two parted 

Iu silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years. 
Pale grew thy cheek, and cold, 

Colder thy kiss: 
Truly, that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of tho morning 

Sank chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warniug 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows aro all broken. 

And light is thy fame ; 
1 hear thy uame siioken, 

Aud share iu its shame. 

They uame thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear? 
They know not I knew thee. 

Who knew tlieo too well : — 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet theo 

After long years, 
How should I greet thee f — 

With silence and tears. 



JIODERN CRITICS. 
From "English Bards and Scotch IvEviewers." 
A mau must serve his time to every trade 
Save censure — critics all aro ready-made. 
Take hackneyed jokes from Miller, got by rote, 
With just enough of learning to misquote; 
A mind well skilled to find or forgo a fault; 
A turn for punning, — -call it Attic salt; 
To Jeffrey go ; bo silent aud discreet. 
His p.'iy is just ten sterling pounds per sheet. 
Fi'ar not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky hit: 
Shrink not from blasphemy, "twill pass for wit ; 
Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, 
Aud stand a critic, bated yet caressed. 



404 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. 

Maid of Atheua, ere we part, 
Give, oh give me back my heart ! 
Or, since that has left my hreast, 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go — 
Zw^ juoi; ai'iQ ayuTrw. 

By those tresses unconfiiied, 
Wooed by each iEgeaii wind ; 
Bj' those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
Zwi; jKov *Ta^ ayaTcw. 

By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 
By all the token-flowers that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 
Zw// fiov aa£ dyrtTrw. 

Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
Though I fly to Istamljol, 
Athens holds my heart and sonl : 
Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
Zw// ^lov (JW2 ayaTTw. 



TO THOMAS MOOEE. 

My boat is on the shore, 

And my bark is on the sea ; 

Bnt, before I go, Tom Moore, 
Here's a double health to thee! 

Here's a sigh to those who love me, 
And a smile to those who hate ; 

And, whatever sky's above me. 
Here's a heart for every fate. 

Though the ocean roar aronnd me, 
Yet it still .sh.all bear me on ; 

Though a desert should surround me, 
It hath springs that may be won. 

Were't the last drop in the well, 
As I gasped upon the brink. 

Ere my fainting spii-it fell, 

'Tis to thee that I wonld drink. 



With that water as this wine. 

The libation I would pour 
Would be — peace with thine and mine, 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 



SONNET ON CHILLON. 

Eternal spirit of the chalnless mind ! 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art ; 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee aloue can bind ; 
And when thy sous to fetters are consigned — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom. 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
Aud Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 
And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod. 
Until his very steps have left a trace 
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 
By Bonnivard ! — May none those marks efface ! 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING 
CLAY. 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay. 

Ah, whither strays the immortal mind ? 
It cannot die, it cannot stay. 

But leaves its darkened dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps each planet's heavenly way? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey? 

Eternal, boundless, nudecayed, 

A thought uuseeu, bnt seeing all, 
All, all in earth, or skies displayed. 

Shall it survej', shall it recall : 
Each fainter tr.ace that meniorj' holds. 

So darkly of departed years, 
In one broad glance the soul beholds. 

And all, that was, at once appears. 

Before creation peopled earth, 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 
And where the farthest heaven had birth, 

The spirit trace its rising track. 
And where the future mars or makes. 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
While sun is quenched or system breaks, 

Fixed in its own eternity. 



LORD liYHUy—RICIIAUD nAlililS BJRUAM. 



405 



Above, or love, hope, hate, or fear, 

It lives all passionless and pure ; 
All age sliall llect like earthly year; 

Its years as moments shall cmlure. 
Away, away, without a wing, 

OVr all, through all, its thoughts shall lly ; 
A nameless ami eternal thing 

Forgetting ^hat it vas to die 



FK'OM "XnE PROPHECY OF DANTE." 

CANTO IV. 

Many are poets who have never penned 
Tlieir inspiration, and perchance the best: 
Tlioy felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend 

Their thouglits to meaner beings ; they compressed 
The god witbiu them, and rejoined the stars 
iriilaurelled upon earth, but far more blessed 

Than those who are degraded by the jars 
Of passion, and their frailties linked to fame, 
t'oniincrors of high renown, but full of scars. 

Many are poets, but without tho name ; 
For what is poesy but to create 
From ovcrfeeling good or ill ; and aim 

At an external life beyond our fate, 

And be the new Proinethens of now men. 
Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late, 

Finding tho pleasure given repaid with pain. 
And vultures to tho heart of tho bestowcr, 
Wlio, having lavished his high gift in vain. 

Lies chained to his lone rock by tho sea-shore! 
.**(> be it; we can bear. — But thus all they 
AVliosc intellect is an o'ermasteriug power. 

Which still recoils fioui its eiicnmbering clay, 
< >r lightens it to spirit, what.soe'er 
The fiunis wliich their creations may essay. 

Are bards; the kiiidleil marble's bust may we.ir 
More poesy upon its .speaking brow 
Thau aught less than the Homeric page may bear; 

Olio noble stroke with a whole life may glow. 
Or deify tlie canva-s till it shiiio 
With beauty so surpassing all below, 

That they who kneel to idols so divine 

Break no commandment, for high heaven is there 
Transfused, transliguratcd : and the line 

Of poesy which peoples but tlic air 

With thought and beings of our Ihonght reflected, 
Can do no more: tlieii let tho artist share 

The p^ihn, he shares the peril, and dejected 
Faints o'er tlie labor nnaiiprovcd — Alas! 
Despair and genius are too oft connected. 



Uicljarb Cjiarris I3avl)i\m. 

Barham ( 17SS-1S1.5) was a native of London. lie stud- 
ied for the ministry, and beeainc a minor canon of St. 
Paul's, and rector of St. Augustine and St. Faitli's, Lon- 
don. He wrote, for Bcntlei/x Miscdlan;/, the "Ingoldsby 
Legends," which came out in numbers, and were subse- 
quently collected in tlirce serial vohiincs. It was the 
great literary success of his life. Since the days of But- 
ler's "Hudibras," the drollery that can be invested in 
rliymes has rarely been so amply or felicitously excm- 
pliQed. A Life of Barham, by bis son, appeared in 1870. 



THE JACKDAW OF RHELMS. 

The Jackdaw .sat on tho Cardinal's chair. 
Bishop and abbot and prior were there ; 

Many a mouk and many a friar. 

Many a knight and many a squire, 
With a great many ntore of lesser degree, — 
In sooth, a goodly company; 
And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. 

Never, I ween. 

Was a prouder seen, 
Read of in books or dreamed of in dreams. 
Than tho Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Klicims ! 

Ill and out, 

Tlirough the niotlej' ront. 
The little Jackdaw kept hopping about ; 

Hero and there. 

Like a dog in a fair. 

Over coinlits and cates, 

And dishes and plates, 
Cowl and cope and rochet and pall. 
Mitre and crosier, he hopped upon all. 

With a saucy air 

He perched on tho chair 
Wliere in state tlie great Lord Cardinal sat. 
In the gre.-it Lord Cardinal's great red hat : 

And he jieered in tho face 

Of his Lordship's grace, 
With a .satisfied look, as if to say, 
" We two are the greatest folks here to-day 1" 

And tlie priests with awe, 

As sncli freaks they saw, 
Said, "Tlie devil must be in tliat little Jackdaw." 

The feast was over, the board was cleared. 
The flawns and tho custards had all disappeared. 
Ami six little singing-buys, — ile.ir little souls I — 
In nice clean faces and nice white stoles, 

Came, in order due, 

Two by two, 



406 



cycloi'j<:dia of British and American poetry. 



MarcUiug that grand refectory through ! 
A nice little boy held a golden ewer, 
Embossed and filled with water as pure 
As any that flows between Eheims and Namnr, 
Wliich a nice little boy stood ready to catch 
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. 
Two nice little boys, rather more grown, 
Ponred lavender-water and ean-de-cologue ; 
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap 
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope ! 

Olio little boy more 

A napkin bore 
Of the bed-white diaper fringed with pink, 
And a cardinal's hat marked in permanent ink. 

The great Lord Cardinal turns at tho sight 
Of these nice little boys dressed all in white ; 

From his finger he draws 

His costly tnrquoisc ; 
And not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, 

Deposits it straight 

By the side of his plate, 
While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait; 
Till, when nobody's dreaming of any snch thing, 
That little Jackdaw hops oft' with the ring! 

There's a cry and a shout, 

And a deuce of a rout, 
And nobody seems to know what he's about. 
But the monks have their iiockets all turned inside 
out : 

The friars are kneeling, 

And hunting and feeling 
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. 

The Cardinal drew 

Oft' each plnm-eolored shoe, 
And left his red stockings exposed to tho view ; 

He peeps, and he feels 

In the toes and the heels. 
They turn up the dishes, — they turn up the plates, — 
They take up the poker, and poke out the grates; 

They turn up the rugs, 

They examine the mugs ; 

But no ! — no such thing — 

They can't find the ring ! 
And the Abbot declared that " when nobody twig- 
ged it. 
Some rascal or other had ijopped in and prigged it!'' 

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, 

Ho called for his candle, his bell, and his book ! 

In holy anger and pious grief 

Ho solemnly cursed that rascally thief! 



He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed ; 
From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head ; 
He cnrsed him in sleeping, that every night 
He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright. 
He cursed him in eating, he cur.sed him in drinking; 
He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; 
He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying ; 
He cursed hira in walking, in riding, in flying; 
Ho cursed him living, he cursed him dying ! — ■ 
Never was heard such a terrible curse! 

But what gave rise 

To no little surprise, 
Nobody seemed one penny the worse ! 

Tlie day was gone. 

The night came on. 
The monks and the friars they searched till dawn ; 

When the sacri-stan saw. 

On crumpled claw, 
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw! 

No longer gay, 

As ou yesterday ; 
His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way : 
His pinions drooped, he could hardly stand, 
His head was as bald as the palm of your hand ; 

His eye so dim. 

So wasted each limb, 
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, " Tiiat'.s 

him! 
That's the scamii that h.is done this scandalous 

thing. 
That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's 
RING !" 

The poor little Jackdaw, 

When the monks ho saw, 
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw ; 
And turned his bald head as much as to say, 
" Pray be so good as to walk this way !" 

Slower and slower 

Ho limped on before, 
Till they came to the back of the belfry door, 

Where tho first thing they fsaw, 

'Jlid the sticks and the straw. 
Was the ring in tho nest of that little Jackdaw ! 

Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book, 
And otf that terrible curse he took ; 

The mute expression 

Served in lieu of confession. 
And, being thus coupled with full restitution, 
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution ! 

When those words were heard 

That iioor little bird 



i 



nrcH.iui) n.ii;r;is iiaiii[am.—thomas phlsgle. 



407 



Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absnid: 

He grew sleek and fat; 

lu addition to that, 
A thick croi) of feathers came, thick as a mat : 

His tail waggled more 

Than ever before ; 
But uo longer it wagged with an impudent air, 
No longer he perched on the Cardinal's eliair. 

Ho hopped now about 

With a gait quite devout ; 
At matins, at vespers, he never was out ; 
And, SI) far from any more pilfering deeds, 
He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads. 
If any cue lied, or if any one swore. 
Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore. 

That good Jackdaw 
■ Would give a great " Caw I" 
As much as to say, '■ Don't do so any more I'* 
While many remarked, as his manners they saw. 
That they "never had known such a pious Jack- 
daw !•' 

He long lived the pride 

Of that country-side. 
And at last in the odor of sanctity died; 

When, as words were too faint 

His merits to paint. 
The Conclave determined to make him a Saint. 
And on newly-made .Saints and I'opes, as you know. 
It's the custom at Home new nanu>s to bestow ; 
So they canonized him by the name of Jem Crow! 



vLlionuiG ]h\\\a\ 



SOXG. 



'Tis sweet to think the pure etlicreal being. 
Whose mortal form reposes with the dead, 

.Still hovers round unseen, yet not unseeing. 
Benignly smiling o'er the mourner's bed! 

She comes in dreams, a thing of light and lightness ; 

I hear her voice in still small aeccuts tell 
<»f realms of bliss and never-fading brightness. 

Where those who loved on earth together dwell. 

Ah. yet awhile, blessed shade, thy flight delaying, 
The kindred soul with mystic converse cheer; 

To her rapt gaze, in visions bland, di.splayiug 
The unearthly glories of thy happier sphere ! 

Yet, yet remain ! till freed like thee, delighted, 
She spurns thi' thraldom of encinnbering clay; 

Then, as on earth, in tenderest love united, 
Together seek the realms of endless day! 



Pringle (1TSS-1S;>4) was a native of Roxburghshire, 
Scotland, lie was the author of "Scenes of Teviotdale, 
Epliemerides, and other Poems," all showing line feel- 
ing and a cultivated taste. In 1820 lie emigiatcd to the 
Cape of Good Hope with his father and several broth- 
ers ; but from lameness, caused by an accident when 
young, Thomas was ill litted for a life of hardship. He 
loturned to England, and got a living by his pen. He 
edited a literary annual, entitled "Fricnilsliip's Offer- 
ing," and wrote a scries of "African Sketches," con- 
taining an interesting personal narrative. His poem, 
"Afar in the Desert," was much admired by Coleridge. 
It was repeatedly altered. Tringle's " Poetical Works," 
with a memoir by Leitch Ritchie, appeared in ISJO. 



AI'AU IX Tin: DICSKKT. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
With the silent bush-boy alone by my side : 
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast. 
And, sick of the Tresent, I cling to the Past; 
When the eye is sntl'used with regretful tears, 
From the fond recollections of former years ; 
And shadows of things that have long since fled 
Flit over the brain like the ghosts of the dead ; 
And my native land, whose magical name 
Tlirills to my heart like electric llame ; 
The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime; 
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time 
When the feelings were youug, and the world was 

new ; 
Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view; — 
All — all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone ! 
And I, a lone exile, remembered of none ; 
My high aims abandoned, my good acts iindoue, 
Aweary of all that is under the sun, — 
With that s.adness of heart wliiih no stranger may 

scan, 
I fly to the desert, afar from man I 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
With the silent bush-boy alone by my side: 
When the wild turnmil of this wearisonii- life. 
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and St rife — 
Tlio proud man's frown, and the b.ise man's fear ; 
The scorucr's laugh, and the sufferer's tear, — 
And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly, 
Dispose ine to musing and dark nii'lancholy : 
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high, 
.Vnd my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh: 
Oh, then there is fi-ecdom, and joy, and pride. 
Afar iu the desert alone to ride ! 



408 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



There is rapture to vault on the champing steecl, 
Aud. to bound away with the eagle's speed, 
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand — 
The only law of the desert laud. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride, 

With the silent bush-hoy alone by my side ; 

Away, away from the dwelliugs of men, 

By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen ; 

By valleys remote, where the Oribi plays, 

Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebecst graze. 

And the kinlti and eland unluuited recline 

By the skirts of gray forests o'erhung with wild vine ; 

Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood, 

Aud the river-horse gambols unscared iu the flood, 

Aud the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will 

In the feu where the wild-ass is driukiug his iill. 

Afar iu the desert I love to ride. 
With the silent bush-boy alone by my side ; 
O'er the brown Karroo, where the bleating cry 
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively ; 
Aud the timorous qnagga's shrill whistling neigh 
Is heard by the fouutaiu at twilight gray ; 
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane, 
With wild hoof scoirriug the desolate plain ; 
Aud the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste 
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, 
Hieing away to the homo of her rest, 
Where she aud her mate have scooped their nest, 
Far hid from the [litiless jdunderer's view 
In (lie pathless depths of tlio parched Karroo. 

Afar in the desert I love to ride. 

With the silent bush-boy alone by my side; 

Away, away iu the wilderness vast, 

Where the white mau's foot hath never passed. 

And the quivered C'oranna or Bechuan 

Hath rarely crossed with his roving clau : 

A region of emptiness, howling and drear, 

Wliich Man hath abandoned from famiue aud fear; 

Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone. 

With the twilight bat from the yawning stone ; 

Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, 

Save poisonous thorus that pierce the foot ; 

And the bitter melon, for food and drink, 

Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink : 

A region of drought, where no river glides, 

Nor rippling brook with osiered sides ; 

Where sedgy jiool, inir bubbling fount, 

Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, 

Appears to refresh the aching eve ; 

But the barren earth, and the burning skv, 



Aud the blank horizon, round and round. 
Spread — void of living sight or sound. 

And here, while the night-wiuds round me sigh, 
Aud the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, 
As I sit apart by the desert stone. 
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone, 
'■'A still small voice" comes through the wild 
(Like a father cousoling his fretful child), 
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, 
Saying, "Man is distant, but God is near!" 



THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL. 

Our native land — our native vale — 

A long and last adieu ! 
Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, 

And Cheviot's mountains blue. 

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds. 
And streams renowned in song ! 

Farewell, ye blithesome braes and meads 
Our hearts have loved so loug ! 

Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes, 
Where thyme and harebells grow — 

Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes, 
O'erhung with birk and sloe! 

The battle-mound, the Border tower. 

That Scotia's annals tell ; 
The martyr's grave, the lover's bower — ■ 

To each, to all — farewell! 

Homo of our hearts ! our father's home ! 

Land of the brave and free ! 
The sail is flapping ou the foam 

That hears us far from thee ! 

We seek a wild and distant shore, 

Beyoud the Atlantic main ; 
We leave thee to return no more. 

Or view thy cliffs again ! 

But nuiy dishonor Ijligbt our fame, 
Aud quench our household fires, 

Wljcn we, or ours, forget thy name. 
Green island of our siies ! 

Onr native land — our native vale — 

A long and last adieu ! 
Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, 

And Scotland's mountains blue ! 



WILLIAM rnOM.—JAMES ABRAHAM UILLHOVSE. 



409 



llViHiam ^l)oin. 



Anion? the uncilucatdi jioels Tliom (178'J-l!vl!S) de- 
serves !in honorable mention. He was a native of Aber- 
deen, Scotland, and learned to read and write before he 
was ten yeai-s old. His life tbcneeforth was one of la- 
bor and vieissitude. Ilis occupation was first tliat of a 
weaver; be married, and took up that of a peddler. In 
tills he incurred penury and snllVrin!;, so that he often 
bad to liiul bis lodi;"iiiL:;s in cold burns ; and on one of 
these occasions a child of his own perished from starva- 
tion and exposure. In 1840 he removed to Inverury, and 
while there be^'iin to write poetry, which attracted pub- 
lic attention. He was enabled to go to London, and in 
1S44 published " Rh.^cs and Rccollcelions of a Hand- 
loom Weaver." The volume was well received; and, on 
a second visit to London, he was entertained at a public 
dinner. Keturning to Scotland, he took up his abode in 
Dundee ; and, after a period of poverty and distress, died 
there at the ai;o of fifty-nine. Some of his poems are 
remarkable for tenderness and grace, combined with 
stronjr reliirious convictions. 



THE MITIIERLESS BAIRN. 

When a' ithcr bairnics are hushed to their hanie 
liy annty, or cousiu, or frccky graml-dame, 
Wha stau's last an' lauely, an' naobody cariii' f 
'Tis the pair doited loouie, the mitherle.ss bairn ! 

The initlu'iless Iiairii ;;anj;s to liis lane lied; 
Xaiie covers his canld back, or hap.s bis bare head; 
His wee hackit lieelies are hard as the airu, 
An' litheless the lair o' the mithcrless bairn. 

Aniath his eaiilil brow siecan dreams hover tliere, 
O' hands that wont kindly to kanie his dark hair; 
liut mornin' bring.s clutches, a' reckless an' stern, 
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn. 

Yon sister, that sang o'er his saftly-rocked bed, 
Xow rests in llic inools where her mainniie is laid; 
Tlic father toils sair their wee bannock to cam, 
An' kens ua' the wrangs <>' his mitherless bairn. 

Her Hjiirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth, 
.Still walches his wearisome wanderings on earth, 
Keconling in heaven the blessings they earn 
Wha conthilio deal wi' the mitherless bairii ! 

Oh, speak him na harshly : he trembles the while ; 
He bends to yonr bidding, and blesses your smile: 
In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall 

learn 
That God deals the blow for the uiithcrlcss bairu ! 



DREAMIXGS OF THE BEREAVED. 

The morning breaks bonny o'er monntaiu an' stream, 
An' troubles the hallow<^d breath o' my dream ; 
The govvd light of morning is sweet to the e'e, 
But, ghost-gathering midnight, thou'rt dearer to me! 
The dull common world then sinks from my sight. 
An' fairer creations arise to the night ; 
When drowsy oppression has sleep-sealed my e'e. 
Then bright are the visions awakened to mo ! 

Oh, come, spirit-mother! discourse of the hours 
My young bosom beat all its beating to yours, 
When heart-woven wishes in soft counsel fell 
On ears — how unhecdfnl proved sorrow might tell ! 
That deathless aH'ection nae trial could break ; 
When a' else forsook me, ye wouldna forsake : 
Then come, O my mother ! come often to me. 
An' soon au' forever I'll come unto thee ! 

An' then, shrouded loveliness! soul-winning .lean. 
How cold was thy hand on my bosom yi'streen ! 
'Twas kind — for the lowc that your e"e kindled there 
Will burn, ay, an' burn till that breast beat nae mair. 
Our bairnics sleep rouud me : oh, bless ye their sleep! 
Yonr ain dark-e'ed Willie will wankeu an' weep! 
But, blithe in his wecpiu', he'll tell me how you, 
His heaveu-hamed uiammie, was dantin' his brow. 

Tho' dark be our dwallin', our happin' Iho' bare, 
Au' night closes rouud ns in cauldiiess an' care. 
Affection will warm us — au' bright arc the beams 
That halo our hame in you dear laud o' dreams : 
Thou weel may I welcome the night's deathy reign, 
AVi' souls of tho dearest I mingle nio tlieu ; 
The gowd light of morning is lightless to me, 
But oh for tho night wi' its ghost revelric ! 



Panics ^bral)iiin t)illl)ousc. 

AMERICAN. 

Hillhouse (1789-1841) w.is a native of New Ilavcn, and 
n graduate of Yale, of the class of 1S08. He passed three 
years in Boston, preparing for a inereantilc career. Tlie 
war checked his enterprises, and he betook himself to 
dramatic composition. After the peace he engaged in 
commerce in New York. He visited England in 1819; 
and Zachaiy Maeaulay, father of Lord Macaulay, spoke 
of him as "the most accoinpli.»hed young iiiaii with 
whom he was acquainted." Withdrawing from busi- 
ness, he married, and removed to a country -scat near 
New Haven, where the remainder of his life was passed 
in elegant leisure. There lie produced the drama of 



410 



CTCLOrMDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



"Hadad," published in 1825. It is written witli consid- 
erable power, and shows great refinement of taste and 
piiritj' of diction. In it the machinery of the supernat- 
ural is introduced. 



INTERVIEW OF HADAD AND TAMAR. 

From " Hadad." 

The. garden, of Ab.salom's home on Mount Zion, near 

the palace overlookbuj the viti/. Tamar sittbig hi/ a 

fountain. 

Tamar. IIow aromatic evening grows! The flowers 
And spicy shrul).s exhale like onyclui ; 
Spikenard and henna emnlate iu sweets. 
Blessed licuir! which He, who fashioned it .so fair, 
So softly glowing, so contemplative, 
Hath set, and sanctified Co look on man. 
And lo ! tho smoke of evening sacrifice 
Ascends from out the tabernacle. — Heaven 
Accept the expiation, and forgive 
This da}''s offences! — Ha! the wonted strain, 
Precnrsor of his coming ! — WUence can this ? 
It seems to flow from some unearthly hand — 

Enter Hadau. 

Hadad. Docs beauteous Tamar view iu this clear 
foun t 
Herself or heaven ? 

Tarn. Nay, Hadad, tell me whence 

Those sad, mysterious sounds. 

Had. What sound.s, dear princess? 

Tarn. Surely, thou kuow'st ; and now I almost 
think 
Some spiritual creature waits on thee. 

Had. I heard no sounds but such as evening sends 
Up IVom the city to these quiet sliades — 
A blended murmur, sweetly harmonizing 
With flowing fountains, feathered minstrelsy. 
And voices from the hills. 

Tarn. The sounds I nican 

Floated like mournful uuisic round my head 
From unseen fingers. 

Had. When ? 

Tarn. Now, as thou earnest. 

Had. 'Tis but thy fancy, wrought 
To ecstasy ; or else thy grandsire's harp 
Kcsounding from his tower at even-tide. 
I've lingered to enjoy its solemn tones 
Till the broad moon, that rose o'er Olivet, 
Stood listening in the zeuith ; yea, have deemed 
Viols and heavenly voices answer him. 

Tam. But these — 

Had. Were we iu Syria, I might say 

The Naiad of the fount, or some sweet nymph, 



The goddess of these shades, rejoiced iu thee, 
Aud gave thee salutations ; but I fear 
Judah would call me infidel to Moses. 

Tam. How like my fancy! When these strains 
precede 
Thy steps, as oft they do, I love to think 
Some gentle being who delights in us 
Is hovering near, and warns me of thy coming ; 
But they are dirge-like. 

Had. Youthful fantasy 

Attuned to sadness-makes them seem so, lady; 
So evening's charming voices, welcomed ever 
As signs, of rest and peace; — the watchman's call, 
The closing gates, the Levite's mellow trump. 
Announcing the returning moon, the pipe 
Of swains, tho bleat, the bark, the housing-bell, 
Send melancholy to a drooping soul. 

Tam. But how delicious are the pensive dreams 
That steal upon the fancy at their call ! 

Had. Delicious to behold the world at rest ! 
Meek labor wipes his brow, aud intermits 
The curse to clasp the youuglings of his cot ; 
Herdsmen and shepherds fold their flocks, — and 

hark ! 
What merry strains they send from Olivet! 
The jar of life is still ; the city speaks 
In gentle murmurs ; voices chime with lutes 
Waked in the streets and gardens ; loving pairs 
Eye tho red west iu one another's arms ; 
And nature, breathing dew aud fragrance, yields 
A glimpse of happiness which He who formed 
Earth and the stars hath power to make eternal. 



lUilUam Kno 



V. 



Knox (1789-1S25) was a young Scottish poet of consid- 
erable talent, who died iu Edinburgh, aud was the author 
of "The Lonely Hearth," "Songs of Zion," "The Harp 
of Zion," etc. Sir Walter Scott thus mentions him in 
his diary: "His father was a respectable yeoman, and 
he himself succeeding to good farms under the Duke of 
Buccleuch, became too soon his own master, and plunged 
into dissipation and ruin. His talent then showed itself 
in a fine strain of pensive poetry." The piece we quote 
was a favorite with Abraliam Lincoln, President of the 
United States. He often referred to it. There are sev- 
eral versions of the poem. We have given the most au- 
thentic. 



OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL 
BE PROUD? 

Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal bo proud ? 
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 



IIILLIJM KXOX. — WILLIAM GLEX. 



411 



A tl.isU of the lif;litiiiiig, a break of tlio wave, 
III' ]ia.sses from life to his rest in the grave. 

Tlio leaves of tlio oak and tlie willow shall fade, 

He scattered aiouiid, and together be laid : 

And the young and tlio old, and the low and the 

high 
Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie. 

The infant a mother attended and loved, 
The mother that infant's afleetiou who jiroved, 
The linsliand that mother and infant who blessed, 
Kach, all, are away to their dwelliug of rest. 

The maid on whoso cheek, on whose brow, in whose 

eye 
Shone beauty and pleasure — her triumphs are liy ; 
And the memory of those that beloved her and 

praised 
Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne; 
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn; 
The eyo of the sage, and the heart of the brave. 
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. 

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap ; 
The herdsman, who elimbed with his goats to the 

steep ; 
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread, 
Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 

The saint, who enjoyed the coniniuiiion of heaven ; 
The sinner, who dared to remain unfiirgiven ; 
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, 
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 

So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed 
, That wither away to let others succeed; 

So till' multitude conies, even those we behold. 
To repeat every tale that hath often been told. 

I For we are the same that our fathers have been ; 
We see the same sights our fathers have seen ; 
We drink the same stream. and wc feel the same sun, 
And run the same course that our fathers have run. 

Tbo thoughts wo arc thinking our fathers would 

think : 
From the death wo are shrinking onr fathers would 

shrink ; 
To the life wo are clinging they also would cling; 
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. 



They loved, but the story we cannot nnfold ; 
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ; 
They grieved, but no wail from their .slumbers may 

come ; 
They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb. 

They died — ay, they died ! and we, things that are 

now. 
Who walk on the tnif that lies over their brow. 
Who make in their dwelling a transient abode, 
Jleet the changes they met ou their pilgrimage ro.ad. 

Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and paiu. 
Are mingled together like siiushiiio and rain ; 
And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge 
Still follow each other, like surge iipou surge. 

'Tisthc twink of an eye, 'tis the diaiight of a breath. 
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death. 
From the gilded Siiloon to the bier and the shroud ; 
Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal bo proud ? 



lllilliam (fMcii. 



Among Scottish song-writers, Glen (I7S9-1S26), a na- 
tive of Glasgow, acquired considerable popnlarity. He 
was well ciUicatcd, and bred to mercantile pursuits, re- 
siding for sonic time in the West Indies. Bui he was 
unfortunate in business, and liis life, toward its close, 
was clouded by destitution and dependence. He died 
of cousuuiption. In 1S15 lie published "Poems, chicHy 
Lyrical." 

WAE'.S SIE FOR PRIXCE CHARLIE. 

A wee bird cam' to onr li.i' door. 

He warbled sweet an' clearly, 
An' aye the owerconie o' his sang 

Was, "Wae's mo for Prince CMiarlie!"' 
Oh! whan I heard the bonnie sonu". 

The tears cam' drappiu' rarely; 
I took my baiiuet aft' my head, 

For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie. 

Quoth I, "My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, 

Is that a s.Tiig ye borrow ? 
Are these some words ye've learned by heart. 

Or a lilt' o' dule an' sorrow f" 
" Oh no, no, no !" tho wco bird sang, 

" I've flown sin' morniii' early, 
But sic a day o' wind and rain ! — 

Oh ! wae's mo for Prince Charlie ! 

' A bnllnd or eoni; ; (o HU, to Blng, 



412 



CrCLOPJEDIA OF BllITISH AXD AMEIUCAN POETRY. 



"Oil hills that are by rigbt liis aiii, 

He roves a lanely stranger ; 
Oil every sitle he's pressed by waut — 

Ou every side is danger. 
Yestreen I met him in a gleu, 

Jly lieart maist burstit fairly, 
For sadly changed indeed was be — 

Ob! -wae's me for Prince Charlie! 

" Dark night cam' on, the temjicst roared 

Loud o'er the bills an' valleys ; 
An' whare was't that your iirince lay down, 

■\Vhase hame should been a jialace ? 
He rowed him in a Highland plaid, 

Which covered him but sparely, 
An' slept beneath a bush o' broom, — 

Oh ! wae's me for Priuce Charlie !" 

But now the bird saw some red-coats, 

An' he shook his wings wi' auger : 
" Oh ! this is no a laud for me, 

I'll tarry here nae lauger." 
Ho hovered on the wing awhile, 

Ere he departed fairly ; 
But weel I mind tlie fareweol strain 

Was, " Wae's me for Pi'ince Charlie !'' 



Uicljarii fjcnnj llHlbc. 

Wilde (1789-1847), a native of Dublin, Ireland, came 
to America in 171)7, and settled in Georgia. lie became 
attorney-general of that State, and represented it in Con- 
gross most of the time fi'om 1815 to 1835. He was a 
genial, noble -hearted gentleman, with decided literary 
tastes. We have pleasant recollections of our acquaint- 
ance with liini in Washington. 



SONNET: TO THE MOCKING-BIRD. 

Winged mimic of the woods! thon motley fool! 
W^bo shall thy gay buffoonery describe ? 
Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule 
Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe : 
Wit, sophist, songster, Yoriek of thy tribe, 
Thon sportive satirist of Nature's school ; 
To thee the palm of scoffiug we ascribe. 
Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule ! 
For such thou art by day, — bnt all night long 
Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain, 
As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song 
Like to the melancholy Jacques complain, 
Musing ou falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong, 
And sighing for thy motley coat again. 



STANZAS. 

My life is like the summer rose 

That opens to the morning sky, 
But ere the shades of evening close 

Is scattered on the ground — to die ! 
Yet on the rose's linmble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are slied. 
As if she wept the waste to see — 
But none shall weep a tear for me ! 

My life is like the antumu leaf 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray ; 
Its bold is frail, its date is brief. 

Restless — and soon to pass away ! 
Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade 
The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
The winds bewail the leafless tree — 
But none shall breathe a sigh for luc ! 

My life is like the prints which feet 
Have left ou Tampa's desert strand ; 

Soon as the rising tide shall beat. 
All trace will vanish from the sand ; 

Yet, as if grieving to efface 

All vestige of the human race. 

On that lone shore loud moans the sea — 

But none, alas! shall mourn for me! 



i^lcianbcr t)iU (fucvctt. 



Everett (1790-1847) was a native of Boston, and a 
graduate of Harvard. He entered college at the age of 
twelve, and graduated the first in his class. He studied 
law with John Quincy Adams, went with him as secre- 
tary of legation to Russia in 1809, served as Minister to 
Spain in 1829, and on his return Innne edited the North 
American Sevieu: He was President of Jefferson College, 
Louisiana, in 1841. In 1846 he went to Canton as United 
States Minister to the Chinese Empire, and died there at 
the age of fifty-seven. He was a frequent contributor 
to the Boston Miscdlany, and in 184(! published two vol- 
umes of "Critical and Miscellaneous Essays, with Poems." 
He was a brother of Edward Everett and John, both of 
them writers of poetry. 



THE YOUNG AMERICAN. 

Scion of a mighty stock ! 
Hands of iron — hearts of oak — 
Follow with nnflinching tread 
Where the noble fathers led. 



ALEXANDER BILL EVERETT.— THOMAS DOCBLEDAT.— CHARLES WOLEE. 



413 



Craft and subtlo treachery, 
Gallant youth ! are not for theo ; 
Follow thou in word and deeds 
Wliero the God within theo leads! 

lloiii'sty with stonily cyo, 

Tiiitli and pnro simplicity, 

Love that gently wiuueth hearts, — 

These shall he thy only arts: 

rrudt-nt in the council train, 
Dauntless on the battle-plain, 
Keady at the country's need 
For her glorious cause to bleed ! 

Where the dews of night distil 
I'pon Vernon's holy hill ; 
Where above it, glianiing far, 
Freedom lights her guiding star : 

Thither turn the steady eye, 
Flashing with a purpose high; 
Thither, with devotion meet. 
Often turn the pilgrim feet! 

Let the uoblo motto be, 
God, — the Country — Liberty ! 
Planted on Keligiou's rock. 
Thou shalt stand iu every shock. 

Laugh at danger far or near ! 
.Spurn at baseness — spurn at fear ! 
Still, with persevering might, 
Speak the truth, and do the right. 

So shall Peace, a charming guest, 
Dove-like in thy bosom rest ; 
So shall Honor's steady blaze 
Ueaui upon thy closing days. 

Happy if celestial favor 
Smile upon the high endeavor; 
Happy if it bo thy call 
III the holv cause to fall. 



iri)oinaG Donlilcbaij. 

Doiilileday (1T'J0-1«T0), a native of England, w.is the 
associate niitlior of a little volume of vcr.-e jmblishcd in 
ISIS, and entitled "Sixty-five Sonnets: with Prefatory 
Remarks on the accordance of the Sonnet with tlic pow- 
ers of the English Language. Also a few Miscellaneous 



Poems :" the joint production of Doubleday and his 
consin, William Greene. Doubleday afterward rose to 
eminence as a writer on political, social, and linaneial 
subjects. 



THE W.VLLFLOWKK. 

I will not praise the often-flattered rose, 
Or, virgin-like, with blushing charms half seen, 
Or when, iu dazzling splendor, like a queen. 
All her magniliccuec of state she shows ; 
No, uor that nnu-liko lily which l)ut blows 
Beneath the valley's cool ;ind shady screen ; 
Nor yet the sunflower, that with warrior mien 
Still eyes the orb of glory whero it glows ; 
But thou, neglected wallflower! to my breast 
And JIuso art dearest, — wildest, sweetest flower ! 
To whom alone the privilege is given 
I'rondly to root thyself above the rest. 
As Genius does, and from thy rocky tower 
Lend fragrance to the purest breath of heaven. 



Olljavlcs lUolfc. 



Wolfe (1791-1S-23) was a native of Dublin. On the 
death of Ids father, his mother removed to Eniiland, and 
placed Charles at Hyde Abbey School, in Winchester, 
where he remained till 1808, when the family returned to 
Ireland. lie tlicn entered Trinity College, where he ac- 
quired distinction for scholarship and literary ability. 
In 1817 he obtained a curacy iu Tyrone. Ili.s incessant 
attention to his parish duties undermined his delicate 
constitution, and he died young of consumption. His 
lines on the "Burial of Sir John Moore" were pro- 
nounced b}' Byron " the most perfect ode in the lan- 
guiige." But Wolfe's song, "Go, forget me," is hardly 
less deserving of praise. It is unsurpassed in delicacy 
of pathos, and has been wedded to n))propriate music. 
His "Remains" were published in 1S2C. 



Tin: i!rin.\L of sir .ioiix jiooke. 

Etc was killed .nt Cornnn.T, where lie fell iit the arms of vic- 
tory, ISW. Witli Iiit* dying broilli lie faltered out a mcepnge to 
his mother. Sir John Moore h.id oflcu faid that if he were kill- 
ed in battle, he wished to t)e buried where he fell. Tlic body 
was removed nt midnight to the citadel of Coriinnn. A prnvc 
WU8 dugr for him on the rampnrt there by n party of the I>lh Keg- 
inicnt, the nidcs-tte-camp attending: i>y tuin.". No colBu could 
be procured; and the officers of liis staflf wrapped the t>mly, 
dres.«cd as it was, in a military clonlt and blankets. The inter- 
ment was hastened, fur about eight iu the moruing some firing 
was heard. 

Not .1 drum w.as heard, mit a funeral imte. 
As his corse to the ram]>art wo hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero wo buried. 



414 



CYCLOPJiDlA OF ISEITISH AND AMERICAN POETBY. 



Wo buried Iiim darkly, at dead of night, 
Tlie sods with our hayoucts turning ; 

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No tiseless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And wo spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead. 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

TLat the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his 
head. 
And wo far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 

But little he'll reek if they let him .sleep on 
lu the grave where a Briton has laid him ! 

But half of our heavy task was done 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly tiring. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down. 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, and wo raised not a stone — 
But we left him alone with his glory ! 



IF I HAD THOUGHT. 

If I had thought thou conldst have died, 

I might not weep for thee ; 
But I forgot, when by thy side. 

That thou conldst mortal be : 
It never through my mind had jiassed 

The time wonld e'er be o'er, 
And I on thee should look my last. 

And thou shouhlst smile no more ! 

And still upon that face I look, 
And think 'twill smile again ; 

And still the thought I will not brook 
That I must look in vain : 



But, when I speak, thou dost not say 
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; 

And now I feel, as well I may. 
Sweet Mary, thou art dead ! 

If thou wonldst stay even as thou art, 

All cold and all serene, 
I still might press thy silent heart. 

And where thy smiles have been : 
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, 

Thou seemest still mine own ; 
But there! I lay thee in thy grave. 

And I am now alone. 

I do not think, where'er thou art. 

Thou hast forgotten me ; 
And I, perhaps, maj' soothe this heart 

In thinking too of thee ; 
Yet there was round thee snch a dawn 

Of light ne'er seen before. 
As fancy never could have drawn, 

And never can restore. 



GO, FORGET ME. 

Go, forget mo — why should sorrow 
O'er that brow a shadow fling ? 

Go, forget me — and to-morrow 
Brightly smile and sweetly sing. 

Smile — though I shall not bo near thee ; 

Sing — though I shall never hear thee : 
May thy soul with pleasure shine 
Lasting as the gloom of mine. 

Like the sun, thy presence glowing. 
Clothes the meanest things iu light ; 

And when thon, like him, art going, 
Loveliest objects fade in night. 

All things looked so bright about thee. 

That they nothing seem without thee ; 
By that iiure and lucid mind 
Earthly things were too refined. 

Go, thou vision, wildly gleaming. 

Softly on my soul that fell ; 
Go, for me no longer beaming — 

Hope and Beauty ! fare ye well ! 
Go, and all tliat oiieo delighted 
Take, and leave me all benighted — 

Glory's burning, generous swell, 

Fancy, and the Poet's shell. 



CIIARLES SPSAGUE. 



415 



(Tliarlcs Sputguc. 

AMERICAN. 

Spinguc (17U1-187C) was a native of Boston, Mass., and 
1 nteioil npon mercantile pursuits at an early asc I'l 
ISi") lie became cashier of the Globe Bunk, an oUiec he 
Icclil thirty-nine years. He then retired from active life. 
His literary tastes were developed early. lie wrote prize 
odes for the opcnini^ of theatres, and delivered a poem, 
entitled "Curiosity," before the Phi Beta Kappa Soci- 
ety of Harvard College. An edition of his collected 
poems was |>ublished in 1870. Cpriglit, generous, and 
independent, few poets have been more respected for 
moral worth and nobility of character. His son, Charles 
J. Spraguc (born 1823), seems to have inherited much of 
his father's genius aud worth. 



THE AVIXGED AYORSHIPPERS. 

Dnriiig the church service, two little birds flew in and perched 
apon the cornices. 

Gay, giiilt]c.s.s pair, 
AVIiat seek yo from the fields of Iieavcn 7 

Yi! liavo no need of prayer, 
Ye bavo no sins to bo forgiven. 

\YIiy perch ye licre, 
AVhore mortals to their JIakcr bend? 

Can yonr pure spirits fear 
Tho God ye never could oficud f 

Yo never knew 
The crimes for which wo come to weep ; 

Penance i.-* not for yon, 
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. 

To you 'tis given 
To wake sweet nature's untaught lays, 

Beneath tho arcli of heaven 
To chirp aw.iy a lil'i' of prai.se. 

Then spread each wiug 
Far, far above, o'er lakes ami lands. 

And join the choirs that .sing 
In yon blue dome not reared with hands. 

Or, if yo stay 
To note the consecrated lionr, 

Te;ieli me the airy way. 
And let me try your envied power. 

Above the crowd, 
On upward wings could I but fly, 

IM bathe in yon bright elond, 
And seek tho stars that gem tho sky. 



'Twero heaven indeed 
Through fields of trackless light to soar, 

On nature's charms to feed, 
Aud nature's own great God adore. 



THE FOURTH OF jri.Y. 

To the sages who spoke, to tho heroes who bled, 
To the day aud tho deed, striko the barp-striugs 
of glory ! 
Let the song of the ransomed remember the dead. 
And tho tongue of the eloriuent hallow the story! 
O'er the bones of tho bold 
Be that story long told, 
And on Fame's golden tablets their triumphs 
enrolled 
AYho on Freedom's gi-cen hills Freedom's lianner 

unfurled, 
Aud tlie beacou-firc raised that gave light to tho 
world ! 

They are gone — mighty men ! — aud they sleep in 
their fame : 
Shall wo ever forget tlieni ? Oh, never ! no, never ! 
Let our sons learn from us to embalm each great 
name, 
Aud the autliem scud down — " ludepeudcnco for- 
ever !" 

AVake, wake, heart and tongue .' 
Keep the theme ever young; 
Let their deeds through tho long line of ages 
bo sung 
AYIio on Freedom's green hills Freedom's banner 

unfurled, 
Aud the beacon-lire rai.sed that gave light to the 
world ! 



SHAKSPEARE. 

FliOM AN ODE RECITED AT THE SlIAKSrEAP.E CELEBR.\- 
TION IN BOSTON, MASS., IN 1823. 

Then Sliakspcaro rose ! — 
Across the trembling strings 
His daring hand he dings. 
Ami lo! ,1 new creation glows! — 
There, clustering round, submissive to his will, 
Fate's vassal traia bis high commands fulfil. 

Madness, with his frightful scream ; 

Vengeance, leaning on his lance ; 
Avarice, with his blade aud beam ; 

Hatred, blasting with a glance; 



416 



CTCLOPMDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN FOETRT. 



Eemorse, that weeps ; and Rage, tbat roars ; 
And Jealousy, that dotes, but dooms and murders, 
yet adores. 

Mirth, his face with sunbeams lit, 
Waliing Laugliter's merry swell, 

Arm-iu-arm with fresh-eyed Wit, 
That waves his tingliug lash while Folly shakes 
his bell. 

Despair, that haunts the gurgling streaiu, 
Kissed by tlio virgiu moon's cold beam. 
Where some lost maid wild chaplets wreathes. 
And, swan-like, there her own dirge breathes ; 
Then, brokeu-liearted, sinks to rest 
Beneath the bubbling wave that shrouds her ma- 
niac breast. 

Yoiuig Love, with eye of tender gloom, 
Now drooping o'er the hallowed tomb 
Where his plighted victims lie, 
Where they met, but met to die ; 
And now, when crimson buds are sleeping. 

Through the dewy arbor peeping. 
Where beauty's child, the frowuiug world forgot, 
To youth's devoted tale is listeniug, 
Rapture on her dark lash glisteuiug. 
While fairies leave their cowslip cells, aud guard 
the happy spot. 

TIuis rise the phantom throng. 
Obedient to their master's song, 
Aud lead in willing chaiu the wondering soul along! 



I SEE THEE STILL. 

I see thee still ! 
Remembrance, faithful to her trust. 
Calls thee iu beauty from the dust ; 
Thou eomest iu the morning light, 
Thou'rt with me through the gloomy night ; 
Iu dreams I meet thee as of old. 
Then thy soft arms my neck enfold. 
And thy sweet voice is in my ear : 
In every scene to memory dear 

I see thee still ! 

I see thee still 
In every hallowed token round : 
This littlo ring thy finger bound. 



This lock of hair thy forehead shaded. 
This silken chain by thee was braidud ; 
These flowers, all withered now, like thee, 
Sweet sister, thou didst cull for me ; 
This book was thiue — here didst thou read ; 
This picture — ah yes ! here indeed 
I see thee still ! 

I see thee still ! 
Here was thy snnmier noou's retreat, 
Here was thy favorite fireside seat ; 
This was thy chamber — here, each day, 
I sat and watched thy sad decay ; 
Here, ou this bed, thou last didst lie — 
Here, ou this pillow, thou didst die! 
Dark hour! once more its woes unfold; 
As theu I saw thee pale and cold, 

I see thee still ! 

I see thee still ! 
Thou art not in the grave confined — 
Death cannot claim the immortal mind; 
Let earth close o'er its sacred trust, 
But goodness dies not in the dust : 
Thee, O my sister! 'tis not thee. 
Beneath the coffin's lid I see ; 
Thou to a fairer land art gone : 
There, let me hope, my .journey done, 

To see thee still ! 



i^cnrji (5ttit iHilinaii. 

Jlilman (ITOl-lSfiS), the son of an eminent pliysician, 
w.is a native of London. At Oxford he distiiignislied 
himself as a cl.issical scholar, and took a pi-ize for his 
poem on the ApoUo-Bclvidere. Having studied for the 
Cliurch.he was made dean of St. Paul's in 1SJ9. He first 
appeared as an author in 1817, in his tragedy of" Fazio," 
produced at Drury Lane, Febriinry 5th, 1818, and after- 
ward revived with great success by the acting of Fanny 
Kemble both in England and the United States. Milman 
wrote other dramatic pieces: "Samor" (1818); "TheFall 
of Jernsalcm" (1820); "Belshazzar" (1833); " The Martyr 
ofAutioeh"(1832); and "Anne Bolcyn" (1836); also sev- 
eral minor poems. Ho was the author of a "History of 
the Jews" and a "History of Christianity," both highly 
esteemed works. As a poet ho shows high culture aud a 
refined literary taste. As a man ho was greatly beloved 
by a Large circle of acquaintances. His histories gave rise 
to controversy. Ho was accused of treating the Bible as 
a philosophical inquirer would treat any pi'ofane work 
of autiquity — as having ascribed to natural causes events 
which the Scriptures declare to bo miraculous, aud as 
having, therefore, unwittingly contributed to subvert the 
bulwarks of the faith he was bound to defend. 



HEXRY HART MILMAX. 



417 



THE APOLLO-BELVIDERE.' 

XEWDIGATE PRIZE I'OEM. WRITTEN PITRISG THE AU- 
TIIOK'S rXlVERSnV COURSE. 

Hoaril ye the arrow liiirtlo in tlio sky ? 

Hoard ye tbe dragoii-nionster's doatlifiil try? 

Ill settled majesty of calm disdain, 

Proud of his might, yet scornful of the slain, 

Tho heavenly Archer stands, — no hiiniau birth, 

No |iori.shahle denizen of earth : 

Youth hloonis immortal in his beardless face, 

A god in strength, with more than godlike grace; 

All, all divine — no struggling muselo glows, 

Through heaving vein no mantling life-blood flows, 

ISiit animate with deity alone. 

In deathless glory lives the breathing stone. 

Brigbt kindling with a conqueror's stern delight. 
His keen eye tracks tho arrow's fateful flight ; 
liiirns his indignant cheek with vengeful fire, 
And his lip quivers with insulting ire ; 
Firm fixed his tread, yet light, as wlien on high 
He walks the impalpable and pathless sky; 
The rich luxuriance of his hair, confined 
In graceful ringlets, wantons on the wind. 
That lifts ill sport his mantle's drooping fold. 
Proud to display that form of faultless mould. 
Mighty Ephcsiaiil' with an eagle's flight 
Tliy proud soul mounted through the fields of light. 
Viewed the bright conclave of Heaven's blessed 

abode. 
And the cold marble leaped to life a god ; 
Contagious awe through breathle.ss myriads ran. 
And natious bowed before the work of man. 
For mild he seemed, as in Elysiaii bowers, 
Wasting in careless ease the joyous hours ; 
Haughty, as bards have sung, with iiriiicely sway 
Curbing the fierce flame-breathing steeils of day ; 
Heanti'ous as vision seen in dreamy sleep, 
Hy hilly maid on Delphi's haunted steep, 
'Mid the dim twilight of the laurel grove, 
Too fair to worship, too divine to love. 

Vet on that form, in wild, delirious trance. 
With more than reverence gazed the Maid of France. 
Day alter day the love-sick dreamer stood 
With him alone, nor thought it solitude; 
To cherish grief, her last, her dearest care, 
Her one fond hope, — to perish of despair. 
Oft .as the shifting light her sight beguiled, 
Hlusbiiig she shrank, and thought the marble smiled; 

' The Apollo Is in the net of watching the arrow nitb which 
he slew the eerpent Python. 
' Agnsias of Ephesus. 

'J!i 



Oft breathless listening heard, or seemed to hear, 
A voice of music melt upon her ear. 
Slowly she waned, and cold and senseless grown, 
Closed her dim eyes, herself benumbed to stouc. 
■V'et love in death a sickly stfengtli supplied. 
Once more she gazed, then feebly smiled, and died.' 



STANZAS. * * * 5IAY 22, 1P37. 

Foiiiidcd on an incident .Tt the grnve of Sopliia Lockhfirt, 
danijhler of Siv Waller Scott: —Mr. Milmau h.iving read the 
service on the occasion. 

Over that solemn pageant mute and dark, 
Where in the grave we laid to rest 
Heaven's latest, not least welcome guest, 

Wliat didst thou on tho wing, thou jocund lark! 
Hovering in unrebukiSd glee. 
And carolling above that mournful company? 

Ob, thou light-loving and melodious bird ! 
At every sad and solemn fall 
Of mine own voice — each interval 

In the soul-elevating prayer, I heard 
Thy quivering descant full and clear — 
Discord not uuharmouious to the car. 

AVe laid her there — tho Slinstrel's d.arling child! 
Seemed it then meet th.at, borne away 
From the close city's dubious day. 
Her dirge should be thy native wood-note wild ? 
Niinsed upon Nature's lap, her sleep 
Should be where birds may sing and dewy flowers 
weep. 

Ascendest thou, air-wandering messenger, 
Above ns slowly lingering yet, 
To bear our deep, onr mute regret — 
To waft upon thy faithful wing to her 
The husband's fondest, last farewell — 
Love's final parting pang, the nnspoke, the un- 
speak.tble ? 

Or didst thou rather chide with thy blithe voice 
Our selfish grief, that would delay 
Her passage to a brighter day ; 

Bidding us mourn no longer, but rejoice 
That it hath heavenward flown, like thee — 
That spirit from this world of sin and sorrow free f 



' The foregoing fact is related in llie work of .M. Pinel on 
Insanity. 



418 



CYCLOPJiDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAX POETRY. 



I watched thee lesseuhig, lesseuiug to the sight, 
Still faiut aud fainter wiimowiug 
The simshiue with thy dwiudliug wing — 
A speck, a movement in the rnffled light, 
Till thou wert melted in the sky, 
An nndistingnished part of bright infinity. 

Meet emblem of that lightsome spirit thon ! 
That still, wherever it might come, 
Shed sunshine o'er that happy home; 
Her task of kindliness and gladness now 
Absolved, with the element above 
Hath mingled, aud become jiure light, pure joy, 
jiuro love. 



THE LOVE OF GOD. 

TWO SONNETS. 

I. 

Love Thee! — O Thon, the world's eternal Sire! 

\Vho,se palace is the vast infinity, 

Time, space, height, depth, O God ! arc full of 

Thee, 
And sun-eyed seraphs tremble aud admire. 
Love Thee ! — but Thou art girt with vengeful fire. 
And mountains quake, and banded nations flee. 
And terror .shakes the wide unfathomed sea, 
When the heaven's rock with thy tempestuous ire. 
O Thou ! too vast for thought to comprehend, 
That wast ere time, — shalt bo when time is o'er; 
Ages aud worlds begin — grow old — aud end. 
Systems aud suns thy changeless throne before, 
Commence aud close their cycles : — lost, I bend 
To earth my prostrate soul, and shudder aud adore ! 

II. 

Love Thee! — oh, clad iu human lowliness, 

— Iu -whom each heart its mortal kiudred know.s — 

Our flesh, our form, our tears, our paiu.s, our woes, — 

A fellow- wanderer o'er earth's wilderness ! 

Love Thee ! -whose every word but breathes to 

bless I 
Through Thee, from long-sealed lips, glad language 

flows ; 
The blind their eyes, that laugh with light, unclose; 
Aud babes, unchid. Thy garment's hem caress. 
— I see Thee, doomed by bitterest pangs to die. 
Up the sad hill, with willing footsteps, move, 
With scourge, and taunt, aud wautou agony, 
While the cross uods, iu hideous gloom, .above. 
Though all — even there — be r.adiant Deity! 
— Speechless I gaze, and my whole soul is Love ! 



%^\a, fjnnthj Sigourncij. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Sigourney (1791-1865) w.is a native of Norwich, 
Conn. She was a most iiroliflc writer of prose and 
verse, but excelled rather in the former. She filled a 
large space in Americ.in literature, and her writings all 
have a salutary moral tendency. Her maiden name was 
Lydia Howard Huutly. 



AUGUST 11: THE BLESSED RAIX. 

" Thou, O God, didst seud a pleuliful rain, whereby thou didst 
coutirm thine inheritauce when it was weary." — Psahn lxviii.9. 

I marked at morn the thirsty earth. 

By lingering drought oppressed. 
Like sick man in his fever heat. 

With parching brow and breast ; 
But evening brought a cheering sound 

Of music o'er the pane — 
The voice of heavenly showers that said. 

Oh, blcssfSd, bless(5d rain ! 

The pale aiul suffocating plants 

That bowed themselves to dio 
Imbibed the pure, reprieviug drops. 

Sweet gift of a pitying sky ; 
The fern and heath upon the rock, 

And the daisy on the plain. 
Each whispered to their uew-boru buds, 
Oh, blessed, blessed rain ! 

Tlie herds that o'er the wasted fields 

Koauied with dejected eye 
To iind their verdant pasture brown, 

'J'heir cryst.al brooklet dry, 
Rejoiced within the mantling pool 

To stand refreshed again, 
Each infant ripple leaping high 

To meet the blessdd rain. 

The farmer sees his crisping corn. 

Whose tassels swept the ground, 
Uplift once more a stately head, 

With hopefnl beauty crowned; 
While the idly lingering water-wheel, 

Where the miller ground his grain. 
Turns gayly round, with a da.shing sound, 

At the touch of the blessiSd rain. 

Lord, if our drooping souls too long 
Should close their upward wing. 

And the adhesive dust of earth 
All darkly round them cling, — • 



LTDIA nVXTLY SIGOVRSET.— THOMAS LTLE. 



419 



Send tbou such showers of quickening grace 

That the angelic train 
Shall to our grateful shout resiioutl. 

Oh, hlcssdd, hlessdd rain ! 



INDIAN' NAMES. 

Ye say they all have passed away — 

That noble race and hrave ; 
That their li^ht canoes liavo vanished 

From off the crested wave ; 
That 'mid the forests where they roamed 

There rings no hunter's shout ; 
But their name is on your •watere — 

Ye may not wash it out. 

'Ti.s where Ontario's billow 

Like Ocean's surge is curled ; 
\Vhere strong Niagara's thunders wake 

The echo of the world : 
Where red Missouri biiiigitli 

Kiih tribute from the West, 
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps 

On green Virginia's breast. 

Ye say their cone-like cabins, 

That clu.stered o'er the vale, 
Have fled away like withered leaves 

Before the autumn's gale : 
But their memory liveth on ycmr hills. 

Their baptism on your shore ; 
Your everlasting rivers speak 

Their dialect of yore. 

Old Ma.ssachnsett8 wears it 

Upon her lordly crown. 
And l>roa<l Ohio bears it 

Amid his young renown ; 
Connecticut hath wreathed it 

Where her quiet foliage waves, 
And liold Kentucky breathes it lioars<! 

Through all her ancient caves. 

Waihuset hides its linjjeriiig voice 

Wit bin his rocky heart, 
And Alleghany graves its tone 

Throughout his lofty chart ; 
Monadnock on his forelieail hoar 

lliith seal the sacied trust; 
Your mountains build their moiniment, 

Tlioiigli v<' destrov their dust. 



Ye call these red-browed brethren 

The insects of an hour, 
Crushed like the noteless worm amid 

The regions of their power : 
Ye drive them from their fathers' lamls. 

Ye break of faith tlu' seal ; 
But can ye from the court of Heaven 

Exclude their last appeal f 

Ye sec their unresisting tribes. 

With toilsome step and slow, 
On through the trackless desert pass, 

A caravan of woe : 
Think ye the Eterual Ear is deaf? 

His sleepless vision dim ? 
Think ye the soul's blood may not cry 

From that far land to him? 



«^l)omas f jilc. 



Lylc (1793-18.59) was a native of Paisley, Scotland. In 
181(1 be was admitted to practice as a sursreon. His fa- 
vorite study was botany. He loved to ramble along the 
banks of the Kelvin, some two miles nortli-west of Glas- 
gow, where he wrote bis one famous song, founded on 
one of older date, commencing, 

" Oil, ihe sbeni'iDg's u.ie for jou, bauuic lassie, O !"' 



KELVIN GROVE. 

Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie la-ssie, O! 
Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O ! 

W'hcre the rose in all her pride 

Paiuts the hollow dinglc-sidcs 
Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, 01 

Let ns wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O ! 
To the cove beside the rill, bonnie la.ssie, 01 

Where the glens rebound the call 

Of the roaring water's fall, 
Through the mouutaiu's rocky hall, bcmiiie lassie, O I 

Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie. 01 
As the smile of fortune's thine, bonnie Lassie, O! 

Yet, with f<utuiic on my side, 

I could stay tli.v father's pride. 
And win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, O! 

But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, O I 
On th,v lover at this hour, bcmnie Lassie, O! 
Ere yon gidden orb of ilay 
Wake the warblers on the spray, 
From this laml I must away, bonuie lassie, O! 



420 



CTCLOPJSDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Tlieii farewell to Kelvin Grove, boiiuie lassie, O ! 

Ami allien to all I love, bonuie lassie, O ! 
To the river -wiudiug clear, 
To tlie fragrant-scented brere, 

E%-en to thee, of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O ! 

When npon a foreign shore, Ijonnie lassie, O! 
Shonkl I fall 'mid battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O ! 

Then, Helen, shouldst thon hear 

Of thy lover on his bier, 
To his memory shed a tear, bouuie lassie, O ! 



llViUiam ^. (EinivoD. 



William, the father of tlie more distiiiguishetl Henry 
Timrod, was born on a plantation not far from Charles- 
ton, S. C, in 1793. He was of German descent. While 
yet a boy, lie chose the trade of a bookbinder, and be- 
came a skilled mechanic, but afterward held an honora- 
ble position in the Charleston Custom-house. He had 
rare conversational abilities, and was well versed in Eng- 
lish belles-lettres. In the Nullification Controversy of 
1833-1833, he espoused the cause of the Union with in- 
trepid zeal. In 1836 he went to St.Augustine as the cap- 
tain of a militia company, to repel the attacks of Indians. 
In this expedition he contracted disease from exposure, 
and died in 183S. 



TO HARKY. 

Harry, my little blue-eyed boy, 
I love to hear thee playing near; 

Tliere's music'in thy shouts of joy 
To a fond father's ear. 

I love to see the lines of mirth 

Mantle thy cheek and forehead fair, 

As if all plcasnres of the earth 
Had met to revel there : 

For, gazing on thee, do I sigh 

That these most happy hours vrill flee, 
And thy full share of nii.sery 

Must fall in life on thee! 

There is no lasting grief below. 

My Harry, that flows not fr(un guilt : 

Thou canst not read my meaning now, — 
lu after-times thou wilt. 

Tliou'It read it when tlie church-yard clay 
Shall lie upon thy father's breast ; 

And he, though dead, will iioiut the way 
Thou shalt be always blessed. 



They'll tell thee this terrestrial ball. 
To man for his eiijoymeut given. 

Is but a state of sinful thrall 
To keep the soul from heaven. 

My boy! the verdure-crowned hills. 

The vale where flowers innumerons blow, 

The music of ten thousand rills 
Will tell thee 'tis not so. 

God is no tyrant, who would spread 
Unnumbered dainties to the eyes, 

Yet teach the hungering child to dread 
That touching them he dies ! 

No ! all can do bis creatures good 

He scatters round with hand profuse — 

The only precept understood, 
"Enjoy, but not abuse!" 



}pcrrji BiiGsljc Sljcllcvi. 

Unsurpassed in genius among England's lyric poets, 
Shelley, the son of a baronet, was born at his father's 
seat, Field Place, near Horsham, in Sussex, August 4th, 
1792. When ten years of age, lie was put to a public 
school — Sion House — where he was harshly treated both 
by teachers and school-fcUows. At Eton his sensitive 
spirit was again outraged by ill-usage under the fagging 
system then tolerated. Hence he early conceived a bitter 
hatred for all forms of oppression, and resistance to estab- 
lished authority grew almost to a pilnciple. In the ex- 
quisite introduction to his " Revolt of Islam," addressed 
to his second wife, he refers to these early iuHuenccs. 

At Oxford, Shelley studied hard, but irregularly, and 
spent much of his leisure in chemical experiments. In 
conjunction with a fellow-collegian, Mr. Hogg, he com- 
posed a small treatise, "The Necessity of Atheism;" 
and the result was that both the heterodox students 
were, in 1811, expelled from college. 

"At the age of seventeen," says Mrs. Sliclloy, "fragile 
in health and frame, of the purest habits in morals, full 
of devoted generosity and universal kindness, resolved, 
at every personal sacriHce, to do right, burning with a 
desire for affection and sympathy, he was treated as a 
reprobate, cast forth as a criminal." At eighteen he pro- 
duced his atheistical poem of "Queen Mab," abounding 
in passages of great beauty, and showing a wonderfully 
precocious intellect. At nineteen he made an imprudent 
marriage, for which he was cast off by his family. After 
the birth of two children, he was separated from his wife, 
and went abroad. Shortly after his return to England in 
1810, his wife committed suicide, which subjected Shelley 
to much obloquy and misrepresentation. He contracted 
a second marriage with the daughter of Godwin, author 
of " Caleb Williams," and in 1818 quitted England, never 
to return. 



ri:iicy btssbe shellet. 



421 



Besides "Queen Mab," Shelley had written "Alastor; 
or, Tlic Spirit of Solitude," remarkable for beauty and 
|iietiires(|uciiess of dielioii and boldness of iinauriiiation ; 
also, " The Revolt of Islam." In ISl'.t appeared his trafj- 
edy of "Tlic Cenci," full of passion and power. In Ita- 
ly he renewed his aeqiiaintanee with Byron, who thouf^ht 
Shelley's iihilosophy "too spiritual and roniantie." In 
ISJl Shelley wrote his noble poem of "Adonais" on the 
death of Keats. The next year— 1822 — was the last of 
Shelley's own life. He had ended his lament for Keats 
with a forebodini; — 

"What Adonais ie, why fear wc to become?" 

Indeed, there is somethin;; startlinirly prophetic of the 
very incidents of his own death in tlic coiieluding lines 
of this extraordinary poem : 

"The soft pky smiles; the low wind whispers near. 
'Tis Adonais calls: nh, hasten thilherl 
No more let life divide what death can join together." 

"My spirit's bark is diiven 
Far from the shore, far from the tienibling throng, 
Whose sails were never to the tempest given. 
Tlie ntas!>y earth, the spheroid >kies are riven ! 
I am liorne darkly, fearfully afar; 
While, barniii'; thron;.'li the inmost veil of heaven, 
The soal of Adonais, like a star. 
Beacons from the abode where the eternal arc." 

The very character of the tempest in which Shelley went 
down in his sail-boat seems to be here prctlgiired. 

Shelley's favorite amusement had been boatini; and 
sailini;; and, while returning one day— July 8tli, 1822— 
from Leghorn— whither he had gone to welcome Leigh 
Hunt to Italy — the boat in which he sailed, aceompanied 
by Mr. Williams and a single seaman, went down in the 
Bay of Spezia, in a sudden Ihuiider-storni, and all jjcr- 
ishcd. A volume of Kcats's poetry was found open in 
Shelley's coat-pocket when his body was washed ashore. 
In accordance with his own desire, the body, when re- 
covered, was burnt on the beach, and the ashes were in- 
terred at Koine. 

Whatever his spocuhitivo beliefs may have been, Shel- 
ley, in jmrsning the ideals he did, showed that ho was 
no atheist at heart. That he believed intuitively and in- 
tensely in a conscious immortality, is evident from one 
of his letters to (iodwin, and from many passages in his 
poems. His belief in absolute goodness must have led 
him logically, at last, to belief in a Supreme Spirit of 
good ; but the early despotism he had encountered and 
striven against for the free opinions of his youth proba- 
bly had its elTeet in biassing his will against his own in- 
tuitional convictions. That he would eventually have 
emerged into a sUitc of mind far ditfercnt from that of 
his immature years, is more than probable. "Poetry," 
he says, "redeems from decay the visitations of the di- 
vinity in nmn." That thought could hardly have been 
uttered by one logically or emotionally an atheist. In- 
deed, his is an atheism that may be subjected to endless 
confutation from his own best uttenmces. 

One of his ricent biographers (Mr. J. A. Symonds) says 
of him : "He composed with all his faculties, mental, 
ennjthmal, and physical, at the utmost strain, at a white- 
heat of iDtCQSC fervor, striving to attain the truest and 



most passionate investiture for the thoughts which had 
Inllamed bis ever qniek imagination. The result is that 
his tini'st work has more the stamp of something natural 
and elemental— the wind, the sea, the depth of air— than 
of a mere artistic product." 

The accuracy of this description is strikingly manifest 
in "Adonais." There is a tradition that no publisher 
would accept this poem, and he was at last obliged to 
publish it at his own expense in the old Italiati city of 
I'isa. The other day a stray single copy of this first 
editiou of the "Adonais" was sold for §.50. 



THE CLOUD. 

I bring fresh showers for tlu' thirsting llowcrs, 

From tlio seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shades for the leaves wlieii laid 

III their noonday dreams. 
l''rom my wings are shaken the dews tliut waken 

Tho sweet buds eyery one, 
When rocked to re.st on their mother's breast, 

As she (lances about tlic snu. 
I wield tho flail of the lashing hail. 

And whiten the green plains uiuler; 
Aiul then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thumlcr. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below. 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 

■While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Snblime on the towers of niy skyey bowers, 

Lightning my pilot sits; 
In a cavern under is fettereil the thunder, 

It sirnggles and howls by (its; 
Over earth and ocean with gentle motion 

This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the genii that niovo 

111 the depths of the ]nuple se.a ; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under inoiiutaiii or stream, 

The Spirit ho loves remains; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile. 

While he is dissolving in rains. 

Tho sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eye.s, 

And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leap.s on the back of my sailing rack 

When the morning-star shines de.ad. 
As on the jag of :\ inonntnin crag. 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings. 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 



422 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETBT. 



And wben sunset may breathe from tbe lit sea 
beneath 

Its ardors of rest and of love, 
And the crimson jiaU of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orhod maiden, with white fire laden, 

Whom mortals call the moon. 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn. 
And wherever tlio beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 
May have brolien the woof of my tent's thin roof. 

The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
And I hmgh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wiud-bnilt tent. 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. 
Like strips of the sky fallen throngh me on high, 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the snn's throne with the burning zone. 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, 

When the whirlwinds my lianner nnfiirl ; 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. 

Over a torrent sea, 
Snnbeam-proof, I hang like a roof. 

The mountains its colnmns be. 
The triumphal arch throngh which I march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the powers of the air are chained to my 
chair. 

Is the million-colored bow ; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove. 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky : 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when, with never a stain. 

The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex 
gleams. 

Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 

And out of the caverns of rain. 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the 
tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 



STANZAS, 

WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, KEAU NAPLES. 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear, 

The waves are dancing fast and bright ; 
Bine isles and snowy mountains wear 

The purple noon's transparent light; 
The breath of the moist air is light 

Around its nnexpanded bnds ; 
Like many a voice of one delight, 

The winds, the birds, the ocean floods. 
The city's voice itself is soft, like solitude's. 

I see the deep's )intrampled floor 

With green and purple sea-weeds strown ; 
I see the waves upon the shore. 

Like light dissolved in star-.showers, thrown : 
I sit upon the sands alone ; 

Tbe lightning of the noontide ocean 
Is flashing round nu', and a tone 

Arises from its measured motion. 
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. 

Alas ! I have nor hope nor health. 

Nor peace within nor calm around. 
Nor that content surpassing wealth 

The sage in meditation found, 
And walked with iuward glory crowned, — 

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. 
Other I see whom these surround, — 

Smiling they live, and call life jdeasure ; — 
To me that cnp has been dealt in another measure. 

Yet now despair itself is mild, 

Even as the winds and waters are ; 
I could lie down like a tired child, 

And weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne, and yet must bear. 

Till death, like sleep, might steal on me, 
And 1 might feel in the warm air 

Wy cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
Breathe o'er n\y dying brain its last monotony. 

Some might lament that I were cold. 

As I, when this sweet day is gone, 
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, 

Insults with this nntiniely moan; 
They might lament — for I am one 

AVhom men love not — and yet regret. 
Unlike this day, which, when the sua 

Shall on its stainless glory set. 
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. 



PERCY BYSSBE SHELLEY. 



i%K 



THE FUGITIVES. 



Tlio -nators am flasliiiig, 
The wiiite hail is dashing, 
Tho lishtiiii);;s are ghiiicing, 
Tlie hoar-spray is dancing — 
Away ! 

Tho whirlwind is rolling, 
Tho thnnder is tolling, 
The forest is swinging, 
Tho minster bells ringing — 
Come away ! 

The Karth is like Ocean, 
Wreck-strewn and in motion: 
liird, beast, man, and worm 
Have crept out of tho storm- 
Como awav ! 



'• Onr boat has one sail. 
Anil the helmsman is pale ; — 
A bold pilot, I trow, 
Who shonld follow us now," — 
Sliontcd he — 

And she cried: "I'ly tho oar I 
I'lit off gayly from shore!" — 
As she spoke, bolts of dealli, 
Mixed with hail, sjiccked their path 
O'er the sea. 

And from isle, tower, and rock 
The blue beacon cloud broke ; 
And, though dumb in tho blast, 
Tho red e:innon Hashed fast 
I'roni the lee. 



" And feai-'st thon, and fear'st thou f 
And sce'st thou, and hear'st thou ? 
And drive wo not freo 
O'er the terrible sea — 
I and thou t" 

One boat-clo.ik did cover 
Thi' loved and the lover — 
Their blood beats one measure, 
They murmur proud ]ileasuro 
Soft and low ; — 



While around tho lashed Ocean, 
Like mountains in motion. 
Is withdrawn and uplifted. 
Sunk, shattered, and shifted 
To anil fro. 



In the court of the fortress, 
Beside the palo portress. 
Like a blood-hound well beaten, 
Tho bridegroom stands, eaten 
By shame ; 

On the topmost watcb-turret, 
As a death-boding spirit, 
Stands tho gray tyrant father — 
To his voice the mad weather 
Seems tame; 

And with curses as wild 
As e'er clung to child. 
Ho devotes to tho blast 
Tho best, loveliest, and last 
Of his name! 



TO A SKYLAKK. 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 

(Bird thou never wert) 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditatid art. 

Higher still and higher. 

From the earth thou springcst 
Like a cloud of liic ; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever 
siugcst. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun. 
O'er which clouds are brightening. 
Thou dost Uoat and run. 
Like an unbodied joy whoso race is just begun. 

The p.ale purple even 

Melts around thy flight; 
Like a star of heaven, 
In the broad daylight 
Thou art un.seen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 



424 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Keen as are tbe arrows 

Of that silver sjibere, 
Whose iuteuse lamp narrows 

lu the white dawn clear, 
Until wo hardly see, — we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud. 
As, when night is bare, 
From cue lonely cloud 
The moon raius out her beams, and heaven is 
overflowed. 

What thou art, we know not : 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 

Drops so bright to seo 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Lilce a poet bidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singiug hymns unbidden, 
Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a i^alace tower. 
Soothing her love-l.aden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 

Like a glowworm golden 

In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among tho flowers and grass, which screen it from 
the view : 

Like a rose embowered 

lu its owu greeu leaves. 
By warm winds deflowered 
Till tho scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these beavy- 
wingM thieves. 

Sound of veru.al showers 

On tho twiukling grass, 
Eain-awakened flowers — 

All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

AVhat sweet thoughts are thine : 



I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus Hymeneal, 

Or triumphal chant, 
Matched with thine, would be all 

Bnt an empty vaunt — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ? 
What fields, or waves, or mouutaius ! 
What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thiue own kind ? what iguorauco of 
pain 1 

With thy clear keen joyauoe 

Languor canuot be ; 
Shadow of anuoyauce 
Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest, but never knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep. 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 

Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy uotes flow in such a crystal stream ? 

AVe look before and after, 

Aud jiine for what is not ; 
Our siucerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest 
thought. 

Yet if wo could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear ; 
If we were things boru 

Not to shed a tear, 
I know not bow thy joy wo ever should come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound. 
Better than all treasures ^ 

That iu books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scoruer of the grouud! 

Teach me half the gladness 
That thy brain must know, 

Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow. 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 



PERCY liTSSHE SHELLEY. 



425 



ODE TO Tin: WKST WIND. 

I. 
O \vil<l Wost WiiKl.tlKiti lirontli of Aiitiiiiiu's being! 
Tlioii, iVom wlmse uiisoou luosenco the leaves ilcail 
Are iliiven, like ghosts IVmii an enchanter ilceiug, 

Yellow, anil black, and i>ale, and liectic red, 
rcstilence-stiicken mnltitndcs! O thou 
Who chariotcst to their dark wintry bed 

The wing^^d seeds, where tlicy Ho cold and low, 
Kaeh like a corpse within its grave, nntil 
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaniiiij; e.u'th, and lill 
(Driving swiM-t buds like Hocks to teed in air) 
Witli living hues and odors plain and hill! 

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; 
Destroyer and preserver, — hear, oh hear! 



Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's com- 
motion, 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. 
Shook from the tangled bonghs of heaven and ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge. 
Like the bright liair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce MaMiad, even from the dim verge 

Of the iKui/.oii to the zenith's height. 

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirgo 

Of tlio dying year, to wliieli this closing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 
A'anlted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapoi-H, from who.so solid atmosphere 

Black rain, and lire, and hail will burst! ob, hear! 



Thou who diilat waken from his summer dreams 
The blue Moditerrancnn, where lie lay 
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, 

liesido .■» ]uiniice isle in Iiai;e*s l).ay. 

And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 

Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 



All overgrown with aznro moss and flowers 

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou 

For whoso path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray witli fear. 
And tremble, and despoil themselves! oh, hear! 



If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 

If I were a swift clond to fly with thee ; 

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than thou, O uncontrollable ! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The connado of thy wanderings over heaven — 
As then, when to ontstriii thy skyey speed 
.Scarce seemed a vision — I would n<'er have 
striven 

As tlins with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a clond ! 
I iM up<m the thorns of life! I bleed! 

A heavy weigLt of hours has chained and bowed 
One too like thee — tameless, and swift, and proud. 



Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 
What if my leaves are falling like its own ? 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonics 

Will take from both a deep antnmnal tone. 
Sweet, though in sadness. lie thon, spirit fierce, 
My spirit ! He thou mo, impetuous one ! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth ; 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! 
Bo through my lips to unawakened earth 

The trumpet of a proi>heey ! O wind, 

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind T 



426 



CYCLOPMDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



I ARISE FROM DREAMS OF THEE. 

I arise from dreams of tliee, 

In tbo first sweet sleep of iiigbt, 

When tbe wiuds are breathing low, 

And tbe stars are shiuing bright : 

I arise from dreams of tbee ; 

Aud a spirit in my feet 

Has led nie — who knows how ? — 

To thy cliamber-window, sweet ! 

The wandering airs they faint 

On the dark, tbo silent stream ; 

The cbampak odors fail. 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream. 

The nightingale's complaint, 

It dies upon her heart. 

As I must die on thine, 

beloved as thou art ! 

Oh, lift me from tbe grass! 

1 die, I faint, I fail. 

Let thy love in kisses rain 
On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas! 
My heart beats loud and fast. 
Oh, press it close to thine again, 
Where it will break at last. 



INVOCATION. 

Earely, I'arely coraest tbon, 

Spirit of Delight ! 
Wherefore hast thou left mo now 

Many a day and night ? 
Many a weary night and day 
'Tis since thou art fled away. 

How shall ever one like me 

AViu tbee back again ? 
With the joyous and the free 

Thou wilt scoiF at paiu. 
Spirit false ! thou bast forgot 
All but those who need thee not. 

As a lizard with the shade 

Of a trembling leaf. 
Thou with sorrow art dismayed ; 

Even tbe sighs of grief 
Reproach tbee that thou art not near, 
Anil renroacb thou wilt not hear. 



Let me set my mournful ditty 

To a merry measure ; — 
Thou wilt never come for pity. 

Thou wilt come for pleasure ; — 
Pity then will cut away 
Those cruel wings, aud thou wilt stay. 

I love all that thou lovest. 

Spirit of Delight ! 
Tbo fresh earth in new leaves dressed. 

And tbe starry night ; 
Autumn evening, and the morn 
When tbe golden mists are born. 

I love snow, and all the forms 

Of the radiant frost ; 
I love waves, and winds, aud storms — ■ 

Every thing almost 
Which is Nature's, and may be 
Untainted by man's misery. 

I love tranquil solitude, 

And such society 
As is quiet, wise, and good : 

Between tbee and me 
What difference ? but thou dost possess 
The things I seek, not love tbem less. 

I love Love — though be lias wings. 

And like light can flee ; 
But above all other things, 

Spirit, I love thee — 
Tliou art love and life ! Oh, come, 
Make once more my heart thy home. 



GOOD-NIGHT. 

Good-night? ah, no ; the hour is ill 
Wliich severs those it should unite; 

Let us remain together still. 
Then it will be f/oorf-uigbt. 

How can I call the lone night good. 

Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight ? 

Be it not said, though understood. 
Then it will be good-night. 

To hearts which near each other move, 
From evening close to morning light, 

The night is good, — because, my love, 
They never say good-uigbt. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



4-,'7 



ONK WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED. 

Olio word is (on oflin ])r(ir;imil 

For 1110 to i>iof:iiic it, 
Olio feeling too falsoly disilaiiicil 

For tlioo to disdain it; 
One hope is too liko despuir 

For pnulcuco to smother, 
Ami pity from thee more dear 

Than that from another. 

I can give not what men call love, 

Bnt wilt thon accept not 
The worship tho heart lifts above 

And the heavens reject not f 
The de-sire of the moth for tho star, 

Of the night for the morrow. 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of onr sorrow. 



A LAMENT. 

O world! O life! O time! 

On whose last steps I climb. 
Tremliling at that where I had stood before: 
AVhfU will retiiiu the glory of your prime? 
Xo more — oh, never more ! 

Ont of tlie day and night 

A .joy h.as taken liight ; 
Fresh spring, and snmnier, and winter hoar 
5Ii)ve my faint heart with grief, bnt with delight 
Xo more — (di, never more ! 



OX A FADKl) VIOLET. 

The color from the flower is gone, 

Wliieh like thy sweet eyes smiled on nic ; 

The odor from the flower is flown. 

Which breathed of thee, and only thee! 

A wilhered, lifeless, vacant form, 
It lies on my abandoned breast. 

And iiioeks tho heart which yet is warm 
With cold and silent rest. 

I weep — my tears revive it not ; 

I sigh — it breathes no more on me ; 
lis mntc and iineompluiiiing lot 

Is such as mine should be. 



ADOXAIS : 
AN ELEGY ON' THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS. 

I. 
I weep for Adonais — he is dead ! 
Oh, weep fur Adonais! though onr tears 
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head ! 
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years 
To mourn onr loss, rouse thy obscure compeers. 
And teach them thine own sorrow ; say — with me 
Died Adonais! — till the Future dares 
Forget tho Past, his fate and fame shall bo 
An echo and a light nnto eternity ! 



Where wert thon, mighty Mother, when he lay, 
Wlien tliy Sou lay. pierced by the shaft which flies 
In darkness ? where was lorn Urania 
When Adonais died ? With veiled eyes, 
'Mid listening Echoes, in lier paradise 
She sat, w'hile one, with soft enamored breath. 
Rekindled all the fading melodies. 
With which, like flowers that mock the corse 
beneath. 
He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death. 



Oh. weep for Adonais — he is dead ! 
Wake, melancholy Mother, w.ake and weep ! 
Yet wherefore f Quench within their burning bed 
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep, 
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep; 
For he is gone, Avlicre all things wise and fair 
Descend: — oh, dream not that tho amorous Deep 
Will yet restore him to tho vital air ; 
Death feeds on his mnte voice, and laughs at onr 
despair. 

i IV. 

Most musical of mourners, Tveep again ! 
Lament anew, Urania! — He died. 
Who was the sire of an immortal strain. 
Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride. 
The priest, the slave, and the libertieide, 
Trampled and mocked with many :k lo;ith<?d rite 
Of lust aiul blood ; he went, niiterrified. 
Into the gulf of death; but his clear sprite 
Yet reigns o'er earth ; the third among the sous of 
light. 

V. 

Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 

Xot all to that bright station dared to climb - 

And happier they their happiness who knew. 



428 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BIUTISH AXD AMERICAN POETllT. 



Whose tapers yet burn tbrougli tliat iiiglit of time 
III wUicU suus perished ; others more sublime, 
Striieli by the envious wratli of man or god, 
Have sunk, extinct in tlieir refulgent prime; 
And some yet live, treading the thorny road. 
Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene 
abode. 

VI. 

But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perished, 
The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, 
Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished. 
And fed with truc-lo\'e tears, instead of dew ; 
Most musical of mouruers, weep anew ! 
Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last, 
The bloom, whose petals nipped before they blew 
Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste ; 
The broken lily lies — tlio storm is overpast. 



To that high Capital, where kingly Death 
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay. 
He came; and bought, with price of purest breath, 
A grave among the eternal. — Come away ! 
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day 
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while still 
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay; 
Awake him not! surely he takes his fill 
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. 



He will awake no more, oh, never more! — 
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace 
The shadow of white Death, and at the door 
Invisible Corruption waits to trace 
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place ; 
The eternal Hunger sits, but jiity and awe 
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface 
So fair a, prey, till darkness, and the law 
Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain 
draw. 

IX. 

Oh, weep for Adonais! — The quick dreams. 
The passlou-wingdd mniistei'S of thought, 
Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams 
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught 
The love which was its nuisic, waudor not, — 
Wander no more, from kindliug brain to brain. 
But droop there, whence they sprang ; anil mourn 

their lot 
Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet 

jiain. 
They ne'er will gather strength, nor find a home 

again. 



And one with trembling hand clasps his cold head, 
And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries, 
" Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead ; 
See, on the silken fringe of his faiut eyes. 
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies 
A tear some dream has loosened from his brain." 
Lost angel of a ruined jjaradiso ! 
She knew not 'twas her own; as with no stain 
She faded, like a cloud which had outwejit its rain. 



One from a lucid urn of starry dew 
Washed his light limbs, as if embalming them ; 
Another clipped her profuse locks, aud threw 
The wreath upon him, like an anadem, 
Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem ; 
Another in her wilful grief would break 
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem 
A greater loss with one which was more weak ; 
Aud dull the barbiJd fire against his frozen cheek. 



Another Splendor on his mouth alit. 

That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the 

breath 
Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit, 
Aud pass into the panting heart beneath 
With lightning and witli music: the damp death 
Quenched its caress upon his icy lips ; 
Aud, as a dying meteor stains a wreath 
Of moonlight vapor, which the cold night clips, 
It flashed through his pale limbs, and passed to its 
eclipse. 

XIII. 

Aud others came, — Desires and Adorations, 
Wiug(?d Persuasions and veiled Destinies, 
Splendors, aud Glooms, and glimmering Incarna- 
tions 
Of hopes antl fears, and twilight Phantasies; 
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, 
Aud Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam I 
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, 
Came in slow pomp ; — the moving pomji might 
seem 
Like jiageautry of mist on an autumnal stream. 



All he had loved, .and nuuilded into thought, 
From shape, aud hue, and odor, aud sweet sound, 
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 
Her eastern watch-tower, aud her hair unbound. 



rEIiCT BTSSHE SHELLEY. 



429 



Wet with tlie tears wbiuli slioiiiil adoni the groiiiul, 
Diiiiincd the aerial eyes that kiiulle day ; 
Afar the mehiiieholy thunder moaned, 
Palo Ocean in nnqiiiet slinnhcr hiy, 
And the wihl winds Hew round, sobbing in their 

dismay. 

XV. 

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains. 
Ami feeds her grief with his remembered lay, 
And will no more reply to winds or fountains, 
Or amorous birds perched on the young grecu 

spray. 
Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day ; 
Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear 
Than those for whose disdain she pined away 
Into a shadow of all sounds: — a drear 
Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen 

hear. 

.\vi. 

Grief made the young Spring wild, and slio threw 

down 
Iler Uindling buds, as if she Autumn were. 
Or they dead leaves; since her delight is llown. 
l'<u- w hum should she have waked the sullen year ? 
To rinebus was not Hyacinth so dear, 
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both 
Thou Adonais : wan they stood and sere, 
Amid the drooping comrades of their youth, 
AViih dew all turned to tears; odor, to sighing rnth. 



Thy spirit's sister, the lorn n^phtingale 
Mourns not her mate with such nu-lodions pain ; 
Not so the eagle, who like (hee could scale 
Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain 
Her mighty youth, with morning doth comiilain, 
Soaring and screaming round her empty nest. 
As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain 
Light on his liea<l who pierced thy innocent 

breast. 
And seared tliP angel soul that was its earthly 

guest ! 

xviii. 

All woe is nu! ! Winter is come and gone. 
But grief returns with the revolving year; 
Tlie airs and streams renew their Joyous tone; 
The ants, the Ijces, the swallows reappear; 
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Season's 

bier ; 
The amorous birds now pair in every brake, 
Ami build their nu>ssy homes in (ield and brere. 
And the green lizard ami the gohlen snake, 
Like uuimprLsoned flames, out of their trance awake. 



Tlnongli wood and stream, and licld and hill and 

ocean, 
A quickening life from the Earth's heart has burst. 
As it has ever done, with change and motion, 
From the great morning of the world when first 
God dawned on Chaos ; in its stream innuersed. 
The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light; 
All biiser things pant with life's sacred thirst ; 
Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delight. 
The beauty and the joy of their renewed might. 



The leprous corpse, touched by this .spirit tender. 
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath ; 
Like incarnations of the stars, when splendor 
Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death, 
Ami mock the merry worm that wakes beneath; 
Naught wo know, dies. Shall that alono which 

knows 
Be as a sword consumed before the sheath 
By sightless lightning? — the intense atom glows 
A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose! 



Alas ! that all we loved of him should be, 
But for our grief, as if it had not been. 
And grief itself be mortal I Woe is me! 
Whence arc we, and why are we T of wh.at scene 
The actore or spectators f Great and mean 
Meet massed in death, who lends what life must 

borrow. 
As long as skies are blue, and fields arc green. 
Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow. 
Month follow iiioiiih with woe, and year wake year 

to sorrow. 

XXII. 
77c will awake no more, oh, never more! 
"Wake thou," cried Misery; "childless Mot her, rise 
Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's core, 
A wound more fierce than his wjth tears and 

sighs." 
And all the Dreams that watched Urani.a's eyes. 
And all the Echoes whom their sister's .siuig 
Had held in hidy silence, cried : ".Ari.se!"' 
Swift as a tliongbt by the snake Memory stung. 
From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendor sprung. 



She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs 
Out of the East, and follows wild ami drear 
The golden Day, which, on eternal wings, 



430 



cyclopj<:dia of buitish and American poetby. 



Even as a ghost abandoning a bier, 
Has left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear 
So struck, so roused, so wrapped Urania; 
So saddened round her lilie an atmosphere 
Of stormy mist ; so swept her on her way. 
Even to the mournful place where Adouais laj-. 



Out of her secret paradise she sped, 

Through camps and cities, rough with stone and 

steel, 
And human hearts, which to her aerie tread 
Yielding not, wounded the invisible 
Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell : 
And barbi^d tongues, and thoughts more sharp 

than they, 
Kent the soft Form the}' never could rcjiel. 
Whose saen'd blood, like the young tears of May, 
Paved with eternal llowcrs that undeserving wav. 



In the death-chamber for a moment Death, 
Shamed by the presence of that living Might, 
Blushed to annihilation, and the breath 
Revisited those lips, and life's pale light 
Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear 

delight. 
"Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless. 
As silent lightning leaves the starless night! 
Leave me not !" cried Urania : her distress 
Roused Death: Death rose and smiled, and met her 

vain caress. 

XXVI. 

" Stay yet awhile ! speak to me once again ; 
Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live ; 
And iu my heartless breast and burning brain 
That word, that kiss shall all thoughts else sur- 
vive. 
With food of saddest memory kept alive. 
Now thou art dead, as if it were a part 
Of thee, my Adonais! I would give 
All that I am to be as thou now art ! 
But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence de- 
part ! 

XXVII. 

"O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert. 

Why didst tluni leave tlio trodden paths of men 

Too soon, and with weak hands though might}' 

heart 
Dare the nupasturrd dragon in his den ? 
Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was then 
Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn tlie spear? 
Or, hadst thou waited the full cycle, when 



Thy spirit should have filled its crescent sphere, 
The monsters of life's waste had fled fnnn thee 
like deer. 

XXVIII. 

"The herded wolves, bold only to pursue; 
The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead ; 
The vultures, to the conqueror's banner true, 
Who feed where Desolation lirst has fed, 
And whose wings raiu contagion ; — how they fled. 
When, like Apollo, from his golden bow, 
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped 
And smiled! — The spoilers tempt no second blow, 
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them as 
they go. 

XXIX. 

" The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn ; 
He sets, and each ephemeral insect then 
Is gathered into death without a dawn. 
And the immortal stars awake again ; 
So is it iu the world of living men : 
A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight 
Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when 
It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared its light 
Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's awful night." 

XXX. 

Thus ceased she : and the mountain shepherds 

came, 
Their garlands .sere, their magic mantles rent ; 
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame 
Over liis living head like heaven is bent, 
An early but ensuring monument. 
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song 
In sorrow ; from her wilds lerne sent 
Tlie sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong. 
And love taught grief to fall like music from his 

tongue. 

XXXI. 

'Mid others of less note came one frail Form, 
A phantom among men ; companionlcss 
As the last cloud of an expiring storm 
Whose thunder is its knell : he, a-s I guess, 
Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, 
ActiBon-like ; and now he fled astray 
With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness; 
And his own tlioughts, along that rugged way. 
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their 
prey. 

XXXII. 

A pard-likc Spirit, beautiful and swift — 
A Love in desolation masked, — a Power 
Girt round with weakness; — it can scarce uplift 
The weight of the superincumbent hour ; 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



4:11 



It is a (lying lamp, a falling shower, 
A breaking IjHIdw ; — even while we speak 
Is it not broken f Ou the withering llower 
The killing sun smiles brightly; on a cheek 
The life can bnrn in blood, even while the heart 
may break. 

XXXllI. 

His head was bonnd with pansies overblown, 
And faded violets, white, and pied, and bine ; 
And a light spe.ir, topped with a cypress cone, 
Itonnd whoso rnde shaft dark ivy-tresses grew 
Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew, 
Vibrated, as the ever-beating he.irt 
.Shook the weak hand that grasped it : of that crew 
He came the last, neglected and apart ; 
A herd-abaudoned deer, struck by the hunter's dart. 

XXXIV. 

All stood aloof, and at his partial moan 
Smiled through their tears : well knew that geu- 

tle band 
Who in another's fate now wept liis own, 
As iu the accents of an unknown land 
Ho sang new sorrow. .Sad Urania scanned 
The Stranger's mien, and murmured, " Who art 

thou f" 
Ko answered not, but, with a sudden haiul. 
Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow, 
Which was like Cain's or Christ's, — oh, that it 

should be so ! 

XXXV. 

What softer voice is hushed o'er the dead ? 
.\th\vart what brow is that dark mantle thrown ? 
What form leans sadly o'er the white death-bed, 
III mockery of monumental stone, 
The heavy heart heaving without a, moan f 
If it be he who, gentlest of the wise. 
Taught, soothed, loved, honored the departed one; 
Let nie not vex with inharmonious sighs 
The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice. 



(liir Adonais has drunk poison — oh! 
What deaf and vijierons murderer could crown 
Life's early cup with such a draught of woe f 
The nanieles.s worm would now itself disown : 
It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 
Whoso prelude held all envy, li.-ito, and wrong. 
But what was howling in one breast alone, 
.Silent with expectation of the song, 
Whoso master's hand is cold, whoso silver lyre 
unstrung. 



Live tliou, whoso infamy is not thy lame! 
Live ! fear no heavier chastisement from me, 
Thou noteless blot on ,a remembered name ! 
lint be tliy.self, and know tliyself to be ! 
And ever at thy season be thou fieo 
To spill the veiuuu when thy fangs o'erflow : 
Remorse and self-contempt shall cling to thee; 
Hot shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, 
And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt — as now. 



Nor let us weep that our delight is fled 
Far from these carrion-kites that scream below : 
He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead ; 
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now. — - 
Dust to the dust ! but the pure spirit .shall flow 
Hack to the burning fountain whence it came, 
A portion of the Eternal, which must glow 
Through time and change, unquencliably the same. 
While thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of 
shame. 

XXXIX. 

Peace ! peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep — 
He hath awakeued from the dream of life — 
'Tis we who, lost iu stonuy visions, keep 
With phantoms an unprotitable strife, 
.\nil ill mail trance strike with our spirit's knife 
Invulnerable nothings — irc decay 
Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief 
Convulse us aud consume us day by day, 
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our liv- 
ing clay. 

XI,. 

He has outsoared the shadow of our night ; 
Envy and calumny, and hate and pain, 
And that unrest which men miscall delight, 
Can touch him not and tortiiio not again ; 
From the contagion of the world's slow stain 
Ho is secure, and now can never mourn 
A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain ; 
Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to bnrn, 
With .sparkless ashes load an uiilaiiieiited urn. 



He lives, he w.akes— 'tis Death is dead, not he; 
Jloiirn not for Adonais. — Thou young Dawn, 
Turn all thy dew to splendor, for from thee 
The spirit thou lamcutest is not gone! 
Ye caverns and ye forests, cea.se to moan ! 
Cease, ye faint (lowers and fountains, and thou Air, 
Which like a luourningTeil thy scarf hadst thrown 



432 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISS AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



O'er the abandoued earth, now leave it bare 
Evcu to the joj-ous stars wbicli smile ou its despair! 



He is made cue witli Nature ; tbere is beard 
His voice iu all her music, from the moan 
Of thunder to the song of night's sweet bird; 
Ho is a presence to be felt and known 
In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, 
Spreading itself where'er tluit Power may move 
Which has withdrawn his being to its own ; 
Which wields the world with never-wearied love. 
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. 

XLIIl. 

He is a x>ortion of the loveliness 
Which once he made more lovely : he doth bear 
His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress 
Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling 

there 
All new successions to the forms they Tvear; 
Torturing the unwilling dross that checks its 

flight 
To its own likeness, as each m.iss may bear ; 
And bursting in its beauty and its might 
From trees and beasts and men into the heaven's 

light. 

XLIV. 

The splendors of the firmament of time 
May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not ; 
Like stars to their appointed height they cliujb ; 
Ami death is a low mist which cannot blot 
The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought 
Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair. 
And love and life contend in it, for what 
Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live tliere 
And move like winds of light on dark and stormy 
air. 

XLV. 

The inheritors of unfulfilled renown 

Rose from their thrones built beyond moi'tal 

thought. 
Far in the unapparent. Chatterton 
Rose pale, his solemn agony had not 
Yet faded from him ; Sidney, as he fought 
And as ho fell, and as he lived and loved, 
Sublimely mild, a Spirit without sjiot. 
Arose; and Lucan, by his death approved: 
Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved. 



And many more, whose names on earth are dark, 
But whose transmitted efflnence cannot die 



So long as fire outlives the parent spark, 
Rose, robed iu dazzling iuunortality. 
" Thou art become as one of us," they cry ; 
" It was for thee you kingless sphere has long 
Swung blind in unascended majesty, 
Silent alone amid a heaven of song. 
Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our 
throng!" 

XLVII. 

Who mourns for Adonais ? oh, come forth, 
Fond wretch ! and know thyself and him aright. 
Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous 

Earth ; 
As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light 
Beyond all woilds, until its spacious might 
Satiate the void circnraference : then shrink 
Even to a point within our day and night ; 
And keep thy heart light, lest it make thee sink 
When hope has kindled hope, ami lured thee to the 
brink. 

XLVIII. 

Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre. 

Oh, not of him, but of our joy : 'tis naught 

That ages, empires, and religions there 

Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought 

For such as he can lend, — they borrow not 

Glory from those who made the world their 

prey ; 
And ho is gathered to the kings of thought 
Who waged contention with their time's decay, 
And of the past are all that cannot pass away. 



Go thou to Rome, — at once the paradise, 

The grave, the city, and the wilderness ; 

And where its wrecks like shattered mountains 

rise, 
And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses, dress 
The bones of Desolation's nakedness. 
Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead 
Thy footsteps to a slope of green access. 
Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead, 
A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread. 



And gray walls moulder round, on which dull 

Time 
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand ; 
And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime. 
Pavilioning the dust of him who pl.anned 
This refuge for his memory, doth stand 
Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath, 
A field is spread, on which a newer band 



PERCY BTSSHE SHELLEY. 



iX\ 



Have pitched in Heaven's siiiilo their camp of 

il.Mth, 
Wolcoiniiij; him wo lose with scarce extinguished 
breath. 

1.1. 

ITi'r<' pause: these graves are all too youu^ as jot 
To have outgrown the sorrows which consigned 
Its charge to each ; and if the seal is set, 
Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind, 
Break it not thou ! too surely shalt thou lind 
Thine own well full, if thou retnrnest home, 
Of to.irs and gall. Trom tho world's bitter wind 
Souk shollor in the shadow of tho tomb. 
What Adonais is, why fear we to become 1 



The One remains, tho many change and pass ; 
Heaven's light forcvei»8lilnos, Karth's shadows fiy; 
Life, like a dome of many-coldrcd glass, 
Stains the white radiance of Kternity, 
Until Death tramples it to fragments. — Die, 
If thou wouldst bo with that which thou dost 

seek ! 
Follow whore all is fled ! — Kome's azure sky, 
Flowers, rniiis, statues, music, — words are weak 
The glory thoy transfuse with litting truth to speak. 



Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my 

heart f 
Thy hopes are gone before : from all things here 
Tliey have departed; thou shouldst now depart! 
A light is passed from the revolving year. 
And man, and woman ; and what still is dear 
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. 
The soft sky sndles, — the low wind whispers near: 
'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither. 
Nil more let Life divide what Death can .join to- 
gether. 

I.I v. 

That Light whose smiles kindle the universe, 
That Heauty in which all things work and move. 
That Itoncdlction which tho eclipsing curse 
Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love 
Which through the web of being blindly wove 
Hy man ami beast, and earth and air and sea, 
Hums bright or dim. as each are mirrors of 
The (ire for which all thirst, now beams on mo, 
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. 

LV. 

The breath whoso might I have invoked in song 

Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven 
2H 



Far from tho shore, far from the trembling 

throng 
Whose sails were never to tin: IcMipost given; 
Tlu^ massy earth and spherdd skies are riven : 
I am borno darkly, fearfully, afar ; 
While, burning through tho inmost veil of luavon. 
The soul of'Adonais, like a star, 
Beacons from tho abode whore the eternal are. 



INVOCATION TO NATURE. 
From "Alastoe; ob, The Spirit of Soliti-de." 

Earth, ocean, air, belovdd bi'otherhood I 

If our great mother have imbued my soul 

With aught of natural piety to feel 

Vour love, and recompense tho boon wiih mine; 

If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and oven. 

With sunset and its gorgeous ministers. 

And solonin midnight's tingling sllentnoss ; 

If autumn's hollow sighs in tho sore wood. 

And winter robing with pure snow and crowns 

Of starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs ; 

If Spring's voluptuous pantings, when she breathes 

Her first sweet kisses, have been dear to me ; 

If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast 

I consciously have injured, but still loved 

And cherished these my kindred ; — then forgive 

This boast, belovdd brethren, and withdraw 

No portion of your wonted favor now! 



SONNET. 

Ve hasten to tho dead! AVhat seek ye there. 

Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes 

Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wear f 

O thou quick heart which pantest to possess 

All that anticipation feigneth fair! 

Thou vainly curious mind which wouldst gness 

Whenco thou didst come, and whither thou mnyst 

B". 
And that which never yet was known wouldst 

know — 
Oh, whither hasten ye, that thus ye press 
With such swift feet life's green and pleasant path. 
Seeking alike from happiness and woo 
A refnge in tho cavern of gray death f 
O heart, and mind, and thoughts ' AVhat thing do 

you 
Hope to inherit in tho grave below f 



434 



CYCLOl'MDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN ROETRY. 



DEDICATION." 

TO MARY . 

" Thei'e is no danger to a man that knows 
What life and death is : there's not any law 
Exceeds his knowledge: neither is it lawful 
That he should stoop to any otlier law." 

So uow my stimnicr task is ended, Mary, 
And I return to thee, mine own lieart's home ; 
As to his qtieeu some victor kuight of faery, 
Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome ; 
Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame becomo 
A star among tlie stars of mortal tiiglil, 
If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom, 
Its donbtfnl promise thns I would unite 
AVith thy beloved name, thou child of love an<l light. 

The toil which stole from thee so many an hour 
Is ended, — and the fruit is at thy feet ! 
No longer where the woods to frame a bower 
With interlaced branches mix and meet, 
Or where, with sound like many voices sweet, 
Water-falls leap among wild islands green, 
Wliieh framed for my lone boat a lone retreat 
Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen : 
But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been. 

Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear friend, 

when first 
The clouds whieh wrap this world from youth 

did pass. 
1 do rcmcmljer well the hour wliieh burst 
My spirit's sleep : a fresh May-dawn it w as, 
Wlien I walked forth upon the glittering grass, 
And wept I knew not why; until there rose, 
From the near school-room, voices that, alas ! 
Were but one echo from a world of woes, — 
The harsh and grating strife, of tyrants and of foes. 

And then I clasped my hands and looked around — 
But none was near to mock my streaming eyes. 
Which poured their warm drops on the sunny 

ground : 
So without shame I spake: — "I will be wise. 
And just, and free, and mild, if in me lies 
Such power ; for I grow weary to behold 
The selfish and the strong still tyrannize 
Without reproach or check." I then controlled 
My tears, my heart grew calm, and I was meek 
and bold. 

' The dedication of Shelley's ''Revolt of Islam" to his wife, 
llie daujrltler of William Godwin, is one of the most tenderly 
heanliful poems in the language. 



And from that hour did I with earnest thought 
Heap kno\^ ledge from forbidden mines of lore ; 
Yet nothing that my tyrants knew or taught 
I cared to learn, hut from that secret store 
AVrought linked armor for my soul, before 
It might walk forth to war among mankind ; 
Thus ])Ower and hope were strengthened more 

and more 
Within me, fill there came upon my mind 
A sen.se of loneliness, a thirst with which I pined. 

Alas, that love should be a blight and snare 
To those who seek all sympathies in one! — 
Such once I sought in vain ; then black despair. 
The shadow of a starless niglit, was thrown 
Over the world in wliieh I moved alone: — 
Yet never found I one not false to me, 
Hard hearts, and cold, like weights of icy stone 
Which crushed and withered mine, that could 
not be 
Aught but a lifeless clog until revived by thee. 

Thou friend, whoso presence on my wintry heart 
Fell like bright spring upon some herbless plain, — 
How beautiful and calm, and free thou wert 
In thy young wisdom, when the mortal chain 
Of Custom thou didst burst and rend in twain. 
And walked as free as light the clouds among, 
Which many an envious slave then breathed in 

vain 
From his dim dungeon, and my .spirit sprung 
To meet thee from the woes whicli had begirt it long. 

No more alone through the world's wilderness. 
Although I trod the paths of high intent, 
I journeyed now : no more compauionless, 
AVhere solitude is like despair, I went. — 
There is the wisdom of a stern content, 
When poverty can blight the just and good. 
When infamy dares mock the innocent. 
And cherished friends turn with the multitudes 
To trample : this was ours, and wo unshaken stood 1 

Now has descended a serener hour, 

And with inconstant fortune friends return ; 

Though sufl'ering leaves the knowledge and the 

power. 
Which says: — Let scorn be not repaid with .scorn. 
And from thj' side two gentle babes are born 
To fill our houte with smiles, and thus are wc 
Most fortunate beneath life's beaming morn ; 
And these delights, and thou, have been to me 
The parents of the song I consecrate to thee. 



PEIiCY BYSSHE SHELLET. 



4:55 



Is it tliat now my iiicxpericiicecl fingers 
Hut strike tlio preliido to a loftier strain t 
Or must tbo Ijro on which my spirit lingers 
Soon ])anso in silence, ne'er to sound again, 
Tlioiigli it inii;ht shake the anarch Custom's reign, 
And charm the minds of men to Truth's own sway, 
Holier than was Am])liiou"s ? I would faiu 
Keply in hope — but I am worn away. 
And Death and Love are yet contending for their prey. 

And what art thou ? I know, hut dare not speak : 
Time may interpret to his silent years. 
Yet in the paleness of thy thoughtful cheek, 
And in the light thine ample forehead wears, 
And in thy sweetest smiles, and in thy tears. 
And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy 
Is wliispercd to subdue my fondest fears: 
And tlncingh thine eyes, even in thy soul I see 
A lamp of vestal (ire bnrning intirnally. 

Tliey .say tliat tlion wert lovely from thy birlh, 
Of glorious jiareuts, thou aspiring child: 
I wonder not — for one then left this earth 
AVho.se life was like a setting planet milil. 
Which clothed thee in the radiance undelilcd 
Of its departing glory; still her fame 
Shines on thee,lhrongh the tempests dark and wild 
Which shake these latter days; and tliou canst 
claim 
The shelter from thy sire of an immortal nanu>. 

One voice camo forth from many a mighty spirit, 
Which was the echo of three thousand years ; 
And the tumultuous world stood mute to hear it, 
As some lone man, who in a desert hears 
The music of his home : — unwonted fears 
Fell on the pale oppressors of our race. 
And faith and custom and low-thonghtcd cares. 
Like thunder-stricken dragons, for a space 
Ixft the torn human heart, their food and dwell- 
ing-place. 

Truth's deathless voice pauses among mankind ! 
If there must be no response to my cry — 
If men must rise and stamp with fury bliinl 
On his pure name who loves them, — thou :inil I. 
Sweet friend! can look from our tramiuillity 
Like lamps into the world's tempestaous uight, — 
Two tranquil stars, while clouds are passing by, 
Which wrap them from the foundering seaman's 

sight. 
That burn from year to year with uncxtiDgui.slied 

light. 



IIVMX TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY. 

The awful shadow of some unseen I'ower 
Floats, though unseen among ns ; visiting 
This various world with as in('onst:uit wing 

As suunner winds that creep from flower to llower: 

Like niooubeams that behind some piny mountain 
shower, 
It visits with inconstant glance 
Each Ininiau heart and countenance; 

Like hues and harmonies of evening, 
Like clouds in starlight widely spread. 
Like memory of music fled. 
Like aught that for its grace may be 

Dear, ami yet dearer for its mystery. 

Spirit of Bf.auty, that dost consecrate 

With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon 
Of human thought or form, where art thou gonef 

Why dost thou jiass away and leave our state, 

This dim, vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate ? 
Ask why the sunlight not forever 
Weaves rainbows o'er you mountain river : 

AVhy aught should fail and fade that once is shown ; 
Why fear and dream and death and birth 
Cast on the daylight of this earth 
Such gloom, why man hath such a .scope 

I'^or love aiul hate, despondency and hope f 

No voice from some snblimer world hath ever 
To sage or poet these responses given ; 
Therefore the names of demon, ghost, and heaven. 

Keiuain the records of their vain endeavor: 

Frail spell.s, whose uttered cliarm might not avail 
to sever, 
From all we hear and all wo sec. 
Doubt, chance, and mutability. 

Tliy light alone, like mist o'er mountains driven. 
Or music l>y the night wind sent 
Through strings of some still instrument, 
Or moonlight on a midnight stivam. 

Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream. 

Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds, depart 
And come, for some uncertain moments lent. 
Man were immortal, and omnipotent, 

Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art. 

Keep with thy glorious train linn state within his 
heart. 
Thou mes.senger of .syinp:ithies 
That wax and wane in lovers' eyes; 

Thou, that to human thought art nonrishmcnt, 



436 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Like darkness to a dying flame ! 
Depart not as thy sliadovv came : 
Depart not, lest the grave shonhl be, 
Like life and fear, a dark reality. 

While yet a hoy I sought for ghosts, and sped 

Through many a listening chamber, cave, and rnui. 

And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing 
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead. 
I called on i^oisonous names with which our youth 
is fed : 

I was not heard : I saw them not : 

When musing deeply on the lot 
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing 

All vital things that wake to bring 

News of birds and blossoming, 

Sudden, tliy shadow fell on me : 
I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstasy ! 

I vowed that I would dedicate my powers 

To thee and thine : have I not kept the vow ? 

With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now 
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours 
Each from his voiceless grave : they have in vi- 
sioned bowers 

Of studious zeal or love's delight 

Outwatched with me the envious night : 
They know that never joy illumed my brow, 

Unlinked with hope that thou wonldst free 

This world from its dark slavery. 

That thou, O awfnl Loveliness, 
Wonldst give whate'er these words cannot express. 

The day becomes more solemn and serene 

When noon is past : there is a harmony 

In autumu, and a lustre iu its sky, 
Which through the summer is not heard or seen. 
As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! 

Thus let thy power, which like the truth 

Of nature on my passive youth 
Descended, to my onward life su]>ply 

Its calm, to oue who worships thee. 

And every form containing thee, 

Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind 
To fear himself, and love all human kind. 



LINES TO A REVIEWER. 

Alas ! good friend, what protit can you see 
In hating such a hateless thing as me ? 
Tbere is no sport in hate where all the rage 
Is ou one side. In vaiu would vou assuage 



Your frowns upon an unresisting smile, 

Iu which not even contempt lurks, to beguile 

Your heart, by some faint sympathy of hate : 

Oh, conquer what you cannot satiate ! 

For to your passion I am far more coy 

Than ever yet was coldest maid or boy 

In winter noon. Of your antipathy 

If I am the Narcissus, you aio free 

To pine into a sound with hating me. 



M)\\ Kcblc. 

Keble (1T93-1SCC), the son of a Gloucestershire clergy- 
man, was educated at Oxford, where he took tirst-class 
honors. After discharging the duties of Professor of 
Poetry, he was preferred to the rectory of Hursley, nc.ir 
Winchester, in 1S35, which he held until his death. His 
"Christian Year" was published in lS37,and had a mar- 
vellous success, having gone through some seventy edi- 
tions in England, and about as many in the United States. 
His "Lyra Inuoccntium" appeared in 1847. Keble was 
one of the originators of tlie "Tractarian Movement," 
inculcating reverence for Catholic tradition, and belief 
in the divine prerogatives of the priestliood. 



MORNING. 

From "The Curistian Year." 

Hues of the rich uufolding luorn, 
That, ere the glorious sun bo born. 
By some soft touch invisible 
Around his path are taught to swell ; — 

Thou rustling breeze, so fresh and gay. 
That daneest forth at opening day. 
And, brushing by with joyous wing, 
Wakenest each little leaf to sing ; — 

Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam, 
By which deep grove and tangled stream 
Pay, for soft rains iu sea.son given, 
Their tribute to the genial heaveu ; — • 

Why waste your treasures of delight 
Upon our thankless, joyless sight. 
Who day by day to sin awake. 
Seldom of heaven and you partake ? 

Oh! timely happy, timely wi.se. 
Hearts that with rising morn arise! 
Eyes that the beam celestial view 
Which evermore makes all things new! 



,WUy KEBLE. 



437 



New every morniug is the lovo 
Our wiikciiiiig ami uprising prove ; 
TLroii(;li slocp ami tiarliiicss safely lirouglit, 
Ivostoreil to life, ami power, ami tliouiilit. 

New mercies, each returuiug day, 
Hover around us wLile we pray; 
New perils past, uew sins forgiven, 
Xew thoughts of Goil, uew hopes of beaveu. 

If on our daily course our uiiiul 
l!e set to hallow all we fiud. 
New treasures still, of countless price, 
(iod will provide for sacrifice. 

Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier he, 
As luore of Heaven in each wo see ; 
Some softeuiug gleam of love and prayer 
Shall dawn on every cross and care. 

As for some dear familiar strain 
I'ntired we ask, and ask again, 
Kver, in its melodious store, 
l-'inding a spell unheard before ; 

Such is the bliss of souls serene. 

When they have sworn, and steadfast mean, 

Counting the cost, in all t' espy 

Tiieir God, in all themselves deny. 

Oh, could we learn that 8acri6ce ! 
AVhat lights would all around us rise! 
Hi>\v would our hearts with wisdom talk 
.Mong life's dullest, dreariest walk ! 

We need not hid, for cloistered cell. 
Our neighbor and our work farewell, 
Nor strive to wind ourselves too high 
For sinful man beneatli the sky: 

'I lie trivial round, the commou task. 
Would furnish all wo ought to ask — 
K'ddui to deny ourselves, a ro.nd 
To bring us daily nearer Ood. 

Seek wo no more : content with these, 
Let present rapture, comfort, ease, 
.\s Heaven shall hid them, come and go : — 
The secret this of rest below. 

Only, O Lord, in thy dear lovo 
Fit us for perfect rest above ; 



And help us, this and every day. 
To live more nearly as wo pray. 



EVENING. 

From "Tue Christian Ve\r." 

Tis gone, that bright and orbdd blaze. 
Fast fadiug from our wistful gaze; 
Yon mantling eloud has hid fiom sight 
The last faint pulse of quivering light. 

In darkness and in weariness 
The traveller on his way must press, 
No gleam to watch on tree or tower 
Whiliug away the lonesome hour. 

Sun of my soul! thou .Saviour dear! 
It is not night if tliou be near : 
Oh, may no earth-born cloud arise 
To hide thee from thy servant's eyes. 

When round thy wondrous works below 
My searching, rapturous glance I throw, 
Tracing out wisdom, power, and love. 
In earth or sky, in stream or grove ; — 

Or, by the light thy words disclose. 
Watch Time's full river as it tlows. 
Scanning thy gracious providence. 
Where not too deep for mortal sense : — 

When with dear friends sweet talk I hold. 
And all the (lowers of life unfold ; 
Let not ray heart within me burn, 
Except in all I thee discern. 

When tlie soft dews of kindly .sleep 
My wearied eyelids gently steep. 
Be my last thonght bow sweet to rest 
Forever on my Saviour's breast ! 

Abide with me from morn till eve. 
For without thee I cannot live: 
Abide with rao when night is nigh. 
For without thee I dare not die. 

Thou Framer of the light and dark, 
Steer through the teinpi'st tliiue own ark: 
Amid the howling wintry sea 
Wo are in port if we have theo. 



438 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



The rulers of this Cliristian land, 
'Twixt tliee ami us ordaiued to stand— 
Guide tboM tbeir course, O Lord, aright, 
Let all do all as in thy sight. 

Oh ! by thine own sad burden, borne 
So meekly up the hill of scorn, 
Teach thou thy priests their daily cross 
To bear as thine, nor count it loss ! 

If some poor wandering child of thine 
Have spurned to-day the voice divine, 
Now, Lord, the gracious work begin ; 
Let him no more lie down in siu. 

Watch by the sick : enrich the poor 
With blessings from thy boundless store : 
Be every mourner's sleep to-night 
Like infants' slumbers, pure and light. 

Come near and bless us when we wake. 
Ere through the world onr way we take ; 
Till in the ocean of thy love 
We lose ourselves in heaven above. 



ADDRESS TO POETS. 

Ve whose hearts are beating high 
With the pulse of poesy ; 
Heirs of more than royal race. 
Framed by Heaven's peculiar grace 
God's own work to do on earth 

(If the word be not too bold), 
Giving virtue a new birth. 

And a life that ne'er grows old — 

Sovereign masters of all hearts! 
Know ye who hath set your parts ? 
He who gave you breath to sing, 
By whose streugth ye sweep the string, 
He hath chosen you to lead 

His bosannas here below ; — 
Mount, and claim your glorious meed ; 

Linger not with sin and woe. 

But if ye should hold your peace. 
Deem not that the song would cease : — 
Angels rouud His glory-throne ; 
Stars, his guiding hand that own ; 
Flowers, that grow beneath our feet ; 
Stones, iu earth's dark womb that rest- 



High and low iu choir shall meet, 
Ere his name shall be unblessed. 

Lord, by every minstrel tongue 
lie thy praise so duly sung 
That thine angels' harps may ne'er 
Fail to find tit echoiug here! 
We the while, of meaner birth, 

Who iu that diviuest spell 
Dare uot hope to join on earth — 

Give us grace to listen well. 

But should thankless silence seal 
Lips that might half heaven reveal — 
Should bards in idol-hymns profane 
The sacred soul-enthralling strain 
(As in this bad world below 

Noblest things find vilest using). 
Then thy power and mercy show, 

Iu vile things noble breath infusing. 

Then waken into sound divine 
The very iiaveuient of thy shrine, 
Till we, like heaven's star-sprinkled floor. 
Faintly give back what wo adore. 
Childlike though the voices be, 

And untunable the parts. 
Thou wilt own the minstrelsy. 

If it flow from childlike hearts. 



A THOUGHT. 

PaoVEKBS XIV. 10. 

Why should we faint and fear to live alone. 
Since all aloue (so Heaven has willed) we die, 

Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own. 
Knows half the reasons why we smile aud sigh f 

Each iu bis hidden sphere of joy or woe 
Our hermit spirits dwell, aud range apart ; 

Our eyes see all arouud, iu gloom or glow, 

Hues of their own, fresh boirowed from the heart. 



jTol)n Cjouiarii yannc. 

AMERICAN. 

Payne (1793-18.53), although the author and compiler 
of the successful drama of "Brutus," will be better 
known to posterity for his charming song of "Home, 
Sweet Home." It was originally written for his ope- 
retta of " Clari, the Maid of Milan." Though it owes 
much of its popularity to the music to which it is fit- 



jonx Hoir.tui) I'.ivxi:. — roux bowrixg. 



439 



ted, it lins tlic trno elements of genuine poetry — siin- 
|i|'rc'ity ami liilelity to niilurc. Upwards of one luin- 
lipid tliuusuiid copies, set to mnsic, were sold in ISW. 
The publishers made two tlioiisand guineas by it in two 
years. Payne was a native of the city of New York. In 
ISO!) he appeared there as " Young Norval," at the Park 
Theatre. In ISIIS he went to England, where he became 
a. successful playwright. In 1S32 he returned to Ameri- 
ca, and was appointed Uuilcd States Consul at Tunis, 
where he died. 



HOME, SWEET HOME ! 

'Mill pleasures anil palaces (liongU we may roam, 
Ite it ever so linmblo, there's no place like liome ! 
A charm from the skies seems to hallow it there. 
Which, go through the world, you'll not meet with 
clscwliere. 

Home! liomc, sweet home! 
Tlicr<''s no place like home ! 

An exile from Iiduio, pleasure dazzles in vain : 
Ah, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 
The liirds singing sweetly that camo to my call — 
(iive me them, ami lliat peace of mind,dcarerthau all. 

Hiiuic ! home, sweet home! 

Thill's no place like home! 



JJoljii Coiuviug. 



Bowring (179a-18?3) was a native of Exeter. In 18-2o 
he became editor of the \VcMii>i>ister lleview. lie sat some 
time in Parliament, and in 1854 was knighted and made 
Governor of Hongkong. lie was the literary executor 
of Jeremy Beutham. He wrote devotional poetry of 
merit, and made some excellent translations from the 
Uussiau, Polish, and other modern languages. 



ODE TO GOD. 

Faou THE HUSSIAN OV GADItlEL RoMAXOWITCIl Df.RZIIAVIN. 

O thou Eternal One! whoso presence hright 
All space iloth occupy, all motion gniile ; 

I'nchanged through Time's all-devastating flight, 
Thou only God ; — there is no God beside ! 

Heing above all beings! Mighty One! 

Whom none can comprehend, and none explore; 

Who llll'st existence willi thyself alone ; 
ICmhraeing all — supporting — ruling o'er — 
Heing, whiun we call God — and know no nmre ! 

In its snlilimc resiareh. Philosophy 

May measure out the ocean-ileep, may count 

The sands or the stni's rays; lint, (Jml ! for Ihco 
There is no weight nor measure; none can mount 



Up to thy nij'steries ; Reason's brightest spark, 
Though kindled by thy light, in vain would try 

To trace thy counsels, iutiuite and dark ; 

And thought is lost ere tbonght can mount so high, 

E'en like past moment.s in eternity. 

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call 
I'irst chaos, then existence ; — Lord, on thee 

Eternity had its foundation ; all 

Sprang forth from thee, — of light, joy, harmony. 

Solo origin; all life, all beanty, thine. 
Thy word created all, and doth create ; 

Thy splendor fills all sjiace with rays divine. 
Thou art, and wert, and shalt be! glorious, great, 
Life-giving, life-sustaining Potentate! 

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround, 
Upheld by thee, by thee inspired with linath ! 

Thon the beginning with the end hast bound, 
And beantifnlly mingled life and death. 

As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze, 
So suns are born, so worlds spring forth, fioni thee; 

And as the spangles in the sunny rays 

Shine round the silver snow, the jiageantry 
Of heaven's bright army glitters in thy praise. 

A million torches, lighted by thy hand. 

Wander unwearied through flie blue aliy.ss ; 
They own thy power, accomplish thy command, 

All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. 
What shall wo call them? Piles of crystal light, 

A glorious company of golden streams. 
Lamps of celestial ether, burning bright, 

.Suns lighting sy.stcms, with their joyous be.ams? 

Hut thou to those art as the noon to night. 

Yes! as a drop of water in the sea. 
All this magni4icence in thee is lost : 

What are ten thousand worlds compared to thee ? 
And what am I, then ? Heaven's nnnnnibered host, 

Thiingb multiplied by myriads, and arrayed 
III all the glory of snblimest thought. 

Is but an atom in the b.alancc, weighed 

Against thy greatness, — is .a cipher lironght 
Against infinity! — What am I, then? — Xanglit ! 

Niinght! Hut the etllnence of thy light divine. 
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too: 

Ye.s, in my spirit doth thy spirit shine, 
As Hhiiies the sunbeam in a dio|i of dew. 

Naught! But I live, and on Hope's pinions fly 
Eager toward thy presence; for in thee 

I live, and breathe, and dwell, aspiring high. 



440 



CFCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN FOETIIY. 



Even to the throne of thy divinity. 

I am, O God ! and sniely thou must be ! 

Thou ai't ! directing, guidiu"; all, thou art ! 

Direct my understanding, then, to thee; 
Control mj' spirit, guide my wandering heart ; 

Though but an atom 'mid immensity. 
Still I am something fashioned by thy hand ; 

I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth. 
On the last verge of mortal being stand. 

Close to the realm where angels have their birth. 

Just on the boundary of the spirit land ! 

The chain of being is complete in me ; 

In me is matter's last gradation lost ; 
And the next step is spirit — Deity ! 

I can command the lightuing, and am dust ! 
A monarch and a slave ; a worm, a god ! 

Whence came I here, and how ? So marvellonsly 
Constructed and conceived? Unknown? This clod 

Lives surely through some higher energy ; 

From out itself alone it could not be ! 

Creator, yes ! thy wisdom and thy word 
Created mc. Thou source of life and good ! 

Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! 

Thy light, thy love, in their bright idenitude, 

Filled me with an innnortal soul, to spring 
O'er the abyss of death, and bade it wear 

The garments of eternal day, and wing 

Its heavenly flight, beyond this little sphere, 
E'en to its source — to thee — its Author there ! 

O thought inefi'ablc ! O vision blessed ! 

Though worthless our conceptions all of thee, 
Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast, 

And waft its homage to thy Deity. 
God ! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar ; 

Thus seek thy presence. Being wise and good! — 
'Mid thy vast works, admire, obey, adore ; 

And when the tongue is eloquent no more, 

The soul shall speak in tears its gratitude. 



WISDOM AND AVEALTH. 

FkO:M THE lilSSlAN OF IvHEMNITZER. 

I once saw a poor fellow, keen and clever. 
Witty and wise ; he paid a man a visit, 
And no one noticed him, and no one ever 
Gave him a welcome. "Strauge!" cried he; "whence 
is it?" 
He walked on this side, then on that. 
Ho tried to introduce a social chat ; 



Now here, iu)w there, in vain he tried ; 
Some formally and freeziugly replied, 
And some said, by their silence, " Better stay at 
home." 

A rich man burst the door, 

As Crresus rich ; I'm sure 
He could not pride himself upon his wit; 
And as for wisdom, he had none of it ; 
He had what some think better — he had wealth. 

What a confusion ! all stand up erect — 
These crowd around to ask him of his health ; 

These bow in honest duty and respect ; 
And these arrange a sofa or a chair ; 
Aud these conduct him there. 
"Allow me, sir, the honor;" then a bow 
Down to the earth — is 't jiossible to show 
Meet gratitude for such kind condescension 1 

The poor man hung his head, 

And to himself he said, 
" This is indeed beyond my comi^rchension :" 
Then looking round, one friendly face he found. 
And said, " Pray tell me why is wealth preferred 
To wisdom?" "That's a silly question, friend !" 
Replied the other. " Have you never heard, 

A man may lend his store 

Of gold or silver ore. 
But ivhdom none can borrow, none can lend ?" 



TRUE COURAGE. 

Onward! throw all terrors off! 
Slight the scorner, — scorn the scoff. 
In the race, aud not the prize. 
Glory's true distinction lies. 
Triumph herds with meanest things, — - 
■ Common robbers, vilest kings, 
'Jlid the reckless multitude! 
But the generous, but the good, 
Stand in modesty alone, 
Still serenely struggling on, 
Planting peacefully the seeds 
Of bright hopes and better deeds. 

Mark the slowly-moving plough : 
Is its day of victory now ? 
It defiles the emerald sod, 
'Whelms the flowers beneath the clod. 
Wait the swiftly-coming hours, — 
Fairer green and sweeter flowers, 
Richer fruits, will soon appear, 
Cornucopias of the year! 



sm JOHN BERSCBEL.—HEW JISSLIE. 



441 



iiv 3ol)ii llcvGclicl 



llcrsclicl, tlic ci-lobratod astroiioinoi-, \v:is born at 
Slouirli, near Windsor, in 17!«, and slndiod at St. John's 
College, Canil)rid^;e. He died at Collingwood, Kent, in 
1871, aged seventy-nine. Profonndly versed as he was 
in the physieal seicnees, ho was master of an elegant 
English style, and did not utterly neglect poetry. In- 
tellcetnally, he was synimetrically developed. His c.';- 
pedition to the Cape of Good Hope, and his residenee 
there four years, at liis own expense, for a purely scien- 
tiflc object, shows the extent of his devotion to science. 
On his return, he was covered with honorary distinc- 
tions. In reference to the notion that scienlitic study 
leads to a donbt of the imniortalily of the soul, he de- 
clares that the effect on every well -constituted mind 
must be the direct contrary. Of the hexameter stanzas 
wc quote, the first was made in a dream in ISyil, and 
written down ininicdiatcly on waiving. 



'1III;()\V THYSELF ON THY GOD. 

Throw tliy.seir on thy (iod, 

Xor mock liini with feelilo denial ; 

.Sure of hi.s love, and oil! 

Sure of his mercy at last ; 

Hitter and deep though tho draught, 

Yet shun not the cup of thy trial, 

Ihit in its healing elVect, 

Smile at its hitteniess past. 

Pray for that holier cnp 

While sweet with bitter lies blending. 

Tears in the cheorfnl eye, 

.Smiles on tlio sorrowing check, 

Deatli expiring in lifi-, 

When tin- long-drawn struggle i.s ending; 

Trinmpli and joy to the strong, 

.Strength to the weary aiul weak. 



.\inslie (ITiCJ-lST.S) was a native of the parish of Dailly, 
Ayrshire. He was for a time the amanuensis of Dngald 
Stewart. In isii, liaving married, he set sail for New 
York, tried farming, then had some experience with Rob- 
ert Owen's community at New Harmony, Ind., then tried 
the occupation of a brewer, then that of superintending 
the erection of mills and factories in the Western States, 
lie finally (IHUT) settled in Louisville, Ky., where, his 
sou getting into prosperous circumstances, the old man 
was enabled to devote himself to literary pursuits the 
rest of his life. His volume of " Scottish Songs, Ballads, 
and Poems" was published by Kedfield, New York, in 
1S5.5. Ainslie was a poet from his youth, and in some 
of his productions exhibits much of the spirit of Burns. 



He lived to his eighty -sixth year, and his death was 
caused by a scvci'c shock from fidliug. 



SIGHINGS FOR THE SEA-SIDE. 

At tho stent o' uiy string. 

When a fourth of the earth 
Lay 'tween nie and Scotland — 

Dear land o' my birth, — 
Wi' the richest of valleys, 

And waters as bright 
As the sun in midsummer 

Illumes wi' his light, — 
And surrounded wi' a' 

That the heart or the head, 
Tlie body or the niou' 

O' mortal could need, — 
I ha'e jiaused in sic plenty. 

And stuck in my track, 
As a tug frao my tether 

Would niak' nic look back, — 
Look hack to anld hills 

In their red heatlier bloom. 
To glens wi' their burnies, 

And hillocks o' broom, — 
To some loup in our loch, 

Whar the wave gaes to sleep. 
Or tho black craggy headlands 

That bulwark tlie deep; — 
Wi' the sea lasliing in 

Wi' the wind and the tide — 
Ay, 'twas then that I sickened, 

'Tn-as then that I cried : — 

O I gio mo .a sough o' the anld sant sea, 

A scent o' his brine again. 
To stiffen tho wilt that this wilderness 

Has brouglit on this breast and brain. 

Let mo hear his roar on the rocky shore, 

His tliud on the shelly sand ; 
For my spirit's bowed, and my heart is dowcd, 

Wi' the gloom o' this forest laud. 

Your sweeping floods an' yonr waving woods 

Look bravo in tlie suns o' .June; 
But the breath o' the swamp brews a sickly damji. 

And there's death in tho dark lagoon. 

Ay, gio me the .jaiip o' the dear anld saut, 

A scent o' his brine again ! 
To stilVen the wilt that tliis wilderness 

Has laid on this bosom and brain. 



44-2 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE INGLE-SIDE. 

Il'n rare to see tbe moruiug bleeze/ 

Like a bonfire frae the sea ; 
It's fair to see tbe buruie^ kiss 

The lip o' the flowery lea ; 
All' fiue it is on green bill-side, 

Where bums tbe liiiiuy bee; 
But rarer, fairer, finer fair. 

Is the ingle-side to me. 

Glens may bo gilt vi' gowans rare, 

Tlie birds may fill the tree. 
An' haughs^ lia'e a' the scented ware 

That simmer's growth cau gie ; 
Bnt tbe cantie hearth, where cronies meet, 

An' tbe darling o' our e'e, 
That makes to us a warld comjilete, — 

Oh, the ingle-side's for me ! 



Soljlt ^UGtcV. 



Austcr (1793-1807) was a native of Charlevillc, Ire- 
land, and became Rei;ius Professor of Civil Law in Trin- 
ity College, Dublin. He publislietl "Poems, with Trans- 
lations from tlic German," in 1819. His masterly trans- 
lation of "Faustus," from the German of Goethe, ap- 
peared in 183.5. He contributed largely to Blackwood' s 
Magauiie and the Uuhlin Univcrsili/ Magazine. 



THE FAIRY CHILD. 

The wom.an in whose character these lines are written snp- 
l)uses her child stolen by a fairy. I need not mention how 
l)revalent the snpersiiiion was amonj; the peasantry which at- 
tributed instances of sudden death to the agency of these 
spirits. 

The summer sun was sinking 

With a mild light, calm and mellow ; 
It shouo on my little boy's bonny cheek.s, 

And his loose locks of yellow ; 
The robin was singing sweetly, 

And his song was sad and tender ; 
And my little boy's eyes, while be beard the song, 

Smiled with a sweet, soft splendor. 

My little boy lay on my bosom, 

While his soul the song was qnafifing ; 

Tlie joy of bis soul bad tinged bis cheek, 
And his heart and his eye were laughing. 



I sat alone in my cottage. 

The midnight needle plying ; 
I feared for my child, for tbe rnsb's light 

In the socket now was dying! 

There came a band to my lonely lateh, 

Like the wind at midnight moaning: 
I knelt to pray, but rose again. 

For I heard my little boy groaning; 
I crossed niy brow, and I crossed my breast, 

But tliat night my child departed — 
They left a weakling in his stead. 

And I am broken-hearted ! 

Ob, it cannot be my own sweet boy. 

For his eyes are dim and hollow ; 
My little boy is gone — is gone. 

And bis mother .soon will follow ! 
Tbe dirge for the dead will be sung for me, 

And the mass be chanted meetly; 
And I shall sleep with my little boy. 

In the moonlight ehurch-yard sweetly. 



Stream. 



= Valleys. 



THE DAYS OF YOUTH. 

FitoM THE " Prelude to Faustos." 

Give lue, oh give me back the days 

When I — I too — was young — 

And felt, as they now feel, each coming honr 

New consciousness of power. 

Ob, happy, happy time, above all praise ! 

Then thoughts on thoughts and crowding fancies 

sprung, 
And found a language in unbidden lays — • 
Unintermitted streams from fountains ever flowing. 
Then, as I wandered free. 
In every field for mo 

Its thousand fiowers were blowing! 
A veil through which I did not see, 
A thin veil o'er the world was thrown — 
In every bud a mystery. 
Magic in everything unknown : — 
The fields, the grove, tbe air was haunted. 
And all that age has disenchanted ! 
Yes! give me — give me back the days of youth, 
Poor, yet bow rich! — my glad inheritance 
The inextinguishable love of truth. 
While life's retilities were all romance — 
Give me, oh give youth's passions uuconfincd, 
Tbe rush of joy that felt almost like pain. 
Its bate, its love, its own tumultuous miiul ; — 
Give me my youth again ! 



JOBS ANSTEIL—JOHX NEAL. 



443 



THK SOUL OF KLOQUENCE. 

Thanslatios from Goetiil's " I-'ai'sti's." 

How sliall wo learn to sway tlio inimls <if iiicii 
liy cUxinoiice ? to rule tlifin ? to iHi'suado ? 
1><) you si'fk gomiiiio and worthy Janie ? 
IJcasoii and honest feeling want iio arts 
Of utterance, ask no toil of elocution! 

And when yon speak in earnest, do yon need 
A search for words ? Oh, these (ine holiday phrases 
In which you robe your worn-out coninioiiplaces, — 
These scraps of paper whicli you crimp and curl, 
And twist into a thonsand idle shapes, — 
These tilagreo oruamonts, — are good for iiotliiiigl 
Cost time and pains, jilease few. impose on no one; 
Are unrefreshing as the wind that whistles 
In antnmn 'niong the dry and wrinkled leaves. 

If feeling does not prompt, in vain you strive: 
If from the sonl the langnago does not come, 
Ity its own impulsi', to impel the hearts 
Of hearers with communicated power, — 
In vain you strive, in vain you study earnestly. 
Toil on forever, piece together fragments. 
Cook up yonr broken scraps of sentences. 
And blow, with pulling breath, a struggling light, 
Climmcring confusedly uow, now cold in ashes — 
Startle the school-boys with your metaphors — 
Anil, if such food may suit yonr appetite. 
Win the vain woiuler of applauding children! 
lint never hope to stir the hearts of men, 
And moidd the sonls of many into one, 
I!v words which come not native from the heart. 



3ol) 



AMERICAN, 



Ncal (1,793 -187(!) was a native of Portland, Maine. 
From his " Aiitol)iognipliy" (1SC9), written at the sug- 
gestion of the pout Longfullow, we learn that lie was of 
Qiuiker descent, and could trace back his ancestry to 
llie lime of George Fox. lie had a twin-sisler, Rachel. 
"At the ngc of twelve," he says, " my education was 
oomplelcd. I never went to school another day." 
Thenceforth he was self- instructed. Quilling the re- 
tail shop where lie had been placed as a boy, be taught 
drawing and iieiimnnship for awhile; then became a 
dry-i:oods jobber successively in Boston, New York, and 
Baltimore, in the latter city going into partnei-sliip with 
the poet Pierpont. Failing in business (1X1.")), lie stud- 
ied law ; then tried literature, publishing (ISIT) his novel 
of "Keep Cool," "Goldau, and oilier Poems," " Otlio : 
a Tr.igedy," besides supplying editorial matter for the 
BaHiinore Tttoirapli. lie wrote with great rapidity, and 
became one of the most voluminous of American au- 
thors. His novels "Seventy-six" and "Logan" were 



republished in Loudon. Of his poetry he himself says, 
"It is disfigured by extravagance, and overloaded with 
imagery;" and ho tells us that he got the mbrujucl of 
"John O'Cataract" because of his impetuosity, his llcry 
temper, and his Irish name. 

In l.S'34 Neal went to England, became domiciled with 
Jeremy Benlliain, and wrote fov Ulack wood's Jlnf/aziiie uj) 
to ISaj, when he returned to Portland. Hero he opened 
a law-oflicc, but in 1828 started T/n: y<iu!a-e, a weekly pa- 
per, which he edited a year or two with much vigor. Of 
his contributions to magazines and reviews, it may be 
said their name is legion. At one time, by way of vari- 
ety, he gave lessons in sparring and fencing, lor he was 
an accomplished athlete. When eightytwo years old, 
being in a horse-ear with some old gentlemen, they were 
insulted by a robust, rullianly fellow, whereupon Neal 
grappled him, and pitched him out of the car. A firm 
friend, and a somewhat tenacious enemy, Neal was re- 
membered as a warmhearted, honorable man, and a de- 
lightful companion. 



GOLDAU. 

A small village of the same name iu the valley of Goldnn. 
Switzerland, was entirely destroyed, along with some adjoining 
villiij^es, September 2d, 1S(I6, by a Inndslip of the Rossbeig, 
which then took place, and which also converted this once 
l)ci\ntifnl valley iiilo a scene of desolation, covering it with 
enormous rocks and other rfefcrw. Upward of four hundred and 
fifty human beini^ were killed, one hundred and eleven houses 
destroyed, and whole herds of cattle swept away. The poillon 
of the mountnin that fell was about three miles loiij;, a thou- 
sand feet broad, nud a buudred feet thick. 

Switzerland! my country! 'tis to thoe 

1 strike my harp iu agony : — 
My couutry ! nurse of Liberty ! 
Home of the gallant, great, and free. 
My sullen harp I strike to thee. 

Oh! I have lost you all! 
Parents, and home, and friends : 

Ye sleep beneath .a moniitaiii jkiII, 
A monntaiu's plnmage o'er you lieiids. 
Tlic clitV-yew of funereal gloom. 
Is now the only nn)iirning plume 
That nods above a people's tomli. 
Of the echoes that swim o'er thy bright blue lake, 
And, deep in its caverns, their merry bells shake, 

And repeat the young huntsman's cry : — 
That clatter and laugh when the goatherds take 
Their browsing Hocks, at the nu)rning's break. 
Far over the hills, — not one is awake 
In the swell of thy peaceable sky. 
They sit ou that wave with a motionless wing, 
Ami their cymbals are mute; and the desert birds 

sing 
Tlieir unanswered notes to the wave ami the .sky, 
One startling and sudden, unchangeable cry — 
As tbey stoop their broad wing, and go sluggishly by : 



444 



CTCLOrJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



For deep iu that blue-bosonieil ■nater is laid 

As iiiiiocent, true, aud lovely a maid 

As ever in cbeerfulness carolled her song 

In tlie blithe mountain air as she bounded along. — 

The heavens are all blue, and the billow's bright 

verge 
Is frothily laved by a whispering surge, 
That heaves incessant, a tranquil dirge, 

To hill the pale forms that sleep below ; 

Forms that rock as the waters flow. 
That bright lake is still as a liquid sky, 
And wUeu o'er its bosom the swift clouds fly, 
They pass like thoughts o'er a clear blue eye ! 
The fringe of thiu foam that their sepulchre binds. 
Is as light as a cloud that is borne by the winds; 
While over its bosom the dim vapors hover, 
Aud flutterless skims the suowy-wiuged plover: 
Swiftly passing away — like a haunted wing ; 
With a drooping plume, that may not fling 
One sound of life, or a rustling note. 
O'er that sleepless tomb, where my loved ones 

float. 
Oh! cool and fresh is that bright blue lake. 
While over its stilluess no sounds awake ; 
No sights but those of the hill-top fountain 
That swims on the height of a cloud- wrapped 
mountain. 

The basin of the rainbow stream. 

The sunset gush, the morning gleam. 

The picture of the poet's dream. 

Laud of proud hearts, where freedom broods 
Amid her homo of echoing woods. 
The mother of the mountain floods, — 

Dark, Goldau, is thy vale ! 

Tlie spirits of Rigi shall wail 

Ou their cloud-bosomed deep, as they sail 
In mist where thy children are lying : 
As their thunders once pau.scd iu their headlong 

descent, 
And delayed their discharge, while thy desert was 
rent 

With the cries of thy sons who were dying. 

No chariots of fire ou the clouds careered; 

No warrior-arm, with its falchion reared : 
No death-angel's trump o'er the ocean was blown ; 
No mantle of wrath o'er the heaveu was thrown : 
No armies of light, with their banners of flame, 
Or neighing steeds, through the sunset came. 

Or leaping from space appeared ! 
No earthquakes reeled, no Thunderer stormed; 
No fetterless dead o'er the bright sky swarmed ; 
No voices iu heaveu were heard ! 



But the hour when the sun iu his iiride went down, 

AVliile his partiug hung rich o'er the world, — 
AVhilo abroad o'er the sky his flush mantle was 
blown. 
And his red-rn.shing streamers unfurled, — • 
An everlasting hill was torn 
From its perpetual base, and borne. 
In gold and crimson vapors dressed. 
To where a people are at rest ! 
Slowly it came in its mountain wrath, 
Aud the forests vanished before its path ; 
And the rude cliffs bowed, and the waters fled, 
And the living were buried, while over their head 
They heard the full march of the foe as he sped, 
And the valley of life was the tomb of the dead ! 
The clouds were all bright; no lightuings flew; 
And over that valley no death-blast blew : 
No storm passed by ou his cloudy wiug ; 
No twang was heard from the sky-archer's string; 
But the dark old hill iu its strength came down. 
While the shedding of day ou its summit was thrown, 
A glory all light, like a wiud-wreathed crown ; 
While the tame bird flew to the vulture's nest, 
And the vulture forbore in that hour to molest. 

The mountain sepulchre of all I loved! 
The village sank — and the monarch trees 
Leaned back from the encountering breeze. 
While this tremendous pageant moved ! 
The mountain forsook his perpetual throne, 
Came down from his rock, and his path is shown 
In barrenness and ruin, where 
The secret of his power lies bare: 
His rocks iu naked ucss arise. 
His desolation mocks the skies ! 

Sweet vale, Goldau, farewell ! 

An Alpine monument may dwell 

Upon thy bosom, O my home ! 
The mountain, thy pall aud thy prison, may keeji 

thee, 
I shall see thee no more, but till death I will weep 

thee ; 
Of thy blue lake will dream, wherever I roam. 
And wish myself wrapped iu its peaceful foam. 



i]t\\K\\ Jrantis f iitc. 

Lytc (1793-1847) was a native of Ednam, Scotland, 
where the poet Thomson was bom. He entered Trinity 
College, Dublin, and carried off on three occasions the 
prize for English poetry. He studied for the ministry, 
and, after some changes, settled as a clergyman at Brix- 
ham, Devonshire. Here he labored successfully for tweu- 



EESRY FRANCIS LTTE.— NATHANIEL LANGDON FEOTHINOUAM. 



44D 



ty years, and composed most of liia liymns. His health 
failing;, he went to Niec, where he (lied. His noble hymn, 
"Abide with Me," was written in 1S47, in view of his 
approacliiiii; departuie from earth. It was tlic last, as 
it was tlic best, of his produetions. 



HYMN: "AlilDl': WITH ME." 

.\l)i<lo with mo! fast falls (liir even-tide; 
The darkness deppen.s ; Lord, with mo abide ! 
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, 
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with mc ! 

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; 
Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away; 
C'hange and decay in all aronnd I see; 

thon, who eliangcst not, abide with me! 

Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word ; 
I5ut as thou dwell'st with thy disciples, Lord, 
I'aniiliar, eondesccuding, patient, free. 
Come, not to sojonrn, but abide, with me ! 

Come not in terrors as the King of kings; 
Bnt kind and good, with healing in thy wiugs; 
Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea ; 
Come, Friend of sinners, thus abide w ith uie ! 

Thou on my head in early youth didst smile; 
And. though rebellions aiul perverse meanwhile, 
Thon hast not left me, oft as I left thee. 
On to the close, O Lord, abide with me! 

r need thy presence every jiassing hour: 
What but thy grace can foil the tempter's power? 
Who like thyself my guide and stay can he ? 
Through cloud and sunshine, oh, abide with me! 

1 fear no foe, with thee at hand to bless : 
His have no weight, and tears no bitterness; 
Where is Death's stiug ? where, Grave, thy victory ? 
I triumph still, if thou abide uilli mc f 

Hold, then, thy cross before my closing eyes! 
Shine throngh the gloom, arul |)oint me to the skies! 
Heaven's morning bri'aks, and Earth's vain shadows 

lie.. : 
In lil'i^ and dealli, () Lord, abide with me! 



EKOM LINE.S ON " EVEXIXG." 

Sweet evening hour! sweet evening hour! 
That calms the air, and shuts the flower; 



That brings the wild bird to lier nest. 

The infiuil to its motlun's breast. 

Sweet hour ! that bids the laborer cease, 
That gives the weary team release. 
That leads them home, and crowns them there 
Willi rest anil shelter, food and care. 

Oh season of soft sounds and hues, 
Of twilight walks among the dews, 
Of feelings calm, and converse sweet, 
And tlionghts too shadowy to repeat! 

Yes, lovely hour! thou art the time 
When feelings flow, and wishes climb ; 
W'hen timid souls begin to dare. 
And Ood receives and answers prayer. 

Then, as the earth recedes from sight, 
Heaven seems to ope her fields of light, 
And call the fettered soul above 
From sin and grief, to peace and love. 

Who has not felt that Evening's hour 
Draws forth devotion's tcnderest power; 
That guardian si>irits round us stand, 
And (!od himself seems most at hand? 

Sweet hour ! for he.aveuly nuising made — 
When Isaac walked, aiul Daniel prayed; 
When Abram's offering God did own, 
And Jesus loved to be alone ! 



Xatljauicl tangiion Jvotliiuijliani. 



A native of Boston, and a graduate of Harvard, Froth- 
ingliam (1793-1870) studied for tlic ministry, and wiis set- 
tled over a parish in Boston several ycai^s. He published 
some excellent translations from the German, and made 
several visits to Europe. The latter part of his life he 
became blind ; and he pathetically alludes, in the poem 
wc quote, to tlic fact that the blind, when they dream, 
have no sense of their deprivation. His son, OcUivins 
Brooks Frotliingliam (born in Boston, IS-J), is a clcigy- 
man of the liberal school, and the author of some ap- 
proved hymns. 



THE SIGHT OF THE BLIND. 

" I always see in dreams," she said, 
" Xor then believe that I am blind." 
That simple thought a shadowy pleasure shed 
Within my mind. 



446 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Ill a, like doom, the nights afford 
A lilie disjilay of uiercy done : 
How oft I've dreamed of sight as full restored ! 
Not ouce as gone. 

Restored as with a flash! I gaze 
Ou opcu books with letters plain ; 
And scenes and faces of the dearer days 
Are bright again. 

sleep ! in pity thou art made 
A double boon to such as we : 
Beneath closed lids and f(dds of deepest shade 
We think we see. 

O Providence! when all is dark 
Around onr steps and o'er thy will, 
The luercy-seat that hides the covenant-ark 
Has angels still. 

Thou who art light! illume the page 
Within ; renew these respites sweet. 
And show, beyond the films and wear of age. 
Both walk and seat. 



O GOTT, DU FROMMER GOTT! 

Feom the German of Johann Heerman, 1G30. 

O God, thou faithful God! 

Tlion well-spring of all blessing ! 
In whom we all exist, 

From whom we're all possessing ; — 
Give me a body sound ; 

And in it, budded well. 
Let an unblemished soul 

And a good conscience dwell. 

Afford me will and strength 

To do the work assigned me. 
Whereto, in my true place. 

Thy law may call and find me. 
Let it be timely done. 

With eager readiness ; 
And what is done in thee 

Have ever good success. 

Help nie to speak but tliat 

Which I can stand maintaining. 

And banish from my lips 

The word that's coarse and staining ; 

And when the duty comes 
To speak with earnest stress, 



Then grant the needed force 

Unmixed with bitterness. 

When trouble shall break in, 

Let me not turn despairer ; 
But give a steadfast heart. 

And make me a cross-bearer. 
When help and comfort fail. 

Send to my side the Friend, 
Who, closer than a brother, 

Shall watch the sorrow's end. 



lUilliam illagiun. 

Magiim (1793-1843), the "Odoherty" oi BlackxeooiVs 
Magazine, from 1819 to 1828, was a native of Cork. He 
received the degree of LL.D. in liis twenty-fourth year. 
There was much scholarly wit and satirical power iu 
his writings ; but his literary career was irregular, and 
his intemperate habits made it a failure. He was olteu 
arrested, and lodged in jail. He was one of the chief 
supporters oi Frascr^s Magazine (1830), and for a time 
co-editor of the Standard newspaper. In 1838 he com- 
menced a series of Homeric ballads in Mackwood' s Maga- 
zine. He was also distinguished as a Sliakspearian critic. 



THE IRISHMAN. 
I. 
There was a lady lived at Leith, 

A lady very stylish, man ; 
And yet, in spite of all her teeth, 
She fell iu love with an Irishman — 
A nasty, ngly Irishman — 
A wild, tremendous Iri.shman — 
A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, 
roaring Irishman ! 



His face was noways beautiful. 

For with small-pox 'twas scarred across ; 
And the shoulders of tlie ugly dog 
Were almost double a yard across. 
Oh, the lump of an Irishman — 
Tlie whiskey-devouring Irishman — 
The great he-rogue, with his wonderful brogue- 
the fighting, rioting Irishman ! 



One of his eyes was bottle-green, 

And the other eye was nut, my dear ; 

And the calves of his wicked-looking legs 
Were more than two feet about, my dear! 



WILLIAM VKllXX.— FELICIA HEMJXS. 



447 



Oil, the great bifr Iiislmiaii — 
Till! rattling, liattling Iiisliiuiiu — 
I'lic stiiiii|iiiijr, laiiiiiin^, swa^jn'riiin, stiiggmiig, 
Itatlieriiig swash of an Iii>hiiian I 

IV. 

Hi- took so nmch of Liiiidy-foot 

That he used to siioit ami siiiifllc, O ; 
And iu shape and size the fellow's ueck 
Was as broad as the neck of a buft'alo. 
Oh, the horrible Irishman — 
The thundering, blundering Irishman — 
The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, 
hashing Irisbmau ! 



His name was .a terrible name indeed, 

liiing Timothy Thadv Mulligan: 
.\nd whenever he euiplieil his tumbler of iiiineli. 
He'd not rest till he tilled it full again. 
The boozing, bruising Irishman — 
The 'toxicated Irishman — 
The whiskey, frisky, riimuiy, gnmniy, brandy, no 
daudv Irishman 1 



This was the lad the lady loved, 

Like all the girls of quality; 
-Vnd be liroko the skulls of the men of Leitli, 
.Just liy the way of jtdlily. 
Oh, the leathering Irishman — 
The barbarous, savage Irishman — 
llie hearts of the maids and the gentlemen's heads 
were bothered. Tni sure, by this Irishman. 



/dicta 11 cm a 11 5. 



Fellein Dorothea Browne was the maiden name of Mrs. 
liiniuns. Slie was l)iirn in Liverpool. September 2oth, 
IT'.ti, and died May HJtli, !«.">, a'^ed forty-one. Her fa- 
llicr, who was a niereliant, having experienced some re- 
verses iu tiusincss, removed his funiily to Wales. In 1812 
she married Captnin Ilenmiis, hut the union was not a 
happy one: iu 181K he went to ludy, and they never met 
ai.'ain. Mrs. Hemaus remained in Wale?, her time being 
lally occupied by her poetical labors and tlie education 
of her tlve lioys. Ill health, however, pressed upon her, 
and she prematurely experienced decay of the springs of 
life. Slie died at the house of her brollicr, Major Browne, 
iu Dublin. She had begun to publish her poetry as early 
as her liflecnlh year. She wrote several long poems of 
merit, and " Tlie Vespers of Palermo," a tragedy ; but it 
is in her short lyrical pieces that she is happiest. Some 
"f lliesc compare not unfavorably with the best in the 



language. It has been the fashion among youthful crit- 
ics of late to undervalue her productions; but not a few 
of these have a cliarni, a tenderness, and a spirit which 
must make them long dear to the hearts of the many. 
Over the grave where her mortal remains were deposited 
were inscribed these lines, from one of her own poems : 

"Cnbn on ttie boR<im of thy God, 
Fair spirit, rest tliee now ! 
Even while witli us tliy footsteps trod, 
liis seal was on lliy brow. 

"Dnst to its narrow hoasc beneath I 
Soul to its place on tiigh ! 
They that have seen thy look iu death 
No more may fear to die." 

The complete works of Mrs. Hemans, with a memoir by 
her sister, were published in si.\ volumes. 



THE GRAVES OF A IIOI-SEIIOLD. 

They grew in beauty side by side, 

They tilled one home with glee; 
Their gi'aves are severed far and wide 

By mount, and stream, and sea. 
The same fond mother bent at night 

O'er each fair sleeping brow; 
She had each folded llower in sight — 

Where are those dreamers now ? 

One "mid the fovests of the West, 

liy :i dark stream is laid ; 
The Indian knows bis place of rest. 

Far in the cedar shade. 
The sea, the blue lone sci, hath one — 

He lies where pearls lie deep ; 
He was the loved of all, yet none 

O'er bis low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed 

Above the uoble slaiu ; 
Ho wrapped his colors round his breast 

On a blood-red Held of Spain. 
.\ud one — o'er her the myrtle showers 

Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ; 
.She faded 'mid Italian flowers, 

The last of that bright band. 

And, jiarted thus, they rest who played 

Beneath the same green tree, 
Whoso voices mingled as they ]>rayed 

Around one parent-knee I 
They that with smiles lit up the ball, 

And cheered with .song the hearth, — 
Ala.s for love, if tlion wert all, 

.\nd naught bevinid, O Karlli! 



448 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN rOETRY. 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

The breaking nvaves daslietl liigli 

Ou a steru and rock-bonnii coast, 
And the woods against a stormy sky 

Their giant branches tossed ; 
And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqneror comes. 

They, the true-hearted, came ; — 
Not with the roll of the stirring drnms, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; — 
Not as the flying come — 

In silence and in fear; — 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amid the storm they sang, 

Till the stars heard, and the sea ; 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free. 
The ocean-eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared : — 

Such was their welcome home. 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amid that pilgrim band : 
Why had they come to wither there, . 

Away from their childhood's land ? 
There was woman's fearless eye. 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar? 
Bright jewels of the mine ? 

The wealth of seas ? the spoils of war ? — 
No — 'twas a faith's pure shrine. 

Yes, call that holy ground, 

Wliich first their brave feet trod ! 

They have left unstained what there they found- 
Freedom to worship God ! 



THE HOME OF THE SPIRIT. 

Answer me, burning stars of night : 
Where is the spirit gone 



That past the reacb of human sight 
As a swift breeze h.ath flown ? 

And the stars answered me : " Wo roll 
In light and power on high ; 

But of the never-dying soul 
Ask that which cannot die." 

Oh, many-toned and chainless wind. 

Thou art a wanderer free ; 
Tell me if thou its place canst find 

Far over mount and sea. 
And the wind murmured iu reply: 

" The blue deep I have crossed. 
And met its barks and billows high, 

But not what thou hast lost." 

Ye clouds, that gorgeously rejiose 

Around the setting sun. 
Answer : have ye a home for those 

Who.so earthly race is run ? 
"The bright clouds answered : " We depart. 

We vanish from the sky; 
Ask what is deathless in thy heart 

For that which cannot die." 

Speak, then, thou voice of God within, 

Thou of the deep, low tone ! 
Answer me through life's restless din — 

Where is the spirit flowu ? 
And the voice answered: "Be thou still! 

Enough to know is given : 
Clouds, winds, and stars ihcir jiart fulfil : 

Thine is to trust in Heaven." 



CASABIANCA. 

Cnsahii\.uca, thirteen ye.irs old, son to the Aclmirnl of the Ori- 
ent^ remained at his jiost (ui Ihe batlle of the Nile) after the 
ship had taken lire and all the {xmis had been abandoned ; and 
perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had 
reached tlie powder. 

The boy stood on the burnitig deck, 
Whence all but him had fled ; 

The flame that lit the battle's wreck 
Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm, — 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though childlike, form. 

The flames rolled ou — he would not go 
Without his father's word ; 



FELICIA IIEMASS. 



441) 



Tliat fiitlier, faiut iu death below, 
His voice no longer lieard. 

II<' calloil aloud: — " Say, fatlior. s;iy 

If yot my task is doue !" 
\li: knew not tliat the cliiel'taiii lay 

Unvunscions of bis son. 

■■ .Spi'ak, father I'' onoe again ho cried, 

"If I may yet be gone!" 
And but the booming shots replied. 

And fast the lianies rolled on. 

I'pon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair, 
Anil looked from that lone post of death 

Iu still yet brave de.ipair; 

And shouted but once more aloml, 

•■My father, mnst I stay?" 
AVhilo o'er him fast, through sail an<l slimnil. 

The wreathing tires made way. 

They wrapped the ship in splendor wild. 

They caught the Hag on high. 
And streanird above the gallant child 

Liki' liaiiMiM's in the sky. 

Tlieie came a Inirst of thunder-sound — 

The boy — -oh, where was he ? 
Ask of the winds that far around 

With fragments strewed the sea ! — 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borue their part — 

But the noblest thing that peri.shed there 
Was that young faithful heart! 



SONNET ON GKASMKKE. 

Windsworih «.iid lo Mrx. Uctnaii!< : " I iToiilil not give up the 
miMi8 ihni fpiiilnnlizc our nioinit.iiii!* for .ill the bine t«kie^ of 
IlnlT. '■ She »fcme to have shared in hie ndmiriuioii of the 
- <-iic'ry nboiit Gra!«incrc. 

II vale and lake, within yonr mountain urn, 
Snuling so tranipiilly, ami set so deep I 
Oft dolli your dreamy lovelim'RS return, 
('ohiriog tile tender shadow of my sleep 
With light Elysian ; — for the hues that steep 
Your shores in melting lustre seem to float 
On gohlcn clouds from spirit-lands remote, 
Isles of the bles.sed ; — and in our memory keep 



Their place with holiest harmonies. Fair sccuc. 
Most loved by evening and her dewy star! 
Oh! ne'er in.ay man, wilh touch unhallowed, jar 
The perfect music of the charm serene ! 
Still, still nneh.anged, may one sweet region wear 
Smiles that subdue tlio soul to love and tears and 
prayer ! 



THE MESSENGER-BIKl). 

Some of the Brazili.iiis pny veuerntioii lo n bird that Pings 
monrnfnlly in the night-time. They eny it is a messenger 
wliicli their friends and relations li.ive gent, and that it Itrings 
them news from tlie oilier world.— Sec Pioart's Ceremnnien atul 
lidiijiovs Cimlonts. 

Thoii art come from the spirits' land, thou liiid ; 

Tlion art come from the spirits' land ! 
Through the dark piue-grovcs let thy voice be heard, 

And tell of the shadowy biiiid ! 

We know that the bowers are green and fair 

In the light of that summer .shore ; 
And we know that the friends we have lost are there, 

They arc there — and they weep no more ! 

And we know they have quenchi'd their fever's thirst 
From the Fountain of Youth ere now, 

For there mnst the stream in its freshness burst 
Which none may find below I 

.'Vnd we know that they will not be Inicil to earth 

From the land of deathless llowers, 
By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth. 

Though their hearts were ouce with ours; 

Though they sat \vith ns by the night-fire's blaze, 

And bent with ns the bow. 
And heard the talcs of our fathers' days 

Wliiili ale told to others now! 

But tell us, thou bird of the sidemu strain. 

Can tho.se who have loved fcnget ? 
We call, and they answer not again : 

Do they love — do they love us yet T 

Doth the warricu- thiid< of his brother tbero, 

And the father of his cbilil f 
And the chief of those that were wont to share 

His wandiriiig through the wild T 

We call them far through the silent uight. 
And they speak not from cave or hill : 

We kiniw, thou bird, that their land is bright; 
But suy, do they love there slill f 



450 



CrCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



LEAVE ME NOT YET. 

Leave luo not yet — throiigli rosy skies from far, 
But now tbo song-birds to their nest retnrn ; 

The quivering image of the first pale star 
On the dim lalie yet scarce begins to burn : 
Leave me not yet! 

Not yet! — oh, harlc! low tones from hidden streams, 
Piercing the shivery leaves, e'en now arise ; 

Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams, 
They are of vesper hymns and harmonies ; 
Leave me not yet ! 

My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear 
love ! 
By day shut up in their own still recess. 
They wait for dews on earth, for stars above, 
Then to breathe out their soul of tenderness : 
Leave me not yet ! 



EVENING SONG OF THE TYEOLESE 
PEASANTS. 

Come to the sunset tree ! 

The day is past and gone ; 
The woodman's axe lies free, 

And the reaper's work is done. 

The twilight star to heaven, 

And the summer dew to flowers. 

And rest to ns is given 

By the cool soft evening hours. 

Sweet is the hour of rest ! 

Pleasant the wind's low sigh. 
And the gleaming of the west. 

And the turf whereon we lie. 

When the burden atid the heat 

Of labor's task are o'er. 
And kindly voices greet 

The tired one at his door. 

Come to the sunset tree ! 

The day is past and gone ; 
The woodman's axe lies free, 

Aud the reaper's work is done. 

Yes ; tuneful is the sound 

That dwells in whispering boughs ; 



AVelcome the freshness round, 

And the gale that fans our brows. 

But rest more sweet and still 
Than ever nightfall gave, 

Our longing hearts shall fill 

lu the world beyond the grave. 

There shall no tempest blow. 
No scorching noontide heat ; 

There shall be no more snow. 
No weary wandering feet. 

And we lift our trusting eyes. 
From the hills our fathers trod. 

To the quiet of the skies, 
To the Sabbath of our God. 

Come to the sunset tree ! 

The day is past and gone ; 
The woodman's axe lies fiee, 

And the reaper's work is done ! 



HYMN OF THE MOUNTAINEERS. 

For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 

Our God, our fathers' God! 
Thou hast made thy children mighty 

By the touch of the mountain sod. 
Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge 

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod ; 
For the strength of the hills wo bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God I 

We are watchers of a beacon 

Whose light must never die ; 
Wo are guardians of an altar 

'Mid the silence of the sky : 
The rocks yield founts of courage, 

Struck forth as by thy rod — 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, onr fathers' God ! 

For the dark, resounding caverns. 

Where thy still small voice is heard; 
For the strong pines of the forest. 

That by thy breath are stirred ; 
For the storms on whose free piui(ms 

Thy Spirit w.alks abroad — 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee. 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 



FELICIA UEMAXS.—MItS. SAIUII AUSTIX. 



451 



Tho royal eagle dnrtcth 

On liis quarry from the licigUts ; 
And the stag that knows no master, 

Seeks there his wiUl delights; 
Bnt wo for lliti communion 

Have sought the numutain sod — 
For tlie strength of the hills wo bless thee, 

Our God, our fathei-s' God ! 

The banner of tho chieftain 

I'ar, far below us waves ; 
Tho war-horso of tho spearman 

Cannot reach our lofty caves ; 
Thy dark clouds wrap tho threshold 

Of Freedom's last abode : 
For the strength of the hills wo bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

For the shadow of thy presence 

Kound our camp of rock outspread ; 
For tho stern deliles of battle, 

Bearing record of our dead ; 
For tho snows, and for tho torrents; 

For tho free heart's burial-sod — 
For the strength of tho hills wo bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 



THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. 

A Greek i^IaIlaer, being tiiken to the Vale of Tempe, and 
called npon to adniirc its beantirni ?cener>', replied, "Ye?, all 
18 fair; but Ibe eca— where is the sea?" 

Where is the sea f — I languisli here — 

Where is my own blue sea f 
With all its barks in fleet career. 

And Hags and breezes free I 

I miss that voice of waves — tho lirst 

That woke my childish glee ; 
The measured chime — tho thumlering burst — 

Where is my own blue sea 1 

Oh ! rich your myrtles' breath may rise, 

Soft, soft yonr winds may be; 
Yet my sick heart within mo dies — 

Where is my own blue sea f 

I hear the shepherd's nionntain flute, 

I hear the whispering tree; 
The echoes of my soul are mute — 

Where is inv own blue sea f 



SUNDAY IN ENGLAND. 

The following admirable Ponnet, prndnccd by Mrs. ITemans 
only abtnit three weeks before her death, was dictated to her 
brother, Major Browne, April 2Gth, 1S35. 

How many bless<?d groups this liour are bending 
Tliiiiiigli Englaml's iirimroso meadow-paths their 

way 
Toward spiro and tower, 'mid shadowy elms ascend- 
ing. 
Whence the sweet chimes proelaim the hallowed 

(lay ; 
Tho Iialls, from old heroic ages gray. 
Pour their fair children forth ; and hamlets low, 
With whoso thick orchard blooms the soft winds 

play. 
Send out their inmates in a, happy flow. 
Like a freed vernal stream. / may not tread 
With them those pathways, — to the feverish bed 
Of sickness bound ; yet, O my God ! I bless 
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath lilled 
My chastened heart, ami all its tlirobliings.stilled 
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness. 



ilU's. Saral) Austin. 

Mrs. Austin (1703-1807), dnugliter of William Taylor, 
of Norwich, England, was noted for her elegant transla- 
tions from the German. She translated " The Story with- 
out an End," wrote " Cliar.ieterislies of Goetlie" (1S;K|, 
etc. She was the friend of John Xeal. who gives sonic 
neeount of her in his "Autobiogrnpliy." Her daughter, 
Lady Duff Gordon, who died in ISO'J, was also distin- 
guished as a translator. 



THE PASSAGE. 
From the Gerjian of I'iiland. 

JIany a year is in its grave 
Since I crossed this restless wave ; 
And tho evening, fair as ever, 
Shines on ruiu, rock, and river. 

Tlien in this same boat beside 
Sat two comrades, true and tried; 
Olio with all a father's truth. 
One with all the fire of youth. 

Olio on earth in silence wrought, 
And liis grave in silence 8<night ; 
Hut the younger, brighter form 
Passed in battle and in storm. 



452 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AilEIilCAN POETET. 



So -wheue'er I turn miue pye 

Back upou the days gone by, 

SaiUleuing tliougbts of friends come o'er me, 

Friends who closed their course before me. 

Yet what binds us friend to friend. 
But that sonl with soul can blend ? 
Soul-liko were those days of yore — 
Let us walk in soul once more ! 

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee! — 

Take, I give it willingly — 

For, invisible to thee, 

Spirits twain have crossed with me. 



loljit (Clare. 



Clare (1793-1864) was a native of Helpstoue, England. 
His parents were peasants— his fiither a helpless cripple 
and a pauper. John got some education by his own 
extra work as a ploughboy. At thirteen he hoarded up 
a sliilling to buy a copy of Thomson's "Seasons." In 
1820 lie published "Poems descriptive of Rural Life and 
Scenery, by John Clare, a Northamptonshire Peasant." 
The work was kindly received, and soon he was in pos- 
session of a little fortune. But his prosperity did not 
last. His discretion was not equal to his fortitude. He 
speculated in farming, wasted his little hoard, sank into 
nervous despondency and despair, and was finally placed 
in a lunatic a.^ylum. He remained here .about four years, 
and then etfected his escape. He was retaken, and wor- 
ried out twenty years more of his unfortunate life in 
confinement. He was a faithful painter of rustic scenes, 
and keenly sensitive to the beauties of nature. The last 
words of poor Chu"e, as he closed his mortal eyes for- 
ever, were, "I want to go home !" 



ON AN INFANT KILLED BY LIGHTNING. 

As fearless as a cherub's rest. 

Now safe above the cloud, 
A babe lay on its mother's breast 

When thunders roared aloud : 
It started not to bear the crasli, 

But held its little hand 
Up, at the lightning's fearful lla.sb. 

To catch the burning brand. 

The tender mother stayed her lircath 

In more than grief awhile. 
To think the thing that brought its death 

Should cause her babe to smile. 
Ay, it did smile a heavenly smile 

To see the lightning play ; 



Well might she shriek when it turned pale, 
And yet it smiled in clay ! 

O woman ! the dread storm was given 

To be to each a friend ; 
It took thy infant pure to heaven, 

Left thee impure, to mend. 
Thus Providence will oft appear 

From God's own month to preach : 
Ah ! would we were as prone to bear 

As- Mercy is to teach .' 



THE THRUSH'S NE.ST : A SONNET.' 

Within ,a thick and spreading hawtliorn-bnsh 
That overhung a mole-hill, large and round, 
I beard from morn to morn a merry thrush 
Sing liymns of rapture, while I drank the soniul 
With joy — and oft, an uuintrnding guest, 
I watched her secret toils from day to day ; 
How true she warped the moss to form her nest, 
And modelled it within with wood and clay. 
And by-and-by, like heath-bells gilt with dew, 
There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers. 
Ink-spotted over, sliells of green and blue : 
And there I w itnessed, in the summer hours, 
A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and tly, 
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. 



SPRING FLOWERS. 

Bowing adorers of the gale. 
Ye cowslips delicately p.ale. 

Upraise your loaded stems, 
Unfold your cups in splendor; speak! 
Who decked you with that ruddy streak, 

And gilt your gcdden gems ? 

Violets, sweet tenants of the shade. 
In purple's richest pride arrayed. 

Your errand here fulfil ! 
Go, bid the artist's simple stain 
Your lustre imitate, in vain. 

And match your Maker's skill. 



' Montgomery says of this sonnet : " Here we have in minia- 
ture the history and i;eogi-aphy of a thrnsli'.s ne:>t, so simply and 
ujUuially set forth, that cue might think such strains 

'No more difficile 
Thau for a blackbird 'tis to whistle.' 

But let the heartless critic who despises them try his own hand 
either at a bird's-uest or a sonnet like this." 



JOHN CLAUE.—JOIIX (UJiSuy LOCKHAUT. 



4o3 



Daisies, yo flowere of lowly birth, 
Embroiderers of the carpet earth, 

That stiiil tlio velvet sod ; 
Open to siiring's refreshing air, — 
In sweetest smiling bloom declare 

Your Maker and my Ciod ! 



LINKS IN A HCII) INTERVAL. 

For twenty-two ycirs Clrtre wns the iiimntc of n liinniic asy- 
lum; and (luring that ttuic not one of all bis ^rcat or little 
friends or patrons ever visited him. He expresj^es his feelin;^s 
at the iie;:;1ect. in the following lines, written, it would eecm, in 
n Incid interval. 

I am I yet what I am who cares, or knows ? 

My frieiuls forsake me like a mi'inoiy lost. 
I am the .sell-consiiini>r of my woes, 

Tliey rise and vanish, an oblivions host, 
.Shadows of life, whoso very soul is lost. 
And yet I ain — I live — though 1 am to.sscd 

Into the uotliingiiess of scorn and noise, 
Into the living sea of waking (Ite.am, 

Where there is neither sense of lifo nor joys. 
But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem 

.\iid all that's dear. Even those I loved the best 

.\re strange — nay, they are stranger than the rest. 

1 long for scenes where man h.as never trod, 
For scenes where woman never smiled or wept; 

There to abide with my creator, God. 
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept 

I'lill of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie, 

The grass below ; above, the vaulted .sky. 



2o\]\\ (!?ibson f!ocK-|)avt. 

Lockliart (17'.>4-I.>5.>4), the son of a Glasgow ininistor, 
and the son-in law and biographer of Sir Walter Scott, 
was born in the county of Lanark, Scotland, and was ed- 
ucated at Glasgow and O.vford. After a brief trial of tlie 
law, lie devoted liiuiself to literary pursuits ; wrote " Va- 
lerius,"' "Kecriuald Dalton," "Adam Blair," and other 
novels; also, some very spirited versions of Spanish bal- 
lads. He, moreover, contribtlted to Hliiekir<j<Krx Mni/n- 
zine, and edited the Quarterly llcvkw from 1S2«J to l.SW. 
Ill health and private calamities and bereavements dark- 
ened his latter days. His " Life of Scott " Is one of the 
most interesting biographies in the langnage, hardly sur- 
passed by Bo.swelPs "Life of Johnson." As a poel, lie 
was versatile, and might have excelled iiad he made poe- 
try his exclusive Held. His "Captain Paton's Lament," 
published in JSatkinMxI'x Maifasuie ill ISlil, is an adniirable 
specimen of the humorous in elegy. Caiitain Paton was 
a well-known choraclcr in Glasgow, who died in ISO". 



CAPTAIN PATON'.S LAMENT. 

Touch once more a sober measure. 

And let punch and tears be shed. 
For a prince of good old fellows. 

That, alack-a-day ! is dead ; 
For a prince of worthy fellows. 

And a prett}' man also. 
That ha.s left the Saltniarket 

In sorrow, grief, and woe. 
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of ('ai>taiu Paton 
no nio'e ! 

His waistcoat, coat, and breeches 

Were all cut olf the same web, 
Of a beautiful snuft'-ctdor, 

Of a modest genty drab ; 
The blue stripe in his stocking 

Honiul his neat, slim leg did go. 
And hi.s rufHcs of the cambric fine, 

They were whiter than the snow. 
Oil I we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Patoti 
no mo'e ! 

His hair was curled in order, 

At the rising of the siin, 
III comely rows and buckles smart 

That .ibont bis ears did run ; 
And before there was a toupee, 

That some inches up did grow ; 
And behind there was a long (pieue. 

That did o'er his shoulders (low. 
Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of t'aiitaiii Paton 
no mo'e ! 

And whenever we foregathered, 

lie took off his wee three-eockit. 
And ho proftercd you his snutfbox, 

Which he drew from his side-pocket ; 
And on Burdett or Bonaparte 

He would make a remark or so, 
And then along the plainstones 

Like a provost he would go. 
Oh ! wo ne'er shall see the like of Captain Patou 
no mo'e ! 

In dirty days he pickt'^d well 

His footsteps with his rattan : 
Oh, yon ne'er could see tlio least speck 

On tho shoes of Captain Paton. 
And on entering tho cofTec-room 

About two, all men did know 



454 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEIilCAX POETRY. 



Tliey -n-ouW see bim, -n-ith his Courier, 
In the middle of the row. 
Oh ! -nc ue'er shall see the like of Captain Paton 
no mo'e ! 

Now and then upon a Sunday 

Ho iuvited me to dine 
On a herring and a muttou-chop, 

Which his maid dressed very fine. 
There was also a little Malmsey, 

And a bottio of Bordeaux, 
Which between me and the captain 

Passed nimbly to and fro. 
Oh ! I ue'er shall take potlnck with Captain Patou 
no mo'e ! 

Or, if a bowl was mentioned. 

The captain he would ring. 
And bid Nelly run to the Westport, 

And a stoup of water bring: 
Then -would ho mix the genuine stuif, 

As they made it long ago, 
With limes that on his property 

In Trinidad did grow. 
Oh ! we ne'er shall taste the like of Captain Patou's 
punch no mo'e ! 

And then all the time he would discourse 

So sensible and courteous. 
Perhaps talking of the last sermon 

He had heard from Dr. Porteous ; 
Of some little bit of scandal 

About Mrs. So-aud-So, 
Which ho scarce could credit, having heard 

The con but not the pro ! 
Oh! we shall ne'er see the like of Captain Paton 



Or, when the candles were brought forth, 

And the night was fairly setting in. 
He would tell some fine old stories 

About Miuden-field or Dettiugen ; 
How he fonght with a French major, 

And despatched him at a blow, 
AVhile his blood ran out like water 

On the soft grass below ! 
Oh ! we ne'er shall hear the like from Captain Patou 
no mo'e ! 

But at last the captain sickened, 
And grew worse from day to day ; 

And all missed him in tlie coft'ee-room, 
From which now he stayed away ; 



On Sabbaths, too, the Wynd kirk 

Made a melancholy show. 
All for wantiug of the presence 
Of our venerable beau ! 
Oh ! wc ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton 
uo mo'e ! 

And, in spite of all that Cleghoru 

And Corkindale could do. 
It was plain, from twenty symptoms, 

That death was in his view ; 
So the captain made his test'meut. 

And submitted to his foe ; 
And we laid him by the Ram's-horu kirk — 

'Tis the way we all must go ! 
Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton 
no mo'e ! 

Join all in chorus, jolly boys. 

And let punch and tears be shed. 
For this prince of good old fellows, 

That, alack-a-day ! is dead; 
For this prince of worthy fellows — 

And a iiretty man also — 
That has left the Saltmarket 

In sorrow, grief, and woe ! 
For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no 
mo'e ! 



BEYOND. 

When youthful faith hath fled, 

Of loving take thy leave ; 
Be constant to the dead, — 

The dead cannot deceive. 

Sweet, modest flowers of spring, 
How fleet your balmy day! 

And man's brief year can briug 
No secondary May, — 

No earthly burst again 

Of gladness out of gloom ; 
Fond hope and vision waue 

Ungrateful to the tomb. 

But 'tis an old belief 

That on some solemn shore, 

Beyond the sphere of grief. 

Dear friends shall meet once more,- 

Beyond the sphere of time, 
And sin, and fate's control, 



JOHX GIBSOX LOCKUAIIT. 



455 



Serene in endless prime 
Of body and of soul. 

That creed 1 fain wonld ki'cp. 

That hiipe I'll not forego ; 
Eti-rnal hv the sleep, 

Unless to waken so! 



LAMENTATION FOK CELIN. 

Fbom " Lock h art's Spanish Ballads." 

At the gate of old Granada, 

When all its bolts arc barred — 
At twilight, at tlie Vega Gate — 

There is a trampling heard; 
There is a trampling heard, 

As of liorses treading slow, 
And a weeping voice of women, 

And a licavy sonnd of woe. 
"What tower is fallen f what star is set? 

What chief come these bewailing f" 
'•.\ tower is fallen! a star is set! 

Alas, aliis for C'elin !" 

Three times they knock, three times they cry, 

Anil wide the doors they throw ; 
Dejectedly they enter, 

-Vnd monrnfully they go! 
In gloomy lines they mnstering stand 

ISeneath the hollow porch. 
Each horseman grasping in bis band 

A black and flaming torch. 
Wet is each eye as they go by, 

And all aroniul is wailing; 
For all have heard the misery — 

"Alas, alas for C'elin !" 

Him yesterday a Moor did slay 

Oi liencerrajr's blood : 
"Twas at the Kolen)n jonsting; 

Aronnd the nobles stood ; 
Tlie nobles of tlio land were by. 

And ladies bright and fair 
Looked from their latticed windows, 

The banglity sight to share. 
Bnt now the nobles all lament. 

The ladles are bewailing ; 
For ho was Granada's darling knight — 

"Alas, alas for C'elin I" 

Before him ride his vassals, 
In order, two by two, 



W'itli ashes on their turbans spread, 

Most pitiful to view ; 
Behind him his four sisters, — 

Each wrapped in sable veil, — 
Between the tambonr's dismal strokes, 

Take up the doleful tale : 
Whi^n stops the miillk-d drnni, ye bear 

Their brotberless bewailing ; 
And all the people, far and near, 

Cry, "Alas, alas for Celln !" 

Oh ! lovely lies he on his bier. 

Above the purple pall. 
The flower of all Granada's youth, 

Tlio lovelie.-it of them all ; 
His dark, dark eye is closdd, 

His rosy lip is iiale. 
The crust of blood lies black and dim 

Upon his burnished mail ; 
And evermore the hoarse tambour 

Breaks in upon their wailing : 
Its sonnd Is like no eartbly sound — 

"Alas, alas for Cdin !" 

The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, 

The Moor stands at bis door ; 
One maid is wringing of her bands. 

And one is weeping sore. 
Down to the dust men bow their beads. 

And a.slies black they strew 
Upon their broidered garment^s 

Of crimson, green, and blue. 
Before each gate the bier stands still ; 

Then bursts the loud bewailing, 
From door and lattice, high and low, — 

••Alas, alas for C'elin!'' 

An old, old woman eomcth forth, 

When she bears the people cry; 
Her hair is white as silver, 

Like horn her glazed eye : 
'Twas she that nursed him at her breast. 

That nursed him long ago ; 
She knows not whom they all lament, 

Bnt soon she well shall know! 
With one deep shriek she through doth break. 

When her ears receive their walling: 
"Let nie kiss my Cellii ere I die! — 

Alas, alas for Celin !"' 



> Lnckhart'B tranelntionfi of ancient Spanish b.illtidis publish- 
ed in his •2Tlh yc.ir, are admirable HpecimcnH of lii^hly »ilcil(^il 
literary work. Sonic of Ihcm are much superior to ilie originals 
in the spirit and ninsic of the vcrsirlcallon, while the pro|H:r 
einiplicity of the bjillad form Is always failhfnlly preserved. 



456 



CTCLOrjSDIA OF BRITISB AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



i?anu0 Sljcriban Knowlcs. 

Dramatist, poet, teaclier, actor, ami clergyman, Knowlcs 
(17'J4-1S02) was a native of Cork, Ireland. Uoing to Lon- 
don, he made the acquaintance of Hazlitt, of whom he 
speaks as his "mental sire." Knowles produced the 
successful plays of " William Tell," "Virginius," "The 
Hunchback," " Tlic AVife," cte. The success of "The 
Huncliback" in America led to the author's own visit; 
and he appeared on the stage in the principal cities of 
the United States in the part of Master Walter. He did 
not succeed either as an actor or lecturer, his Irisli 
brogue often marring the effect of his elocution. "We 
knew him well, having met him in Boston, Washington, 
and Philadelphia. From the latter city he sent us, while 
we were editing the iJastotAtfa,';, the poem eutilled "The 
Actor's Craft," wliieh we first jniblished, and have here 
quoted. Few copies of it, we believe, are in existence. 
How far his views in regard to the stage were modiHed 
when he returned to England and became a Baptist min- 
ister, we cannot say. His literary and dramatic merits 
are unquestionable. See tlie poem by Charles Lamb on 
his "Virginius," in which Macready had a great success. 



FROM THE LAST ACT OF "VIRGINIUS." 
Scene — House of Virgixiu.s. Present, Viuoixius, 

NUMITOKIUS, SeEVIA. 
Enter IciLltfs. 

I'irghiUin. Come, come, make ready. Brother, you 
and lie 
Go on before: I'll bring bcr after you. 

Icilius. Ha ! 

Numitorius. My Icilius, ■ndiat a sight is there ! 
Virginias' reason is a wrecli, so stripped. 
So broken by the -n-avo and wind, yon scarce 
Would know it was the gallant bark you .saw 
Riding .so lato in safety. 

Icil. {Icihinij ViuGixifs's hand). Father, father ! 
That art no more a father ! 

Virg. Ha! what wet 

Is this upon my hand ? a tear, boy ? Fie ! 
For shame ! Is that the weapon you would guard 
Your bride with ? First assay what steel can do. 

Num. Not a tear has blessed his eye since her 
death ! No wonder ! 
Tho fever of his brain, that now burns out, 
Has drnnk the source of sorrow's toiTeuts dry. 

lell. You would not have it otherwise ? 'Twas fit 
The bolt that struck (he sole renmining branch, 
And blasted it, should set the trunk on tire ! 

Num. If we could nuike him weep — 

Icil. I have that will ni.ake him. 
If aught will do it. 'Tis her urn. 'Twas that 
Which first drew tears from me. I'll fetch it. But 
I cannot think you wise to wake a man 



Who's at the mercy of a tempest. Better 
You sutler him to sleep it through. \^Exit IciLirs. 
Virg. Gather your friends together : tell them of 
Deutatns' murder. Screw the chord of rage 
To the topmost pitch. (Laughs.) Mine own is not 

mine own ! 
That's strange enough. Why does he not dispute 
My right to my own tle.sh, and tell my heart 
Its blood is not its own ? He might as well. 
But I want my child. 

Enter Lucics. 

Lucius. .Justice will bo defeated! 

Virg. Who says that ? 

He lies in tho face of the gods ! Slie is immutable. 
Immaculate, and immortal. And, though all 
The guilty globe should blaze, she will spring up 
Through the fire, and soar above tho crackling pile. 
With not a downy feather rultied by 
Its fierceness ! 

Num. He is not himself. Wliat new 

Oppression comes to tell ns to our teeth 
We only mocked ourselves to think the days 
Of thraldom past ? 

Luc. Tho friends of Appius 

Beset the people with solicitations. 
The ficlde crowd, that change with every change, 
Begin to doubt and soften. Every moment 
That's lost, a friend is lost. Appear among 
Your friends, Or lose them. 

Num. Lucius, you 

Remain and watch Virginius. 

[Exit, followed hg all hut Lrcirs and SEitviA. 

Virq. You remember, — 

Don't you, nurse ? 

Serria. What, Virginius? 

r/iY/. That she nursed 

Tho child herself Inquire among your gossips 
Wliich of them saw it; and, with such of them 
As can avouch the fact, without delay 
Repair to the Forum. Will she come or not ? 
I'll call myself! She will not dare — 
Oh, wlien did my Virginia dare? Virginia! — 
Is it a voice, or nothing, answers me ? 
I hear a voice bo fine thei'o's nothing lives 
'Twixt it and silence. Such a slender one 
I've heard when I have talked with her in fancy! 
A phantom sound! Aha! she is not here. 
They told me she was here — they have deceived me — 
And Appius was not made to give her up, 
But keeps her, and effects his wicked purpose, 
Wliilo I stand talking here, and ask you if 
My daughter is my daughter! Though a legion 



JAMK.-t .s7/A/.7/>.i.V K.yollLLS. 



457 



Sontrieil that brotlicl. wliich lie calls his palace, 
I'd loar liir iVoiii him I 

Lur. II..1.1. Virgiiiiiis! Stay! 

Apiiiiis is now in prison I 

1'iifi. Willi my ilan';litcr? 

He has stciuctl her tlioiv ? Ila! has he su ? 
(iay oflico for a diin;;eon I Hold nio not. 
Or I will dash you down, and sjioil yon for 
My keeper. Sly Virginia, struggle with him! 
Appal liiiii with Ihy shrieks. Ne'er faint, ne'crlaiiit — 
1 am coming to thee! I am coming to thee! 

llliishcs ouljfoUoirnl by Lucius and Sliuvi.i. 



TELL AMONG THE SIOUNTAINS. 

Trom "William Tell." 

Ye crags and jieaks, I'm with yon once again! 
I hold to you the hands yon first beheld, 
To show they still are free! Methiiiks I hear 
.\ spirit in your echoes answer me, 
And bid your tenant welcimie to his home 
Again ! O sacred forms, how proud y<m look ! 
How high you lift your heads into tho sky! 
How huge you arc! how mighty and how frco! 
How do you look, for all your baiV'd brows. 
More gorgeously majestical than kings 
Whoso loaded coronets exhaust the mine ! 
Ve are the things that tower, that shine, whose smile 
Makes glad, whose frown is terrible ; whose forms, 
' Robed or unrobed, do all tho impress wear 
Of awo divine; whoso subject never kneels 
In mockery, because it is your boast 
To keep him free! Ye guards of liberty, 
I'm with you once again ! — I c.ill to you 
With all my voice! I hold my liauds to you. 
To show they still are free ! I rush to you 
.\s though I could embrace you ! 



THE ACTOR'.S CRAFF. 

LISi;S OS A MINISTER (XOT AX AMKUICAN) WHO PRF.ACH- 
KD IN rlllLAtlELIMIIA, ON VEIlIiUAUV S, 183.'.. A SKKMOS 
USCIIAItlTAbLV CONDEMXATOUY OF THE STAGE. 

I'limercifiil ! whoso ofliee teacheth mercy! 
Why dauinest thou the .Xclor's craft ? Is he 
I'o starve because thou tliink'st thy.self elected 
to preach the meek and lowly Saviour's peace T 
"A'o, Irt him ncek a fairer calling!" Heaven 
Appointed him to his, as thee to thine! 
lie hath bis nscfnlness. The tongue wherewith 
riioii didst revile him, had been barbarous 
Except for him! He lixed the standard of it 



That gave it nniformity and power. 

And enidiony and grace; and — more than that — 

To thoughts that glow and shine with Heaven's 

own lire, 
lie gave revealment unto millions 
That else had lived in darkness to Heaven's gift! 
Would by his art thou more hadst prolited. 
Thou ample, comfortable piece of flesh! 
Thy heart is no ascetic. Seat so soft 
As thy idnnip cheek, I warrant, never yet 
Sat self-denial on. " Thou dmt not plij 
The banquet !" Never mind ! Thou dost not lack 
Tho feast for that: tho bloating fare to which 
Tho Churchman's vanity and lust of power 
Sit seeming-mcekly down. — Why didst thou preach f 
Hadst thou forgot the coxcomb clerical ? 
If not. why didst tlion play him to tlie life? 

I'll do tliec justice, ay, in coniniendalion. 
Well as disparagement, for I am naught — 
Not, "if not critical" — but honest! Thou 
Didst read, methought, the service, like the tongue 
That gave (iod's levelation unto man ; — - 
Simply, adoringly, conliding in 
Strength greater than thiuo own. I knelt in soul. 
Anon, I said to one who sat beside lue, 
" We'll hear a preacher now." What didst thou 

preach f 
Thyself!! The little worm that God did make, 
And not the Maker! How I pitied thee! 
From lirst to last, display ! as though the place, 
Tho cau-so, the calling, the assembly, all 
Were secondary to a liiiiip of clay. 
Thy elocution, too — TnF.ATHicAi, I ! ! 
Hut foreign to tho Actor's proper art. 
Thy gesture measured to the word, not fitted ; — 
Thy modulation, running mountains high, 
" Then ducking low again as hell's from lienven !" 

SuQieieut of the rant! Improve before 
Thou moiiiit'st the steps of charity again; 
And know her handniaids are hnmilily. 
Forbearance, and philanthropy to nil ! 
And further, know the Stage n, preacher too — 
Allieit a less authenticated one — 
Whose moral, if occasionally wrong. 
Is honest in the main! — .\notlier word, — 
Act not the damner of another's creed, 
Nor call the Arian, Univcrsalist, 
Soeini.an, Unitariaii, Catholic, 
An Infidel ! — "Jmlije not, lent i/e he judged,'' 
A text in point for thee! My creed is yours, 
Bi»t by that creed I never will eondeinii — 
Myself a ereatnre weak and fallible — 
A man for faith some shade diverse from niino. 



458 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH A\D AMEBIC AX POETRY. 



<3laroUnc (Oilman. 



AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Oilman, daughter of Samuel Howard, a ship- 
wright, was boru in Boston, Mass., in lT'.t4. She married 
Dr. Samuel Oilman, a graduate of Harvard College, and 
a Unitarian clergyman, who was born in Gloucester hi 
1791. He settled in Charleston, S. C, in 1819, and re- 
mained there till his death in 1S58. Mrs. Gilraau began 
to write and publish before her eighteenth year, and was 
the author of several volumes in prose and verse, show- 
ing much literary diligence and versatility. Her " Verses 
of a Lifetime" (Boston, 1848) is her principal collection. 
Slie was residing with a widowed daughter at Tiverton, 
R. I., as late as 1880. Dr. Oilman was the poet of his 
class at college, and the author of pieces much admired 
iu their day. 



FKOM "THE PLANTATION." 

Farewell awhile the city's hum 

Where busy footstejis fall ; 
Aud welcome to my weary eye 

The planter's friendly hall ! 

Here let me rise at early dawn. 
And list the mock-hird's lay, 

That, warbling near our lowland home, 
Sits ou the waving spray ; — 

Then tread the shading avenue 

Beneath the cedar's gloom, 
Or gum-tree, with its flickered shade, 

Or chiuqiiapeu's perfume. 

The myrtle-tree, the orange wild, 

The cypress' flexile bough, 
The holly, with its polished leaves, 

Are all before me now. 

There, towering with imperial jiridc, 

The rich magnolia stands ; 
Aud here, iu softer loveliness, 

The white-bloomed bay expands. 

The long gray moss hangs gracefully. 

Idly I twine its wreaths, 
Or stop to catch the fragrant air 

The frequent blossom breathes. 

Life wakes around — the red-bird darts 
Like flame from tree to tree ; 

The whippoorwill complains alone, 
The robin whistles free. 



The frightened hare scuds by my path, 
And seeks the thicket nigh ; 

The squirrel climbs the hickory bough, 
Thence peeps with careful eye. 

The humming-bird, witli busy wing. 

In rainbow beauty moves. 
Above the trumpet-blossom floats, 

And sips the tube he loves. 

Triumphant to yon withered pine 

The soaring e.agle flies. 
There builds her eyrie 'mid the clouds. 

And mau and Heaven defies. 



ANNIE IN THE GRAVEYARD. 

She bounded o'er the graves 

With a buoyant step of mirth : 
She bounded o'er the graves, 
Where the weeping-willow waves, — 
Like a creature not of earth. 

Her hair was blown aside, 

Aud her eyes were glittering bright ; 
Her hair was blown aside, 
Aud her little hands sjiread wide 

With an innocent deliglit. 

She spelled the lettered word 

That registers the dead ; 
Slie spelled the lettered word, 
And her busy thoughts were stirred 

With pleasure as she read. 

She stopped and culled a leaf 

Left fluttering on a z'ose ; 
She stopped and culled a leaf, 
Sweet niounmeut of grief, 

That in our chuich-yard grows. 

She culled it with a smile — 
'Twas near her sister's moirnd ; 

She cnlled it with a smile. 

And pl.ayed with it a while. 
Then scattered it around. 

I did not chill her heart. 
Nor turn its gush to tears : 

I did not chill her heart — 

Oil, bitter drops will start 
Full soon iu coming years! 



UJ:XI!y WARE.—EDWAllI) KVICltiyrT. 



459 



fjcnnj lllarc. 

AMERICAN. 

Ware (1T04-1S43\ the liftli child and eldest sou of a 
elcrsymaii of the same name, was a native of Ilingham, 
.Mass. He became pastor of the Second Church in Bos- 
ton in 1^16, and remained there thirteen years, when llie 
slate of his health compelled him to resign, and accept a 
situation as Professor of Pulpit Eloquence in Harvard 
Colleirc. A memoir of his life, in two volumes, by his 
brother, John Ware, M.D., appeared in 1846. A selection 
from his writings (1S4C) by the Rev. Chandler Robbins, 
in four volumes 12mo, was also published. 



Tlicn praise for tlio past and the present we sing, 
Ami, trustful, await what tlie future may bring ; 
Let doubt and repining bo baui.shed away, 
And the whole of our lives he a Tbauksgiviug-day. 



A THANKSGIVING SONG. 

Pome, uncles aud cou.siu.s; come, nieces and aunt.s; 
Come, m'pliews aud brothers — no iroii'(« aud no 

caii'tn ; 
Put hnsinciH, and shopping, and seliool-liooks away : 
The year has rolled round — it is Thanksgiving-day. 

Come home from the college, ye ringlet-baired youth, 
Come home from your factories, Ann, Kate, and Huth; 
From the anvil, the counter, the farm, come away ; 
Home, lionie with you all — it is Thanksgiving-day. 

The table is spread, and the dinner is dressed; 
The cooks and the mothers have all done their best ; 
No Caliph of Bagdad e'er saw such display. 
Or dreamed of a treat like our Thanksgiving-day. 

Pics, puddings, and custards ; pigs, oysters, and 

nuts — 
Come forward and sei/.o them, without //» aud huts; 
Bring none of your slim little appetites hero — 
Thanksgiving-day conies only once in a year. 

Thrice welcome the day in its annual round! 
What treasures of love in its bosom are found I 
New England's high holiday, ancient and dear, — 
'Twould bo twice as welcome, if twice in a year. 

Now children revisit the darling old place, 
.\nil liriither and sister, long parteil, einhr.ice ; 
The family circle's united once more. 
And the same voices shout at the old cottage door. 

The grandfather smile.'f on the innocent mirth. 
And bhssrs the Power that h.is guariled his hearth; 
lie rememliers no trouble, he feels no decay. 
But thiidis his whole life has been Thanksgiving- 
day. 



RESURRECTION OF CHRLST. 

Lilt yonr glad voices in triumph on high. 
For Jesus hath risen, and man cannot die; 

Vain were the terrors tliat gathered around him. 

And short the dominion of death aud the grave; 

Ho burst from tlio fetters of darkness that bound 
him. 

Resplendent in glory to live aud to save : 
Loud was the chorus of angels ou high, — 
"The Saviour bath risen, aud man caunot die." 

Glory to God. in full anthems of joy! 

The being lie gave us death cannot destroy ! 
.Sad were the life we must part with to-morrow, 
I f te.irs were our birthright, and deal h were our end ; 
But Jesus bath cheered the dark valley of sorrow, 
And bade lis, immortal, to heaven ascend ; 

Lift, then, your voices in triumph on high. 

For Jesus bath risen, aud man shall not die. 



(Ciuiuii'Li (Uncrctt. 

AMERICAN. 

Everett (1794-186.5) was a native of Dorchester, Mass. 
Entering Harvard College at the age of thirteen, he was 
gr.uluated with highest honors. He was appointed tutor 
in Greek, and spent four years in Europe qualifying him- 
self. In all the various offices of Governor of Massachu- 
setts, Member of Congress, United States Senator, Presi- 
dent of Harvard University, Minister to England, and in 
several other well-known positions, he served with emi- 
nent fidelity. Little known as a poet, he was the author 
of one piece, at least, that entitles him to a place in the 
list. 



ALARIC THE VISIGOTH. 

When I am de.id, no pageant train 
Shall wa.stc their sorrows at my bier, 

Nor worthless pomp of homage vain 
Stain it with liypocritic tear; 

For I will die as I did live. 

Nor take the boon I cannot give. 

Ve shall not raise a m.arbic bust 
Upon the spot where I repose ; 



460 



CrCLOrJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERWAX rOETRT. 



Ye sliall uot fawn before my dust, 
lu lioUow ciieuiustaiice of woes ; 
Nor sculptured clay, with lyiug brcatli. 
Insult the clay tbat moulds beneath. 

Ye sluiU not pile, with servile toil, 
Y'our mouunients upon my breast, 

Nor yet within the eomniou soil 

Lay down the wreck of jiower to rest ; 

Where man can boast that he has trod 

On liini that was "the sconrgo of God." 

But ye the mountain stream shall turn. 
And lay its secret chauuel bare. 

And hollow, for your sovereign's urn, 
A resting-place forever there : 

Then bid its everlasting springs 

Flow back upon the King. of kings; 

And never be the secret said, 

Until the deep give up its dead. 

My gold and silver ye shall fling 

Back to the clods, that gave them birth- 

Tho captured crowns of many a king, 
The ransom of a conquered earth ; 

For e'en though dead will I control 

The froi)liies of the Capitol. 

But when beneath the mountain tide 
Ye've laid your monarch down to rot, 

Ye shall not rear upon its side 

Pillar or mound to mark the spot : 

For long enough the world has shook 

Beneath the terrors of my look ; 

And now that I have run my race. 

The astonished realms shall rest a space. 

My course was like a river deep. 

And from the Northern hills I burst, 

Across the world in wrath to sweep, 

And where I went the spot was cursed. 

Nor blade of grass again was seen 

Where Alario and his hosts had been. 

See how their haughty barriers fail 
Beneath the terror of the Goth ! 

Their iron-breasted legions qnail 
Before ray ruthless sabaoth, 

And low the queen of empires kneels, 

And grovels at my chariot-wheels. 

Not for myself did I ascend 

In judgment my triiimplial ear ; 



'Twas God alone on high did send 

The avenging Scythian to the war, 
To shake abroad, with iron hand. 
The appointed scourge of his command. 

With iron hand that scourge I reared 
O'er guilty king and guilty realm ; 
Destrnctiou was the ship I steered. 

And Vengeance sat upon the helm. 
When, launched in fury on the flood, 
I ploughed my way through seas of blood, 
And in the stream their hearts had spilt 
Washed out the long arrears of guilt. 

Across the everlasting Alp 

I poured the torrent of my powers. 
And feeble Ciesars shrieked for help 

In vain within their seven-hilled towers. 
I quenched in blood the brightest gem 
That glittered in their diadem ; 
And struck a darker, deeper dye 
III the purple of their majesty ; 
And bade my N(U'theru banners shine 
Upon the conquered Palatine. 

5Iy course is run, my errand done — 
I go to Him from whom I came; 

Buit never yet shall set the sun 
Of glory that adorns my name ; 

And Roman hearts shall long be sick, 

When men shall think of Alaric. 

My course is run, my errand done; 

But darker ministers of fate. 
Impatient, round the eternal throne. 

And in the eaves of Vengeance, wait ; 
And soon mankind .shall blench away 
Before the name of Attila. 



Cavlos lUiicoif. 



Wilcox (1794-1837), tlie son of a fanner, was a native 
of Newport, N. H. He entered MicUllebury College, and 
afterward studied theology at Andover. He commenced 
preacldng in 1818; his discourses were eloquent and 
thouglitfid; hut he had to abandon the ministry on ac- 
count of ill-liealth. His principal poem is " The Age of 
Benevolence," which he did not live to complete, and 
portions of which only have been published. Another 
incomplete poem, iucludcd in his " Remains," is " The 
Religion of Taste," republished ia London in 18.50. In 
his minute and accurate descriptions of natural scenery 
he shows some of the highest qualities of the poet. He 



CARLOS WILCOX. 



4G1 



limy lack tlic passioiiiite fervor by which the most im- 
in-cssive effects are reached in concent rated expression 
and startliiiir nietaplior, but lie deserved a hi'^her fame 
than he ever readied aiiionsr the literary men of his day. 
A volume of his "Remains" was published in Hartford, 
Conn., in 18iS, by Edward lloplcins. 



A LATE SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND. 
From " TiiE Ace of Bexevolesce." 

Long .swollen in diriieliiiig rain, seeds, germs, and 

liiids 
Start at tlio tonili of vivifying beams. 
Moved by their secret force, the vital lymph 
DilVnsivo riius, and spreads o'er wood and field 
A flood of verdure. Clothed, in one short week, 
Is naked nature in her full attire. 
On (lie liist morn, light as an open plain 
Is all the woodland. Idled with snnbcani.s, poured 
Througli tlio bare lops, ou yellow leaves below. 
With strong reflection : on the last, 'tis dark 
With full-growu foliage, shading all within. 
In one short week the orchard buds and blooms: 
And now, when steeped in dew or gentle showers, 
It yields the purest sweetness to the breeze, 
Or all the tranquil atmosphere perfumes. 
E'eu from the juicy leaves, of sudden growth, 
And tlie rank grass of steaming ground, the air, 
Filled with a watery glimmering, receives 
A grateful smell, exhaled by warming rays. 

Each day are heard, and almost every hour, 
New notes to swell the music of the groves. 
And soon the latest of the feathered train 
At evening twilight come ; — the lonely snipe. 
O'er marshy fields, high in the dusky air. 
Invisible, but with faint, tremulous tones. 
Hovering or playing o'er the listener's head; 
And, in mid-air, the sportive night-hawk, seen 
Flying awhile at random, uttering oft 
A cheerful cry, atteudi'd w itli a .sli:ike 
Of levil ]iiiiions, dark, but when upturned 
Against the brightness of the western sky. 
One white plume showing in the midst of each, 
Then far down diving with loud hollow sound; — 
And, deep at first within the distant wood. 
The wliippoorwill, her name her only song! 

Slic>, s 1 as children from the noi.sy sport 

Of hooping, laughing, talking with all tones, 
To hear the echoes of the empty barn. 
Are by her voice diverted, and held mute, 
Comes to the margin of the nearest grove; 
.\nd when the twilight, deepened into night, 
Calls tlicin within, close to the house she comes. 



And on its dark side, haply on the step 
Of uiifrecinented door, lighting unseen. 
liieaUs into strains articulate and clear. 
The closing sometimes iiniukened as in sport. 



A VISION OF HEAVEN. 
I'ROM "The IlELiGios OF Taste." 

Myself I found borne to a heavenly clime, — 
I knew not how, but felt a stranger there, ^ 

Still the same being that I was in time. 
Even to my raiment ! On the borders fair 
Of that blessed land I stood in lone despair; 

Not its pure beauty and immortal bloom. 
Its firmament serene, and balmy air, 

Nor all its gUuious beings, broke the gloom 

Of my foreboding thoughts, fixed ou some dreadful 
(liiiiiii. 

Tln>ro walked the ransomed ones of earth, in white 
As beautifully pure as new-fallen snow 

On the smooth summit of some eastern height 
In the first rays of morn that o'er it How, — 
Nor less residcndent than the richest glow 

Of snow-white clouds, with all their stores of rain 
And thunder spent, rolled up in volumes slow 

O'er the blue sky just cleared from every stain. 

Till all the blaze of noon they lUink and long retain. 

Safe landed on these shores, together hence 

That bright throng took their way to where in- 
sphered 

In a transparent cloud of light intense. 
With starry pinnacles aliovo it reared, 
A city vast the inland all appeared! 

With walls of azure, green, and purple stone. 
All to one glassy surface smoothed and cleared. 

Reflecting forms of angel guards that shone 

Above the approaching host, as each were on a 
throne. 

And while th.at host moved onward o'er a iilain 

Of living verdure, oft they turned to greet 
Friends that on earth had taught them heaven to 
gain ; 

Then hand-in-hand they went with r|niekeiu'd 
feet : — 

And bright with immortality, .and sweet 
With love ethereal, were the smiles they cast ; 

I only wamlcied on with none to meet 
And call me dear, while iioinling to the past, 
.\nd forward to the joys that never reach tluir last. 



462 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



I had not bound myself by any tics . 

To tliat blessed land ; uoue saw me and none 
sought ; 
Nor any shunned, nor from me turned their eyes ; 

And yet such sense of guilt my eouscicnce wrought, 

It seemed that every bosom's inmost thought 
Was fixed on me ; — when back as from their view 

I shrunk, and would have tied or shrunk to naught, 
As some I loved and many that I knew 
Passed on nnniindl'ul why or ^Yhither I withdrew. 

Whereat of sad remenibrauees a flood 

Rushed o'er my spirit, and my heart beat low 

As with the heavy gush of curdling blood : — 
Soon left behind, awhile I followed slow, 
Then stopped and round me looked, my fate to 
know. 

But looked in vain ; — no voiee ray doom to tell ; — 
No arm to hurl me down the de^iths of woo ; — 

It seemed that I was brought to heaven to dwell, 

That conscieuce might alone do all the work of hell. 

Now came the thought, the bitter thought of years 
Wasted in musings sad and fancies wild. 

And in the visionary hopes and fears 
Of the false feeling of a heart beguiled 
Bj^ nature's strange enchantment, stroug and wild ; 

Now, with celestial beauty blooming round, 
I stood as on some naked waste exiled : 

From gathering hosts came music's swelling sound. 

But deeper in despair my sinking spirits drowned. 

At length methought a darkness as of death 
Came slowly o'er me, and with that I woke ; 

Yet knew not, in the tirst suspended breath. 
Where I conhl be, so real seemed the stroke 
That in my dream all earthly ties had broke ; 

A moment more, and melting in a tide 
Of grateful fervor, how did I invoke 

Power from the Highest to leave all beside, 

And live but to secure tlie bliss my dream denied! 



SEPTEMBER. 

The sultry summer jiast, September comes. 
Soft twilight of the slow-declining year; — 
All mildness, soothing loveliness, and peace : 
The fading season, ere the falling come. 
More sober than the buxom blooming May, 
And therefore less the favorite of the world. 
But dearest month of all to pensive minds ! 
'Tis now far spent; and the meridian sun, 



Most sweetly smiling with attempered beams. 
Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth. — 

Beneath its yellow lustre, groves and woods, 
Checkered by one night's frost with various hues, 
While yet no wind has swept a leaf away, 
Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight 
Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged 
Upon each brink with all tlie gorgeous hues, 
The yellow, red, or purple of the trees, 
That, singly, or in tufts, or forests thick. 
Adorn the shores ; to see, perhaps, the side 
Of some high mount reflected far below 
With its bright colors, intermixed with spots 
Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad 
To wander iu the open fields, and hear 
E'en at this hour, the noonday hardly past, 
Tlie lulling insects of tlie summer's night; 
To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard, 
A lonely bee, long roving here and there 
To find a single flower, but all in vain ; 
Then rising quick, and with a louder hum. 
In widening circles round and round his head, 
Straight by the listener flying clear away. 
As if to bid the fields a last adieu : — 
To hear, within the woodland's sunnj- side. 
Late full of music, nothing, save, perhaps. 
The sound of nutshells, by the squirrel dropped 
From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves. 



lUiUiam CuUcii Bnuant. 



Bryant (1794^1878), the first American poet of celebrity, 
was born atCummington, Mass., November 3d. He began 
to write verse at the age of ten ; and at thirteen wrote 
m\& published "The Embargo," a political satire, and a 
very remarkable oue, under the ch'cuuistauces. Educated 
at Williams College, he was admitted to the Bar iu 1S15, 
married young, and began the practice of the law at Great 
Barriugton. His celebrated poem of" Thanatojisis" was 
written before he was twenty. 

In 1835 Bryant removed to New York, and iu 1S2G con- 
nected himself with the New York Enniing Post, his pro- 
prietary interest in which eventually became the source 
of an ample fortune. In 1834 he travelled iu Europe, 
and in 1845 and 1849 repeated his visit. A collection 
of his poems was published in Nen- York in 1833, and re- 
published in London. Repeated editions of his collected 
works have appeared. Iu 1870 a line edition of his mas- 
terly translation of Homer, in which he surpasses all 
predecessors, was published in Boston. 

"Bryant's writings," says Washington Irving, "trans- 
port us into the depths of the solemn primeval forest, to 
the shores of the lonely lake, the banks of the wild, name- 
less stream, or the brow of the rocky upland, rising like 



WILLIAM CCLLEX BRTAST. 



463 



s promontory from iimi(l:<t a wide ocean of foliage ; while 
tlii'V shell around us the };lories of a climate liercc iu its 
extremes, but splendid in all its vieissitudes." 

But it is not only in his descriptions of nature that 
Bryant excels. In his " Antiiiuity of Freedom," "The 
Future Life,"'" The Battle field," etc., he reaches a high 
ethical strain, and is, at the same time, the genuine poet 
in thought and diction. Few men of letters have, iu the 
latter half of their lives, had so prosperous, so honored, 
and so eminently successful a career, extending beyond 
fourscore years of physical activity and intellectual ro- 
bustness. In his domestic relations singularly fortunate, 
he was equally so in all his public experiences. 

" Bryant," says a German critic," is thoronghly Amer- 
ican in his poetry. A truly national method of thinking 
and judging pervades even those from among his produc- 
tions which treat of non-American subjects." The re- 
mark is just, and is a sullieicnt reply to the supcrlicial 
sarcasm, heedlessly thrown out by Lord Jclfrcy, that 
Bryant is "but a dilution of Jlrs. Ilemans." We can 
recall no one verse of Bryant's to which this rnsh com- 
ment could apply, lie and Mrs. Ilemans were born the 
fame year, and some of his best poems were written 
before she was known in America. " It is in the beauti- 
ful," says John Wilson of TSncku'ond' a Mii'juzinc, " that 
the genius of Bryant finds its prime delight. He ensouls 
all dead, insen.satc things ; » * » and thus there is aui- 
mation in the heart of the solitude." 

Bryant's morality was not only psychical but physio- 
logical. He reverenced and fulfilled the laws of physical 
health. He took scrupulous care of himself. His senses 
were perfect at fourscore; his eyes needed no ghisses; 
his hearing was exquisitely line; he outwalked most men 
of middle age. Milk and cereals and fruit were his pre- 
ferred diet. Regular in his habits, he reUilncd his youth 
almost to the last, and his final illness was contracted in 
a too fearless out-of-door exposure. "His power of 
work," says Dr. Bellows," never abated ; and the Hercu- 
lean translation of Homer, which was the amusement of 
the last lustre ofhis life, showed not only no senility, but 
no decrease of iutcllectual or phybical endurance." 



XOVKMIJER. 

Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun ! 
One m«llow smile tlirongU the soft vapory air, 
Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the lond winds run, 
Or snows are sifted o'er the, me.idows bare. 
One smile on the brown liil's and naked trees, 
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast, 
And llio blue jjcntinn flower that in the breeze 
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. 
Vet a few snnny <lays, in which the beo 
Shall mnrmiir by the hedge that skirts the way, 
The ericUct chirp ii|>on the russet lea, 
And man delight to linger in the ray. 
Yet one rich smile, and wo will try to bear 
The piercing winter frost, aud winds, aud darkeacd 
air. 



THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 

Hero are old trees, tall oaks, and guarldd pines, 

That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground 

Was never trenched by spade, and llowers spring up 

Unsown, and die uugatbered. It is sweet 

To linger here, among the Hitting birds 

And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, aud winds 

That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass 

A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set 

With palo blueberries. Iu these peaceful shades — 

Peaceful, nnpruued, immeasurably old — 

M.v thoughts go np the long dim path of years, 

Buck to the earliest days of liberty. 

O Freedom ! tliou art not, as poets dream, 

A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs. 

And wavy tresses gushing from the cap 

With which the Konian master crowned his slave 

■When he took oft' the gyves. A bearded man. 

Armed to the teeth, art thou : one mail<;d hand 

Grasps the broad shield, aud one the sword ; thy 

brow. 
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred 
With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs 
Arc strong with struggling. Power at thee has 

launched 
His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee ; 
They could not quench the life thou liast from 

Heaven. 
Merciless Power has dng thy dungeon deep, 
And his swart armorers, by a thousand (ires, 
Have forged thy chain ; yet whilo be deems tbce 

bound, 
The links are shivered, and the prison walls 
Fall outward: terribly thou sjiringest forlh, 
As springs tho flame above a burning pile, 
And shoHtest to tho nations, who return 
Thy shoutings, while tho pale oppressor flies. 

Thy birthright was not given by human liaiids : 
Thou wert tw in-born with man. In pleasant fiidds, 
While yet our race was few, thon satest with him, 
To tend the qniet flock and watch tho stars, 
And teach the reed to utter simple airs. 
Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood. 
Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, 
His only foes; and thou with him didsl draw 
The earliest furrows on the mountain side, 
Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny himself. 
Thy enemy, .although of reverend look. 
Hoary with many years, and far obeyed. 
Is later born than thou; aud as he meets 



464 



CYCLOPMDIA OF DEITISH AND AMEEICAX POETUT. 



Tlie grave defiance of thine elder eye, 
The usuvpcr treml>les in liis fastuesses. 

Tliou sbalt wax stronger with the lapse of years, 
But ho shall fade into a feebler age ; 
Feebler, yet subtler: he shall weave his snares, 
And spring them ou thy careless stei)s, and clap 
His withered bauds, and from tlieir ambush call 
Ilis hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send 
Quaint maskers, wearing fair aud gallant forms. 
To catch thy gaze, aud uttering graceful words 
To charm thy ear ; while his sly imps, by stealth, 
Twine ronud thee threads of steel, light thread on 

thread. 
That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms 
With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh! not yet 
Mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by 
Thy sword ; nor yet, O Freedom ! close thy lids 
In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps, 
And thou must watch and combat, till the day 
Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou rest 
Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men. 
These old and friendly solitudes invite 
Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees 
Were young upon the nnviolated earth, 
And yet the moss-stains on the lock were new, 
Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. 



THANATOPSIS. 

To him who, iu tlie love of Nature, holds 

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 

A various language : for his gayer hours 

Slie has a voice of gladness, and a smile 

And eloquence of beauty; and she glides 

Into his darker musings with a mild 

And healing sympathj', that .steals away 

Their sharpness ere he is aware. Wlien thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

Over thy spirit, and sad images 

Of tlie stern agony, and shroud, aud pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house. 

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart — 

Go forth under the open .sky, aud list 

To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 

Earth aud her waters, and the depths of air — 

Comes a still voice: — Yet a few days, and thee 

Tlie all-beholding sun shall see no more 

In all his course; uor yet in the cold ground. 

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 



Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements; 
To be ,a brother to the insensible rock, 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thy eteruiil resting-place 
Shalt thou retire aloue, — nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou sbalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings. 
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good. 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, 
Eock-ribbed, aud ancient as the sun ; the vales. 
Stretching in jieusive quietness between ; 
The venerable woods ; rivers, that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks. 
That make the meadows green ; and, poured round 

all. 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
Are but the solenm decorations all 
Of the great tomb of m:in ! The golden sun. 
The planets, all the infinite liost of heaven. 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death. 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber iu its bosom. Take the wings 
Of morning, pierce the Barcau wilderness. 
Or lose thy.sclf in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, aud hears no sound 
Save his owu dashings — yet the dead are there ! 
Aud millions iu those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone! — 
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw- 
In silence from the living, aud no friend 
,Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone ; tlie solemn brood of care 
Plod ou ; and each one, as before, will chase 
His favorite plmutom ; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men. 
The youth, in life's green .spring, and he wlio goes 
In the full strength of years, matron and maid. 
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man, — 
Shall, one by one, he gathered to thy side. 
By those who in tliefr turn shall follow them. 

So live that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan that moves 



niLLIAM CCLLEX BBTAST. 



465 



To tliat nijsterioiis reiiliii, wliero each shall tako 
His chamber iti the silent halls of ileath, 
Thou go not like the unarry-slavo at night, 
Scourged to his iliiiigeon, but, sustained ami soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About hiui, aud lies down to pleasant dreams! 



SUMMKK WIND. 

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk 
The dew that lay upon the morning grass; 
Tliere Is no rnstling in the lofty elm 
That canopies my divelliug, aud its shade 
Scarce cools rac. All is silent save the faint 
Aud interrupted murmur of the bee. 
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again 
Instantly on the wing. The plants around 
Feel the too potout fervors: the tall uiaizo 
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops 
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. 

But far in the tierco sunshine tower the hills, 
Willi all their growth of woods, silent and stern, 
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light 
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds, 
Motionless pillars of the brazen he.iven, — - 
Their bases on the monutain.s, their white tops 
Shining iu the far ether, — tiro the air 
With a reflected radiance, and nmko turn 
The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie 
Laugniilly iu the .shade, where the thick turf, 
Yet virgin from the ki.s.ses of the sun, 
Ketains some freshness, and I woo the wind 
That still delays its coming. Why so slow, 
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air? 

Oh come, and breathe upon the fainting earth 
C'oolne-ss aud life! Is it that in his caves 
He hears me f See, on yonder woody ridge, 
The pino is bending his proud top, aud now, 
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and o.-ik 
-Vre to.ssing their green boughs about. He comes! 
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs iu waves! 

The deep, distressful silence of the scene 
Breaks up with mingling of uiniumbered sounds 
Anil universal motion. He is come, 
.Shaking a shower of blossoms from the .shrubs, 
.\nd bearing on their fragrance; aud he brings 
Music of birds and rustling of young boughs, 
Aud souTid of swaying branches, and the voice 
Of distant water-falls. All the green herbs 
Are stirring in his breath ; a thousand flowers. 
By the roadside and the borders of the brook. 



Nod gayly to each other ; glossy leaves 
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew 
Were on them yet; aud silver waters break 
Into small waves aud sparkle as he comes. 



THE FITIKK LIFK. 

LINES ADDISKSSKI) TO IIIS WIFE. 

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps 
The disembodied spirits of the dead. 

When all of thee that time could wither, sleeps, 
Aud i)erishes among the dust we tread f 

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain. 
If there I meet thy gentle presence not ; 

Nor lu'ar the voice I love, nor read again 
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. 

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there? 

That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given f 
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer; 

Shall it be banished from thy tongue in heaven? 

In meadows fainied by heaven's life-breathing wind 
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere. 

And larger movements of the unfettered mind, 
Wilt thou forget the love that joined ns here? 

The love that lived through all the stormy past, 
And meekly with my harsher nature bore, 

.\nd ileeper grew, and tenderer to the last. 
Shall it expire with life, and be no more? 

A happier lot than mine, and larger light, 

Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will 

In cheerful homage to the rule of right, 
Aud lovest .'ill, and rcnderest good for ill. 

For mo, the sordid cares in which I dwell. 

Shrink aud consume the heart, as heat the scroll; 

And wrath has left its scar — that fire of hell 
Has left its frightful sc.ar upon my sonl. 

Yet, though thou wearest the glory of the sky, 
Wilt thou not keep the same belov<5d immcf 

The same fair, thoughtful brow, aud gentle eye. 
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same? 

Shiilt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, 
The wisdom that I learned so ill iu this — 

Tlio wisdom which is love, — till 1 become 
Thy fit companion iu that land of bliss T 



466 



CYCLOrJlDlA OF BUITISB AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



MEETING OF HECTOR AND ACHILLES. 

The following is a specimen of Bi'j'ant's translation of the 
" Iliad." The reader of Homer will remember that Hector first 
retreats before Achilles, but at length tnrns npou his pursuer, 
determined to meet his fate, wlnitever it may he. 

Ho spake, ami drew the keen-edged sword that 
hung, 
Massive and finely tempered, at his side, 
And sprang, — as when an eagle high in lieaven. 
Through the thick cloud, darts downward to the 

plain, 
To clutch some tender lamb or timid Lare. 
So Hector, Ijraudisliiiig that keen-edged sword. 
Sprang forward, while Achilles opposite 
Leaped toward him, all on fire with savage hate, 
And holding his bright buckler, nobly ivronght, 
Before him. As iu tlie still hours of night 
Hesper goes forth among the host of stars, 
The fairest light of heaven, so brightly shone. 
Brandished in the right hand of Pelens' son, 
The spear's keen blade, as, confident to slay 
The noble Hector, o'er his glorious form 
His quick eye rau, exploring where to plant 
The surest wound. The glittering mail of brass 
Won from the slaiu Patroclus guarded well 
Each part, save only where the collar-bone.s 
Divide the shoulder from the neck, and there 
Apiieared the throat, the spot wliere life is most 
111 peril. Through that part the noble sou 
Of Peleus dravo his spear; it went quite through 
The tender neck, and yet the brazen blade 
Cleft not the windpipe, and the power to speak 
Eemaiued. * » * 

And then the crested Hector faintlj' said, 
" I pray thee by thy life, and by thy kuees, 
And by thj' parents, sufter not the dogs 
To tear me at the galleys of the Greeks. 
Accept abundant store of brass and gold. 
Which gladly will my father and the queen. 
My mother, give iu ransom. Send to them 
My body, that the warriors and the dames 
Of Troy may light for me the funeral pile." 

The swift Achilles answered with a frown, — 
"Nay, by my knees entreat me not, thou cur. 
Nor by my parents. I could even wish 
My fury prompted me to cut thy flesh 
In fragments, and devoiv.- it, such the wrong 
That I have had from thee. There will be none 
To drive away the dogs about thy head. 
Not though thy Trojau friends should bring to me 
Tenfold and twenty-fold tlie offered gifts. 
And promise others, — not though Priam, sprung 
From Dardanus, should send tliy weight in gold. 



Thy mother sliall not lay thee on thy bier, 
To sorrow over tliee whoTU she brought forth ; 
But dogs and birds of prey shall mangle thee." 

And then the crested Hector, dying, said, — 
" I know thee, and too clearly I foresaw 
I should not move thee, for thou hast a heart 
Of iron. Yet reflect that for my sake 
Tlie auger of the gods may fall on thee, 
When Paris and Apollo strike thee down. 
Strong as thou art, before the Scteau gates." 

Thus Hector spake, and straightway o'er him 
closed 
The light of death ; the .soul forsook his limbs. 
And flew to Hades, grieving for its fate, — 
So soon divorced from youth aud youthful might. 



THE BATTLE-FIELD. 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands. 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 

And fiery hearts aud anudd Lauds 
Encouutered iu the battle cloud. 

Ah ! never shall tlie land forget 

How gushed the life-blood of her brave — 
Gushed, warm witli hope and courage yet, 

Uiiou the soil tliey fought to save. 

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still, 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird. 
And talk of children on tlio bill, 

Aud bell of wandering kiiie arc heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain ; 
Men start not at tlie battle-cry, 

Oh, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested tliose who fought ; but thou 
Who minglest in the harder strife 

For truths which men receive not uow, 
Thy warfare ouly ends witli life. 

A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
Tlirough weary day and weary year, 

A wild and many-weaponed throng 

Hang on thy front, and flank, aud rear. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 
And blench not at thy chosen lot : 

The timid good may stand aloof. 

The stige may frown — yet faint thou not. 



niLLiAM ciLLLX jinwiyr. 



4<;7 



Nor liep<l the shaft too surely cast, 
The foul ami hissing bolt of sconi ; 

.For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 
Tho victory of cuduranco boin. 

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise ngaiu ; 

Tho eternal years of God are hers ; 
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, 

Aud dies among his worshippeis. 

Yea, though thou Ho upon the dust, 

Wheu they who helped theo tlec in fear. 

Die full of ho]io aud niauly trust, 
Like those who fell in battle here. 

Another hand thy sword shall wield. 
Another hand the standard wave. 

Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed 
The blast of triumph o"er thy grave. 



FROM 'AN EVENING liEVEKIE." 

Oh thou great Movcmeut of tho Universe, 

Or Change, or Flight of Time — for ye are one ! — 

That bearest silcutly this visible scene 

Into night's shadow and the streaming rays 

Uf starlight, whither art thou bearing me f 

I feel the mighty current sweep nie on. 

Vet know not whither. Man foretells afar 

The coui-ses of the stars ; the very hour 

He knows, when they shall darken or grow bright: 

Vet doth tho eclipse of Sonow aud of Death 

Come uuforewarned. Who next of those I love 

.■^hall p.-iss from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall 

From virtue f Strife with foes, or bitterer strifo 

With friends, or shame and general scorn of men — 

AVhich who can bear? — or the fierce rack of pain — 

Lie they within my patli ? Or shall the years 

I'nsh me, with soft aud inoffensive puce, 

Into the stilly twilight of nij- age f 

Or do tho portals of another life 

Even now, while I am glorying iu my strength. 

Impend amuud uu; f Oh I beyond that bourne. 

In tho vast cycle of being which begins 

At that broad threshold, with what fairer forms 

.Shall the great law of change aud progress clothe 

Its workings? Gently — .>io liave good nuMi taught— 

(iciitly. anil without grief, tho ohl shall glide 

Into the new; the eternal flow of things. 

Like a l)right river of the lields of hi'aveu, 

Shall jonrncy onward in perjietual peace. 



TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 

Thou blossom bright with autumu dew, 
Aud covered with tho heaven's own blue, 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen aud frosty night, — 

Thou comcst not when violets lean 

O'er wandering brooks aud springs unseen. 

Or columbines, in purple dressed. 

Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest : 

Thou waitest late and conrst alone. 
When woods are bare aud birds are llown. 
And frosts and shortening days portend 
Tho agdd year is near his ciul. 

Then doth thy sweet and rjuict eyo 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
A tiower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart. 
May look to Heaven as I depart 



SONG. 



Dost thou idly .ask to hear 

At what gentle seasons 
Nymphs relent, when lovers near 

Press the tenderest reasons ? 
Ah, they give their faith too oft 

To the careless wooer ; 
Maidens' hearts are always soft — 

Would that men's were truer ! 

Woo tho fair one, when around 

Early birds are singing; 
When, o'er all the fragrant groinul. 

Early herbs are springing : 
When the brook-side, bank, and grove, 

All with blos.s(Mns laden, 
Shine with beauty, breathe of love, — 

Woo the timid maiden. 

Woo her when, with rosy blush, 

i^ummer eve is sinking; 
When, on rills that softly gush, 

Stars ai'e softly wiukiug ; 



468 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF SEITISH AND AMEBICAN POETRY. 



When, through boughs that knit the hower, 
Moonlight gleams are stealiug ; 

Woo her, till the gentle hour 
Wake a gentler feeling. 

Woo her, when antunuial dyes 

Tinge the woody mountain ; 
When the dropping foliage lies 

In the weedy fountain ; 
Let the scene that -tells liow fast 

Youth is passing over, 
Warn her, ere her bloom is past, 

To secure her lover. 

Woo her when the north wiuds call 

At the lattice nightly ; 
Wlien within the cheerful hall 

Blazo the fagots brightly ; 
While the wintry tempest round 

Sweeps the landscape hoary. 
Sweeter in her cars shall sound 

Love's delightful story. 



THE KETURN OF YOUTH. 

My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime. 

For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight ; 
Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time 

Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with 
light,^ 
Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong. 

And quick the thought that moved thy tongue 
to speak. 
And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong 

Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek. 

Thou lookest forward on the coming days, 

Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep ; 
A path, thick-set with changes and decays. 

Slopes downward to the place of common sleep ; 
And they who walked with thee in life's first stage, 

Leave one by one thy side, and, waitiug near, 
Thou seest the sad compauions of thy age — 

Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear. 

Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone. 
Nor deem that glorious season e'er conld die. 

Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn, 
Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky ; 

Waits, like the morn, that folds her wings and hides, 
Till the slow stais bring back her dawning hour; 



Waits, like the vani.shed spring, that slumbering 
bides 
Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower. 

There shall he welcome thee, when thou sh.alt stand 

On his bright morning hills, with smiles more 
sweet 
Than when at first he took thee by the hand. 

Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet; 
He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still, 

Life's early glory to thine eyes again, 
Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill 

Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then. 

Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here, 

Of mountains where immortal morn prevails ! 
Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear 

A gentle rustling of the morning gales; 
A nuirmnr, wafted from that glorious shore, 

Of streams that water banks forever fair, 
And voices of the loved ones gone before, 

More mnsical in tliat celestial air? 



TO THE REV. JOHX PIERPONT, 

ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY, APRIL 6, 1865. 

The mightiest of tlie Hebrew seers. 
Clear-eyed and hale at eighty years, 
From Pisgah saw the hills and plains 
Of Canaan, green with brooks and rains. 

Our poet, stroug in frame and mind. 
Leaves eighty well-spent years behind ; 
And forward looks to fields more bright 
Thau Moses saw from Pisgah's height. 

Yet be our Pierpont's voice and pen 
Loug potent with the sons of men; 
And late his summons to the shore 
Where he shall meet his youth once more. 



lUilliam Siimcn lUalkcr. 

"Walker (179.5-1S4C) was one of a group of young poet- 
ical aspirants who made Eton, Oxford, and Cambridge 
vocal with their songs early in the nineteenth century. 
In his verses there is a tenderness and grace imparting 
a peculiar charm. He was one of the contribiitoi-s to 
The Etonian, witli Praed, Moultrie, and others. An edi- 
tion of his poetical works, edited by Moultrie, appeared 
soon after his death. 



niLLIAM SIDXi:y W.lLKEIt.—JEREMIAn JOSEPH CALLAXAX. 



469 



THE VOICE OF OTHER YEARS. 

O Stella ! golden star of youth iiiul love ! 

In tliy soft uamo tbo voice of other years 
Seems sounding; each greou'court aud archt^d grovo 

Whore, hand-iu-hand, we walked, again appears, 

C'allo<l liy the spell : the very clouds and tears. 
O'er which thy dawning lamp its splendor darted, 

Gleam bright ; aud they aro there, my youthful 
peers, 
The lofty-uiinded aud tho gentle-hearted; 
Tlio beauty of tho earth — tho light of days de- 
parted — 
All, all return ; and with them comes a throng 

Of withered hopes, and loves made desolate, 
Aud high resolves cherished in sileiuo long. 

Yea, struggling still beneath Ilio iiicnuibent 
weight 

Of spirit-quelling Time and adverse fate. 
These only live ; all else have passed away 

To Memory's spectre-land ; aud she, who sate 
'.Mid that bright choir so bright, is now as they — 
A morning dream of life, dis.solviug with the dav. 



TO A CIKL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR. 

Thy smiles, tliy talk, thy aimless plays, 
So beautiful approve (hce. 

So winning light are all thy ways, 
I cannot choose but love thee. 

Thy b.almy breath upon my brow- 
Is like tho summer air, 

As o'er my check thou leanest now, 
To plant a soft kiss there. 

Thy steps arc dancing toward tho bound 

Between tho cliild aud woman ; 
Aud thoughts and feelings more profound, 

Aud other years, aro coming: 
Aud tlion shalt bo more deeply fair, 

More precious to tho heart ; 
lint never canst thou bo again 

That lovely thing thou art ! 

Aud youth shall pass, with all the brood 

Of faiu'y-fed atlVclion ; 
Ami grief shall come with womanhood, 

Aud waken cohl reflection; 
Tliou'lt learn to toil and watch, aud weep 

O'er pleasures nureturning, 
Like one who wakes from pleasant sleep 

Uuto the cares of morning. 



Nay, say not so I nor cloud tho suu 

Of joyous expectation, 
Ordaiued to bless tho little one, 

Tho freshling of creation ! 
Nor donbt that He who tlnis doth feed 

Hit early lamp witli gladness, 
Will be her present help iu need, 

Her comforter in saducss. 

Smile on, then, little win.some thing, 

All rich in Nature's treasure ! 
Tliou hast within thy heart a spring 

Of self-renewing pleasure. 
Smile on, fair child, and take thy fill 

Of mirth, till time shall cud it : 
'Tis Nature's wise aud gentle will, 

Aud who shall reprehend it? 



iJcrcmialj ^oscpl) (ilallanan. 

Callanan (IT'J.'i-lSSy) was born in Coi-lc, Ireland, and 
educated for the priesthood at M.iynootb. But he gave 
up his clerical prospects, and in 182.5 was an assistant iu 
the school of Dr. Maginn, by whose introduction he be- 
came a contrilnitor to Blarkwood's Magazine. In 1S2'J he 
was tutor in the family of an Irish goutlcmau in Lisbon, 
and died there in the thirty-fourth year of his age, as lie 
was about leaving for Ireland. A small 12mo volume of 
his Poems was published at Cork soon after his death. 
A new edition appeared In 1&47; and in 1H4S was issued 
a third edition, edited by D. F. McCarthy, with an inter- 
esting Memoir. 



THE VIRGIN MARY'S HANK. 

FOUNDED ON AN EXISTING POPITLAR TliADITION IN THE 
COUNTY OF CORK. 

Tho evening-star rose beanteons above the fading 
day. 

As to the lone and silent be.ach tho Virgin came 
to pray ; 

And hill and wave shono brightly in the moon- 
light's mellow fall, 

But tho bank of green where Mary kuclt was bright- 
est of tbcm all. 

Slow moving o'er tho waters a g.allant bark ap- 
peared, 

And her joyous crew looked fmni the deck ius tn 
the land she neared ; 

To the calm aud sheltered haven she lloate<l like 
a swan. 

And her wings of snow o'er tlic waves below in 
pride iind beauty shone. 



470 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



The master saw "Our Lady" as he stood upon tile 

jh'ow. 
And marked the vrhiteuess of her robe, the radiance 

of her brow ; 
Hor arms were fohled graceful]}' upon her stainless 

breast, 
And her eyes looked up among the stars to Iliui 

her soul loved best. 

He showed her to his sailors, and he hailed her 

■with a cheer ; 
And on the kneeling Virgin then they gazed with 

laugh and jeer. 
And madly swore a form so fair they ucver saw 

before. 
And they cursed the faint and lagging breeze that 

kept them from the shore. 

The ocean from its bosom shook oft' the moonlight 

sheen. 
And lip its wratlifiil billows rose to vindicate their 

Qiujen ; 
And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a darkness 

o'er the land. 
And the scoffing crew beheld no more that Lady 

on the strand. 

Out burst the pealing thunder, and the liglitniiig 

leaped about ; 
And, riishiug with its watery war, the tempest gave 

a shout ; 
And that vessel from a inountaiu-wave came down 

with thundering shock, 
And her timbers flow like scattered spray on Inchi- 

doiiy's rock. 

Then loud frniii all that guilty crew one shriek rose 
wild and higli ; 

But the angry surge swept over them, and hushed 
their, gurgling cry; 

And with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest 
passed away. 

And down, still ehafiug from their strife, the in- 
dignant waters lay. 

When the calm and purple morning .shone out on 

high Dnnmore, 
Full many a mangled corpse was seen on luchi- 

dony's shore ; 
And to this day the fisherman shows where the 

scoffers sank, 
And still he calls that hillock green the Virgin 

Mary's Bank. 



Sljomas Noon Salfouvtt. 

Talfourd (179.5-1S54) was a native of Doxey, a suburb 
of StafTord, England. His father was a brewer in Read- 
ing. Having studied the law, Thomas was called to tlie 
Bar in 1831, and in 1833 got his silk gown. As Sergeant 
Talfourd, he was conspicuous for Ids popular eloquence 
and liberal principles. He was returned to Parliament 
for the borough of Reading. In 1835 he published his 
tragedy of "Ion," which was the next year produced at 
Covent Garden Theatre with success. It is the highest 
literary eUbrt of its author; and Miss Ellen Tree, who 
played the part of the hero in the United States, helped 
to make it famous. Talfourd also produced " The Athe- 
nian Captive," a tragedy; "The Massacre of Glencoe;" 
and "The Castilian," a tragedy. lie also wrote a "Life 
of Charles Lamb," and an "Essay on the Greek Drama." 
In Ifvll) he was elevated to the Bench ; and in 18.54 he 
died of apoplexy, while delivering his charge to the grand- 
jury at Staflbrd. 



TO THE SOUTH AMERICAN PATRIOTS. 

ON THE DISI'EKSION OF THE EXPEDITION FRO.M SPAIN, 
APRIL, 1H19. 

Rejoice, yo heroes ! Freedom's old ally. 
Unchanging Nature, who hath seen the powers 
Of thousand tyrannies decline like flowers, 
Your triumph aids with eldest sympathy: — 
The breeze hath swept again the stormy sky 
That wooed Athenian waves with tenderest kiss. 
And breathed, in glorious rage, o'er Salamis ! 
Leaguing with deathless chiefs, whose spirits high 
Shared in its freedom — now from long repose 
It wakes to dash unmastered Ocean's foam 
O'er the iiroud navies of your tyrant foes ; 
Nor shall it cease in ancient might to roam 
Till it hath borne your contest's glorious close 
To every breast where freedom finds a home. 



LOVE IMMORTAL. 

From "Ion." 

Clenmnlhc. And shall we never sec each other ? 

Ion {"ft(T a pause). Yes ! 
I h.ave a.sked that dreadful question of the hills, 
Tliat look eternal; of the flowing streams, 
That lucid flow forever; of the stars, 
Amid whose fields of aznre my raised .spirit 
Hath trod in glory : all were dumb ; bnt now, 
While I thus gaze npon thy living firce, 
I feel the love that kindles through its beauty 
Can never whcdly perish ; wo shall meet 
Again, Clcmanthe ! 



THOMAS XOON TALFOVRD. 



171 



VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF A CHILD 
N.VMi;i» AITEK CHARLES LAMl!. 

Our gcntio Cliarlos li:is passed away, 
From eartli's short bondago free, 

And left to us its leadeu day 
And iiiist-oiisbrouded sea. 

Here, liy tlio restless ocean's side, 
Sweet hours of hope liave llowu. 

When first the triii!ni>h of its tide 
Seemed omcii of our ow n. 

That eager joy tlio sea-breezo gave, 

Wlieii first it raised his hair, 
Sank witli each day's retiring wave 

Beyond the reach of prayer. 

The sun-blink that through dazzling mist, 

To nickering hope akin, 
Far waves ^vi(h feeble fondness kissed. 

No smile .as faint can win ; 

Yet not in vain with r.idiance weak 
The heavenly stranger gleams — 

Not of the world it lights (o speak, 
Hut that from wlienee it streams. 

That world our patient sufterer sought. 

Serene, with pitying eyes. 
As if his mounting spirit caught 

The wi.sdom of the skies. 

With boundless love it look('d abroad, 
For one bright moment given. 

Shone with .a loveliness that awed. 
And ipiivered into heaven. 

A year, made slow by earo and toil, 

Has paced its weary round, 
.Since death enriched with kindred spoil 

The snow-el.id, frost-ribbed ground. 

Then Lamb, with whose endearing name 

Our boy wo proudly graced. 
Shrank from tho warmth of sweeter fame 

Thau ever bard embraced. 

Slill, 'tw.is a mournful joy to think 

Onr darling might siijiply 
For years on earth a living link 

To uaiuo that cannot die. 



Aud though such fancy gleam no more 

On earthly sorrow's night. 
Truth's nobler torch unveils tho shore 

Which lends to both its light. 

Tlio niirsling there that hand nuiy take 

Nouo ever grasped in vain, 
And smiles of well-known sweetness wake, 

Without their tinge of pain. 

Tliougli 'twixt the child and childliUc bard 
Late seemed distinction wide. 

They now may trace, in Heaven's regard. 
How near they were allied. 

Within the infant's ample brow 

lilithe fancies lay unfurled, 
Which, all nncrnslicd, may open now 

To charm a sinless world. 

Though the soft spirit of those eyes 
Might ne'er with Lamb's compete — 

Ne'er sparkle with a wit as wise. 
Or milt in tears as sweet, — 

That calm and uiiforgotten look 

A kindred love reveals 
With his who never friend forsook, 

Or hurt a thing that feels. 

In thought profound, in wildest glee, 
In sorrow's lengthening range. 

His guileless soul of infancy 
Kudiired no spot or change. 

From traits of each onr love receives 

For comfort nobler Kco|ie ; 
While light which childlike genius leaves 

Confirms the infant's hope : 

And in that hope, with sweetness fraught, 

I5o aching hearts begniled. 
To blend in one delightful thought 

Tlie poet and the child. 



AN ACT OF KINDNESS. 

From ** Ion." 

The blessings which the weak aii<I poor can scatter 
Have their own season. 'Tis a little thing 
To give a cup of water ; yet its draught 
Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips. 



472 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



May give a shock of pleasure to the fiaino 

More exquisite than wheu nectarean juice 

Eeuews tlie life of joy in happiest hours. 

It is a little thing to speak a i>hrase 

Of coniniou comfort which by daily use 

Has almost lost its seuse ; yet on the ear 

Of him who thought to die unmourned 'twill fall 

Like choicest music, till the glazing eye 

With gentle tears, relax the knotted hand 

To know the houds of fellowship again, 

And shed on tlio departing soul a sense 

More precious than the beuison of friends 

About the honored death-bed of the rich, 

To him who else were lonely, that another 

Of the great family is near aud feels. 



SONNET : ON THE KECEPTION OF THE POET 
WORDSWORTH AT OXFORD. 

Oh, never did a mighty truth prevail 

With such felicities of place and time 

As iu those shouts seut forth with joy sublime 

From the full heart of England's youth, to hail 

Her ouce neglected bard within the pale 

Of Learning's fairest citadel ! That voice. 

In which the future thuuders, bids rejoice 

Some who through wintry fortunes did not fail 

To bless with love as deep as life the name 

Thus welcomed ; — who in happy silence share 

The triumi>h; while their fondest musings claim 

Uuhoiied-for echoes in the joyous air, 

That to their long-loved Poet's spirit hear 

A nation's promise of undying fame. 



loscpl) Uobmcin Drake. 

AMERICAN. 

Drake (179.5-1S20), whose remarkable promise was 
checked by an eai-ly death, was a uative of the city of 
New York. He obtained a good education, studied med- 
icine, aud was admitted to practice, soon after which 
he was married. With his wife ho visited Europe in 
1817. On his return pulmonary disease developed it- 
self; in tlie winter of 1S19 he visited New Orleans in 
the hope of relief, but died the following autumn, at the 
age of twenty -live. Like Bryant, he was a poet from 
boyhood, and wrote remarkable verses before he was 
iifteen. He was associated with Halleek in writing the 
poems signed "Croaker & Co.," and his "American 
Flag" first appeared among these (1819). "The Cul- 
prit Fay" (1819), his longest poem, is said to have been 
written in three days. It shows great facility in versi- 
fying, and an affluent fancy. The following passage is a 



not wholly unworthy parallel of Shakspeare's descrip- 
tion of " Queen Mab :" 

"He put his .icorn belniet on, 
It was plumed of the 'silk of the thistle-down; 
Tlie corselet-phue that gucirded his breast 
Was once the wild bee's golden vest ; 
His clo.ak of a thousand miugled dyes 
Was formed of the wings of butterflies; 
His shield was the shell of a lady-bng queen, 
Studs of gold on a ground of greeu ; 
And the <iuivering lance which he brandished bright 
Was the sting of a wasp he had slaiu iu fight." 

When Drake was on his death-bed, his brotber-in-l.iw. 
Dr. De Kay, collected and copied all tlie younu; poet's 
productions in verse that could be found, and took them 
to him, saying, "See, Joe, what I have done." "Burn 
them," replied Drake; "they are valueless." Clever as 
they are, they did not come up to his ideal of what poetry 
ought to be. N. P. Willis remarks of lum : " His power 
of language was prompt ; his peculiarity was that of in- 
stantaneous creation ; thought, imagination, truth, and 
imagery seemed to combine and iiroduce their results in 
a moment." 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 

Wlien Freedom from her mountain height 

Uuftirled her standard to the air, 
She tore the azure robe of night, 

And set the stars of glory there. 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies. 
And striped its jiure celestial white 
With strcakings of the morning light; 
Then from his mansion in the suu 
She called her eagle bearer down, 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land. 

Majestic monarch of the cloud, 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest-trumpiugs loud, 
And see the lightning-lances driven, 

When stride tlie warriors of the storm, 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — • 
Child of the suu ! to thee 'tis given 

To guard the banner of the free, 
To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
To ward away the battle-stroke, 
And bid Its hlendings shine afar. 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 

The harbingers of victory! 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope aud triumph high! 
When speaks the signal trumpet tone. 
And the long liuo comes gleaming on, — 



I 



JOSEPH JtODMAX DRAKE. 



473 



Ere yet tlio life-blood, Avarm iuid wet, 
Has iliiiiined llie glistciiiiij; liayonet, — 
Each siililier eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy sky-born glories bum ; 
Ami. as his springing steps advance, 
Cateh war and vengeance from the glance. 
And when the cannon-monthings loml 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shrond, 
.\iid gory sabres rise and fall 
Like shoots of flanio on midnight's p.iU — 
There shall thy meteor-glances glow, 

.Vtid cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 

Tliat lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave: 
When death, cireering on the gale. 
Sweeps darkly 'round the bellii'cl sail, 
.\iul frighted waves rush wildly back 
Heforo the broadside's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and tlice, 
.\nd smile lo see thy splendors tly 
In triumph o"er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free he.irt's hope and home! 

By angel hands to valor given! 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome. 

And all tliy hues were born in heaven. 
Forever float that standard sheet ! 

Where breathes the foe, but falls before ns ? 
With Freedom's soil beneath onr feet, 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! 



ODE TO FORTUNE. 

From "The Cboakeiis." 

Fair lady with the bandaged eye! 

ril pardon all thy .scurvy tricks; 
So thou wilt cut me and deny 

Alike thy kisses and thy kicks: 
Fm qnite contented as 1 am — 

Have cash to keep my duns at b.iy. 
Can choose between beefsteaks and bam, 

And ilriuk Madeira every day. 

My station is the middle rank, 
5Iy fortune Just a eompetenco — 

Ten thousand in the Franklin liank. 
And twenty in the six per-ceuts. ; 



No amorous chains my heart inthrall; 

I neither borrow, lend, nor sell ; 
Fearless I roam the City Hall, 

And bite my thumb at Jlr. lUll.' 

The horse that twice a year I ride. 

At Mother Dawson's eats his till ; 
My books at Goodrich's abide, 

My countrj--seat is Weehawk hill ; 
My morning lounge is Eastburn's shop. 

At Poppleton's I take my lunch ; 
Nildo prepares my mutton-chop, 

And Jennings makes my whiskey-punili. 

When merry, I the hours amuse 

By squibbiug Bucktails, Gu.ards, and balls; 
And when Fm troubled with the blues, 

Danni Clinton" and abuse canals.' 
Tlien, Fortune! since I ask no prize. 

At least preserve me from thy frown; 
The man who don't attempt to rise, 

'Twere cruelty to tumble down. 



THE GATHERING OF THE FAIRIES. 

FnoM "TuE CfLPRiT Fay." 

'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night — 

The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright; 

Naught is seen in the vault on high 

IJiit the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, 

And the flood which rolls its niilUy hue, 

A river of light, on the welkin bine. 

The moon looks down on old Cro'ncst ; 

She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast. 

And seems his huge gray form to throw. 

In a silver cone, on the wave below. 

His sides are broken by spots of shade, 

Bj' the walnut bough and the cedar made. 

And through their clustering branches dark 

Gliinnn;rs and dies the lire-fly's spark — 

Like starry twinkles that momently break 

Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack. 

The stars are on the moving stream. 

And fling, as its ripples gently How, 
A burnished length of w.avy beam 

III an eel-like, spiral line below ; 

' The pherlff of New York City. 

' I)c Wilt Cliiitnii, ODVcriior of tlio State of Xcw York, and 
tlic nilvocntc of llie great canal i>rojcct. 
' Formerly proDoanccd canaaU. 



474 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



TLe winds are whist, and the owl is still, 

The bat in the shelvj' rocli is liid, 
And naught is heard on the lonely hill 
But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill 

Of the gauze-winged katydid, 
And the plaint of the wailing wliippoorwill, 
Who mourns unseen, and ceaseless sings 

Ever a note of wail and woe, 
Till morning spreads her rosy wings. 

And earth and sky iu lier glances glow. 

'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell; 

The wood-tick has kei)t the minutes well ; 

He has counted them all with click and stroke, 

Deep in the heart of the mountain oak, 

And he has awakened the sentry elve 

Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, 
To bid him ring the honr of twelve, 

And call the fays to their revelry ; 
Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell — 
(Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell) — 
"Midnight comes, and all is well! 
Hither, hither wing your way ! 
'Tis the dawn of the fairy day." 

They come from beds of lichen green. 

They creep from the mullein's velvet screen ; 

Some on the backs of beetles fly 

From the silver tops of moon-touched trees. 
Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks 
high, 

And rocked about in the evening breeze ; 
Some from the hum-bird's downy nest — 

They had driven him out by elfin power, 
Aud pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast. 

Had slumbered there till the charmed hour; 
Some had lain in the scoop of the rock. 

With glittering ising-stars inlaid; 
And some had opened the four-o'clock, 

Aud stole within its purple shade. 
Aud now they throng the moonlight glade, 

Above — below — ou every side. 
Their little minim forms arrayed 

Iu the tricksy pomp of fairy pride. 

They come not now to print the lea 

In freak and dance around the tree. 

Or at the mushroom board to sup, 

And drink the dew from the butterciip ; — 

A scene of sorrow waits them now. 

For an ouphe has broken his vestiil vow : 

He has loved an earthly maid, 

Aud left for her his woodland shade; 



He has lain upon her lip of dew, 

Aud sunned him in her eye of blue. 
Fanned her "cheek with his wing of air, 
Played in the ringlets of her hair. 
And, nestling on her snowy breast, 
Forgot the lily-king's behest. 
For this the shadowy tribes of air 

To the elfin court must haste away: 
And now they stand expectant there, 

To hear the doom of the Culprit Fay. 

The throne was reared upon the grass, 
Of spice-wood and of sassafras ; 
On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell 

Hung the burnished canopy — 
And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell 

Of the tulip's crimson drapery. 
The monarch sat on his judgment-seat. 

On his brow the crown imperial shone ; 
The prisoner fay was at his feet. 

And his peers were ranged around the throne. 
He waved his sceptre in the air, 

He looked around, and calmly spoke ; 
His brow was grave, and his eye severe. 

But his voice in a softened accent broke: 
" Fairy ! Fairy ! list aud mark : 

Thou hast broke thine elfin chain ; 
Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark. 

And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain — 
Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity 

In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye; 
Thou hast scorned our dread decree, 

And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high. 
But well I know her sinless mind 

Is pure as the angel forms above. 
Gentle and meek, and chaste and .kind. 

Such as a spirit well might love. 
Fairy ! had she spot or taiut, 
Bitter had been thy punishment: 
Tied to the hornet's shardy wings ; 
Tossed ou the pricks of nettles' stings ; 
Or seven long ages doomed to dwell 
With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell; 
Or every uight to writhe aud bleed 
Beneath the tread of the centii>ede ; 
Or bound iu a cobweb dungeon dim. 
Your jailer a spider, huge aud grim. 
Amid the carriou bodies to lie 
Of the worm, and the bug, and the murdered 

fly: 
These it had been your lot to bear, 
Had a stain been found on the earthly fair. 



MARIA (GOIVEX) BROOKS.— THOMAS CARLYLE. 



475 



fUario (©oiucn) Droolfs. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Brooks fl7a>-18i5), to whom Soutlicy gave tlie 
pen-name of "Maria del Occidcute" (Maria of the 
Westt, w.is of Wtlsli descent, the daiigliter of Mr. Gow- 
cn, of Medford, Mass., where she was born. Before her 
eii;liteeiilh year she married Mr. Brooks, a Boston nier- 
iliaiit, and on his dcalli, in 183:1, went to live with a 
wealthy uncle in Cuba, who, dyinir, left her a cotton 
plantation and some other property. In ISiO, in com- 
pany with her brother, she went to France, and in 1S.S1 
passed the spring in the house of Robert Southey, the 
l)oct, to whom she addressed, at parting, these graceful 
lines : 

" Sort be tliy sleep as mists that rest 
On Skiddiiw's lop at summer mom : 
Smooth be thy days as Derwent's breast 

When summer Iii;ht is almost gone I 
And yet, for Ihcc why breathe a prayer ? 

I deem thy fate is j^iveu in trust 
To seraphs who by daily care 

Would prove that lleaveu is not unjust. 
And treasured shall thy iinai;e be 

III Memory's purest, holiest shrine. 
While truth and honor glow iu thee, 
Or life's warm, qniverjns pulse is mine.' 

Southey calls Mrs. Brooks "the most impassioned and 
most imaginative of all poetesses" — praise which was 
echoed by Charles Lamb, but which will seem a little 
extravagant to the present generation. Southey read 
the proofs of her "Zophiel; or. The Bride of Seven," a 
poem in six cantos, which, in its completed form, was 
luiblishcd in Loudon in 1833, and iu Boston in 18:i4. 
It contains lines of great descriptive beauty, but as a 
whole is like a surfeit of sweets. A new edition, with 
a memoir by Mrs. Zadel Barnes Gustafson, author of 
".Meg: a Pastoral, and other Poems," was published in 
Boston in 1879. 



SONG OF EGLA. 
From "Zopdiel." 

Day, iu melting purple dying; 

Blossoms, all aronnj me sighing; 

Fragrance, from the lilies straying; 

Zephyr, with my ringlet.s jilaying; — 
Ye but waken uiy distrcs-s: 
I am sick of louuliuess ! 

Then to wliom I love to hearken, 
Come, ere night around me darken ! 
Tliongh thy softness but deceive me, 
Say tbou'rt true, and I'll believe thee : 

Veil, if ill, thy sonl's intent ; 

Let ine tbiuk it inuoceut ! 

Save tliy toiling, spare tliy trea.sure ; 
All I ask is fricudship'a pleasure : 



Let the shining ore lie darkling, — 
Hriiig no gem in Instro sparkling : 

Gifts and gold are naught to nie ; 

I would only look on tbeo ; — 

Till to thee the liigli- wrought feeling, 

Ecstasy but in revi'aling ; 

Paint to thee the deep sensation, 

Kapturo in participation, 

Yet but torture, if compressed 
In a lone, unfriended breast. 

Absent still? Ah, come and bless mo! 

Let these eyes again caress thee ! 

Once, iu caiitiou, I could fly tbee ; 

Now I nothing could tleny tbee : 

In a look if death there be, 
Coiue, and I will gaze on tbee! 



itijomas (Tailnlc. 

Carlylc, famous as moralist, satirist, historian, and bi- 
ographer — the "censor of his age," "the prince of 
scolds" — has also been, in a snuiU way, a poet. He 
lacked the lyrical faculty, however, and was, perhaps, 
aware of his failure; for in a letter from his pen, dated 
1870, we find him giving it as his mature opinion that 
" the writing of verse— in this age, at least — is an un- 
worthy occupation for a man of ability." Not being 
able to reach the grapes, he decries them as sour. The 
penetrating thinker will probably find as much fresh 
wisdom in Wordsworth's verse as in Carlyle's rugged 
jtrosc, where we often have the obscurity without the 
melody of the profound poet. Carlylc was born Decem- 
ber 4th, 179."), in the village of Ecclesfechan, Scotland. His 
father was a man of great moral worth and sagacity, 
while his mother was affectionate and more than ordi- 
narily intelligent. It is not with his remarkable prose 
writings that we have here to deal. There is little that 
is worthy of preservation in his verse. In 18S4 he took 
up his residence in Chelsea, near London, where he was 
living in 1880, honored and respected for his brilliant tal- 
ents and his much-prized contributions to the literature 
of the age. 



CUI BONO? 

What is hope ? A .smiling rainbow 
Cbildrcn follow through the wet: 

'Tis not here — still yonder, yonder; 
Never nrcbiu found it yet. 

What is life f A thawing iceboard 
On a sea with sunny shore: 

Gay wo sail; it mells beneath ns ; 
We are sunk, and seen no more. 



476 



CrCLOrJSDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEHICAX POETRY. 



What is man ? A foolish baby ; 

Vainly strives, and tights, and frets : 
Demanding all, deserving nothing. 

One small grave is what he gets! 



TO-DAY. 

So liere hath been dawning another blue day ! 
Think, wilt thon let it slip useless away? 

Out of Eternity this new day was born ; 
Into Eternity at night will return. 

Behold it aforetime no eye ever did ; 
So soon it forever from all eyes is bid. 

Hero hath been dawning another blue day: 
Think, wilt thou lot it slip useless away ? 



5it5-(5rccnc Cjallcck. 

AMERICAN. 

Hallcck (1795-1867) was a native of Guilford, Conn. 
While .1 boy of fourteen he began to versify. In 1813 he 
entered the bankini;-Uouse of Jacob Barker in New York, 
and subsequently became the confidential clerk of New 
Yorlc's foremost millionnaire, John Jacob Astor. In 
1849 he retired to liis native town on a competence. He 
made frequent visits to New York, however, where he 
had troops of friends. He remained a bachelor, and wrote 
little after giving up his clerkship. In 1819 he had been 
associated with Drake in the composition of some satiri- 
cal poems called " The Croaker Papers." In 1823, '23 he 
visited Europe, and as the fruits of his travels we have 
two flue poems, "Alnwick Castle" and the lines on 
Burns, which last show the influence of Campbell, of 
whom Halleck was a great admirer. 

The first collection of his poems appeared in 1827; the 
second in 1836; a third, with illustrations, in 1847; and 
a fourth in 18.53. His flights were limited; his poetry is 
that of the emotions rather than of the meditative fac- 
ulty; and a sm.all volume will hold all that he wrote. 
But in his day HuUeck was a conspicuous figure, and 
regarded w'ith some local pride in the city of his adop- 
tion. He was an agreeable companion, scrupulously 
honorable in all his dealings ; and his beaming counte- 
nance, the smile on which seemed to come from an af- 
fectionate nature, made him a welcome guest at all social 
gatherings. He had little ambition as an author, regard- 
ing himself only as an amateur, and having a keener con- 
sciousness than any of his critics of his own literary lim- 
itations. His " Life and Letters," edited by James Grant 
Wilson of New York, was published in 1809. Bryant, in 
vindicating Halleck from the charge of occasional rough- 
ness in his versification, says : " He knows that the rivu- 
let is made musical by the obstructions in its channel." 



ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 

"The good die first. 
And they whose hearts are dry ns summer dust 
Biu'u to the socket." — Wokdswoktu. 

Green be the turf abovo thee, 

Friend of my better days! 
None knew thee but to love thee, 

Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell, whcu thou wert dying, 

From eyes unused to weep ; 
And long where thou art lying 

Will tears the cold turf steep. 

When hearts whose truth was proven, 
Like thine, are laid in earth, 

There should a wre.ath be woven. 
To tell the world their worth ; 

And I, who woke each morrow 

To clasp thy hand in mine. 
Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 

W^hose weal and woo were thine, — • 

It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy faded brow ; 
But I've in vain essayed it, 

And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep thee, 
Nor thoughts nor words are free; 

The grief is fixed too deeply 
That mourns a man like thee. 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 

Marco Bozznris fell in a night attack ou the Turkish camp 
at Laspi, the site of the .Tucient Platjea, August '20th, 1S23. His 
last words wei'e; "To die for liberty is a pleasure, and uot a 
paiu." 

At midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent. 

Should tremble at his power ; 
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams, his song of triumph heard ; 
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring ; 
Then pressed that monarch's throne, — ,a king ; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's garden bird. 



FITZ-GIiEESE HALLECE. 



477 



At mi«ltiij;Iit, i" the forest sliades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Siiliote liaiul, 
Trno as the steel of Ihoir tried blades, 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
There bad the glad earth dinnk their blood 

On old Plata-a's day; 
And now there breatlied that hanntod air 
The sons of sires wlio eoni|iiered there, 
With arm to strike, and sonl to dare, 

As qnick, as far, as they. 

An hour passed on — the Turk awoke : 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke to hear his sentries shriek, 
"To arms! — they come! the Greek I the Greek!'' 
Ho woke — to die 'mid flame, and smoke. 
And sdiont, and groan, and sabre-stroke, 

And death-shots falling thiek and fast 
.\s lightnings from the nionntain-cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as triimpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band : 
" Strike — till the last armed foe expires ; 
Strike— for yonr altars and your (ires ; 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires ; 

God — and yonr native land I" 

They fought — like brave men, long and well ; 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell. 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah. 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close, 
Calmly as to a night's repose. 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal chamber. Death ! 

Come to the mother, when she feels. 
For the first time, her tirst-I)oru's breath ; — 

Come when the blessrf^d seals 
That rlose the pestilence are brid;e. 
And crowded cities wail its stroke; 
Come in cousnroption's ghastly form. 
The earthf|Uake's shock, the ocean-storm ; 
Come when the heart beats high and warm 

With banf|nct-song, and dance, and wine; 
And thou art terrible! — the tear, 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; 
And all wo know, or dream, or fear. 

Of agonv, are tbine. 



But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free. 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word. 
And in its liollow tones are heard 

The tlianks of millions yet to be. 
Come when his task of fame is wrought ; 
Come with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought ; 

Come in her crowning hour, — and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prisoned men ; 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land ; 
Thy sunnuons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 
AVIieu the land-wind, from woods of palm. 
And orange-groves, and fields of balm, 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 

Bozzaris! witli the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time. 
Rest thee ; there is no prouder grave. 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee. 

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume. 
Like torn branch from death's lealless tree. 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantr.v. 

The heartless luxury of the tomb. 
But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved, and for a season gone. 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed. 
Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; 
For thee she rings the birthday bells ; 
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; 
For thine her evening prayer is said 
At pal.ace couch and cottage bed. 
Her soldier, closing with the foe. 
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him, the joy of her young years. 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her teare. 

And .she, the mother of thy boys. 
Though in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief .she will not speak. 

The memory of her buried joys, — 
And even she who gave thee birth, — 
Will by their pilgrim-circled hearth 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh : 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's — 
One of the few, the immortal names, 

That were not horn to die ! 



478 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAlSf POETRY. 



BUENS. 

TO A ROSE BROUGHT FROM NEAR ALLOWAY KIRK, IS 
AYRSUIUE, IN THE AUIUMN OF 1S22. 

Wild rose of Alloway ! my tbniiks : 
Tliou miud'st me of that autiium uoon 

When first wo met upon " tbe banks 
And braes o' bouny Doon." 

Like tbine beneatli tbe thorn-tree's bongb, 
My sunny bonr was glad and brief; 

We've crossed tbe winter sea, and tbou 
Art witbered — flower and leaf. 

And will not tby deatb-doom be mine — 
Tbe doom of all tbings wrought of clay ? 

And witbered my life's leaf like thine, 
Wild rose of Alloway? 

Not so his memory for whose sake 

My bosom bore thee far and long — 
His who a humbler flower could make 

Innnortal as bis song. 

The memory of Burns — a name 

That calls, when brimmed her festal cup, 

A nation's glory and her shame 
In silent sadness np. 

A nation's glory — be tbe rest 

Forgot — she's canonized bis mind ; 

And it is joy to speak the best 
We may of bnmaukind. 

I've stood beside the cottage bed 

Where the Bard-peasant first drew breath, 

A straw-thatcbed roof above bis bead, 
A straw-wrought couch beneath. 

And I have stood beside the pile. 
His monument — that tells to heaven 

Tbe homage of earth's proudest isle 
To that Bard-[)easant given ! 

Bid tby thoughts hover o'er that spot, 
Boy-minstrel, in thy dreaming boitr; 

And know, however low his lot, 
A Poet's pride and power. 

The pride that lifted Burns from earth, 
The power that gave a child of song 



Ascendency o'er rank and birth, 
Tbe rich, tbe brave, the strong : 

And if despondency weigh down 
Tby spirit's fluttering x'inions then, 

Despair: — thy name is written ou 
Tbe roll of common men. 

There have been loftier themes than his, 
And longer scrolls and louder lyres, 

And lays lit up with Poesy's 
Purer and holier fires : 

Yet read the names that know not death ; 

Few nobler ones than Burns are there ; 
And few have won a greener wreath 

Than that which binds his hair. 

His is that language of the heart 

In which the answering heart would speak — 
Thongbt, word, that bids the warm tear start, 

Or tbe smile light the cheek ; 

And his that nnisic to whose tone 

Tbe counnon pulse of man keeps time, 

In cot or castle's mirth or moan. 
In cold or sunny clime. 

And who bath heard his song, nor knelt 
Before its spell with willing knee, 

And listened, and believed, and felt 
The Poet's mastery? 

O'er tbe mind's sea, in calm and storm ; 

O'er tbe heart's sunshine and its showers; 
O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm ; 

O'er Reason's dark, cold hours ; 

On fields where bravo men " die or do ;" 
In halls where rings the banquet's mirth. 

Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, 
From throne to cottage hearth ! 

What sweet tears dim the eye unshed. 
What wild vows falter ou tbe tongue. 

When "Soots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," 
Or "Auld Lang Syne" is sung! 

Pure hopes, that lift the soul above. 

Come with the Cotter's hymn of praise ; 

And dreams of youth, and truth, and love 
With " Logan's " banks and br.aes. 



FITZ-GREEXE HALLECK. 



47'J 



Who lives upon all memories, 
Though with the buried gone. 

.Siich graves as his are iiilgrim shrines, 
Shrines to uo code or creed cuiiliucd — 

The Delphiau vales, the Palestiiies, 
The Meccas of the mind. 

Siigcs with Wisdom's garland wreathed, 

Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power. 

And warriors with their bright swords sheathed, 
The mightiest of the hour; 

And lowlier names, whose hnmble homo 

Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star, 
Are there — o'er wave and monntaiu come 

From countries near and far ; 

Pilgrims whose wandering feet have pressed 
The Switzcr's snow, the Arab's sand, 

Or trod the piled leaves of the West, 
My own green forest-laud. 

All ask the cottage of his birth, 

Ciaze on the scenes lie loved and sung. 

And gulher feelings not of earth 
His fields and streams among. 

They linger by tlie Doon's low trees. 
And pastoral Kith, and wooded Ayr, 

And round thy sepnlthres, Dumfries ! 
The Poet's tomb is there. 

But what to them the sculptor's .irt, 
Ills funeral columns, wreaths, and urns f 

Wear they not graven on the heart 
The name of Robert Burns ? 



And when he breathes his master-lay 
Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall. 

All passions in our frames of clay 
Come thronging at his call. 

Imagination's world of air, 

And our own world, its gloom and glee, — 
Wit, pathos, poetry, are there. 

And death's sublimity. 

And Burns, though brief the race ho ran, 
Though rongU and dark the path he trod, 

Lived — died — in form and soul a Man, 
The imago of bis God. 

Through care, and pain, and want, and woe. 
With wounds that only death could heal,— 

Tortures the poor alone can know, 
The proud alone can feel, — 

He kept his honesty and truth, 
His independent tongue and pen, 

And moved, in manhood as in youth. 
Pride of liis fellow-men. 

Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, 

A hate of tyrant and of knave, 
A love of right, a scorn of wrong, 

Of coward, and of slave, — 

.\ kind, true heart, a spirit high. 

That could not fear and would not I)o\v, 

Were written in his manly eye 
And on his manly brow. 

Praise to the bard! His words are driven. 
Like (lower-seeds by the far winds sown, 

Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven, 
The birds of fame have tlown. 

Praise to the man! A nation stood 

Beside his eolliii with wet eyes. 
Her brave, her beautiful, her good, 

As when a loved one dies. 

And still, as on his funeral day. 

Men stand his cold earth-conch around. 
With the mute homage that we pay 

To consecrated ground. 

And con.sccrated ground it is. 

The last, the hallowed Lome of one 



ALXWICK CASTLE. 

Home of the Percy's high-born race. 

Home of their beautiful and brave, 
Alike their birth and burial place, 

Tlieir cradle and their grave ! 
Still sternly o'er the castle-gate 
Their house's Lion stands in state. 

As in his proud departed hours; 
And warriors frown in stone on high, 
And feudal banners " llout the sky '' 

Above his princely towers. 



480 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISU AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



A gentle hill its side iucliues, 

Lovelj' ill England's fadeless green, 
To meet the quiet stream -n-hich winds 

Throngh this romantic scene, ' 

As silently and sweetly still 
As when, at evening, on that hill. 

While suninier'a wind blew soft and low, 
Seated by yallant Hotspur's side, 
His Katlierino was a happy bride, 

A tliousaud years ago. 

Gazo on the Abbey's mined pile: 

Does not the succoring ivy, keeping 
Her watch around it, seem to smile, 

As o'er a loved one sleeping? 
One solitary turret gray 

Still tells, in melancholy glory, 
The legend of the Cheviot day, 

The Percy's proudest border-story. 

That day its roof was triumph's arch; 

Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome, 
The light step of the soldier's march. 

The music of the trump and drnni ; 
And babe, and sire, the old, the young. 
And the monk's hymn, and minstrel's song, 
And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long. 

Welcomed her warrior home. 

Wild roses by the Abbey towers 

Are gay in their young bud and bloom: 
They were born of a race of fuiieral-Howers 
That garlanded, in long-gone hours, 

A templar's knightly tomb. 
He died, his sword iu his maildd hand, 
On the holiest spot of the Blessed land. 

Where the Cross was damped with his dyiu; 
breatli, 
When blood ran free as festal wine, 
And the sainted air of Palestine 

Was thick with the darts of death. 

Wise with the lore of centuries, 

What tales, if there be "tongues iu trees," 

Tbose giant oaks could tell, 
Of beings born and buried here ! 
Tales of the peasant and the peer. 
Talcs of the bridal and the bier. 

The welcome and farewell, 
Since on their boughs the startled bird 
First, in her twilight slumbers, heard 

The Norman's curfew-bell ! 



I wandered through the lofty halls 

Trod by the Percys of old fame. 
And traced upon the chapel walls 

Each high, heroic name. 
From him who once his standard set 
Where now, o'er mosque and minaret, 

Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons;- 
To him who, when a younger sou, 
Fought for King George at Lexington, 

A major of dragoons.' 

Tbat last half stanza — it has dashed 

From my warm lip the sparkling cup ; 
Tlie light that o'er my eyeljeam flashed, 

The power that bore my spirit up 
Above this bank-note world — is gone ; 
And Alnwick's but a market-town. 
And (liis, alas! its market-day, 
And beasts and borderers throng the way; 
Oxen and bleating Iambs in lots, 
Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots, 

Men iu the coal and cattle line ; 
From Teviot's bard and hero laud, 
From royal Berwick's beach of sand. 
From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and 

Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 

These are not the romantic times 
So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes, 

So dazzling to the dreaming boy : 
Ours are the days of fact, not fable ; 
Of knights, but not of the round-table ; 

Of Bailie Jarvie, not Eob Hoy : 
'Tis what " our President," Monroe, 

Has called " the era of good feeling :" 
The Highlander, the bitterest foe 
To modern law.s, has felt their blow, 
Consented to be taxed, and vote, 
And put on pantaloons and coat, 

And leave off cattle-stealing : 

' Ilngli, Earl Percy, here referred to, rose to be soniethiug 
move tliiui ii major. Boru in 1T42, and educated at Eton Col- 
U'se, he married, unliappily (ITG-J), ii daughter of the Earl of 
Bute; and in lTi4 was seut to the American colony. In letters 
to liis father, the Duke of Northumherlund, he >nites of the 
country ahout Boston: "Nature has lierself done the work of 
the landscape gardener; but the climate is more trying than 
that of Euglaud. I have heen (July) iu both the ti>rrid and 
frigid zone iu the space of twenty-four hours. Sometimes my 
shirt is a harden ; again I need a blanket." The earl, while iu 
Boston, occupied a fine house at the coruer of Winter and Tre- 
mont streets. In the slcirmish at Lexington he covered the re- 
treat ofPitcairu'a column, and showed botli courage and geuer- 
alsliip. He was the father of Thomas Smithsou, who was born 
out of wedlock, and who founded the Sraithsouian Institute at 
Wasliington, D. C. 



FITZ-GREEXE BALLECE.— JAMES GATES PERCIVAL. 



481 



Lord Stnftord mines for coal and salt, 
The Diiko of Norfolk deals in lualt, 

Till" Douglas ill red herrings ; 
And uoblo uanio and cultured land, 
Palace, and park, and vassal-band, 
Are powerless to tho notes of liaiid 

Of Kotbscbild or tbo Uarings. 

The ago of bargaining, said liiirke, 
lias corao ; to-day the tiirbancd Turk 
(Sleep, Richard of the lion heart ! 
Sleep on, nor fioiii yonr cerements start) 

Is England's friend and fast ally ; 
The Moslem tramples on the Greek, 

And on tho Cross and altar-stone. 

And Christendom looks tamely on, 
And bears the Christian maiden shriek, 

And sees tho Christian fallier die; 
And not a sabre-blow is given 
For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven, 

Uy Europe's craven chivalry. 

You'll ask if yet the Pciey lives 

In the armed pomp of feudal state f 
Tho present representatives 

Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate" 
Are some half-dozen scrviug-men 
In tbo drab coat of William Tcnn ; 

A cliamber-maid, \vlios(! lip and eye. 
And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, 

Spoke Nature's aristocracy ; 
'And cue, half groom, half seneschal. 
Who bowed mo through court, bower, and hall. 
From donjon-keep to turret-wall, 
For ten-aud-sixpeuco sterling. 



3anic5 (Spates ycvciual. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of Berlin, Conn., son of a country physician, 
PercivaH 17.I.>-1S.">7) entered Yale College at si.\tccn, and, 
on giadiialiiig, liei;an the study of medicine. lie tried to 
cstabli>li lli^l^elf in his profession at Cliarlcston, S. C, 
but fulled, and turned his attention to literature. In 
1827 lie revised the translation of Malte Brun's " Geog- 
raphy," and assisted Noali Webster in bis " Dictionary." 
In both instances be (|uarrclled with bis employers. He 
became a skilful geologist, and was employed in surveys 
by the Slates of Connecticut and Wisconsin. His poetry 
wna not a source of prolit to liiin, and he was always 
poor. An earnest student, be became quite an accom- 
plished linguist. Constitutionally meluncholy, be was 
shy of social distinction, and made few personal friends. 
His 6cholari.liip was remarkable, but mifruitful. lie 
31 



must be ranked among the true, natural poets, though 
there has been a disposition to underrate him among the 
admirers of the most modern fashion in verse. But had 
Peicival been favored iu bis pecuniary ciieumstanees, he 
might have left a (iir more imposing poetical record than 
he has ; for there arc evidences of high art, as well as 
(lashes of genius, in some of his latest productions. An 
edition of his poems in two volumes was published in 
1870 iu Boston. 



ELEGIAC. 

From "Classic Melodies." 

Oh, it is great for our country to die, where ranks 
are contending-' 
Bright is tho wreath of our fame ; Glory awaits 
us for aye, — 
Glory that never is dim, shining on with a light 
never ending, — 
Glory that never shall fade, never, oh never away ! 

Oh, it is sweet for our country to die ! How softly 
reposes 
Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of 
his love, 
Wet by a mother's warm tears. They crown liim 
with garlands of roses, 
Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he 
triumphs above. 

Not to the shades shall tho youth descend, who for 
country hath perished : 
Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there 
with her smile ; 
There, at the banquet divine, tlio patriot spirit is 
cherished ; 
Gods love the young, who ascend pure from tho 
funeral pile. 

Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivions river; 
Not to the isles of the blessed, over tho bluc-roU- 
iug .sea ; 
But on Olympian lieights shall dwell tho devoted 
forever ; 
There shall assemble the good, there the wise, 
valiant, and free. 

Oh, then, how great for onr country to die, in tho 
front rank to perish. 
Firm with our breast to the foe, victory's shont 
in our car! 
Long they our statues shall crown, iu songs onr 
memory cherish ; 
We shall look forth from onr heaven, pleased tho 
sweet music to bear. 



482 



CrCLOP^DIA OF BRITISH AXD AilEEICAX FOETRT. 



TO SENECA LAKE. 

Ou thy fair Iwsoiii, silver lake ! 

Tlie wild swau spreads Ms snowy sail, 
Aud rouud his breast the ripples hreak, 

As down he bears before the gale. 

Oa thy fair bosom, waveless stream ! 

The dipping paddle echoes far, 
Aud flashes iu the moonlight gleam, 

And bright reflects the polar star. 

The waves along tliy pebbly shore. 

As blows the north wind, heave their foam, 

Aud curl around the dashing oar, 
As late the boatman hies him home. 

How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
Tliy golden mirror spreading wide, 

And see the mist of mantling bine 

Float round the distant mountain's side. 

At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 

A slieet of silver spreads below, 
And swift she cuts, at highest noon. 

Light clouds, like wreaths of jmrest snow. 

Ou th_y fair bosom, silver lake ! 

Oh, I could ever sweep the oar. 
When early birds at morning wake, 

Aud eveniuji tells us toil is o'er. 



THE CORAL GROVE. 

Deep In the wave is a coral grove. 

Where the purple mullet aud gold-fish rove, 

AVhere the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue. 

That never are wet with falling dew. 

But iu bright and changeful beauty shine. 

Far down in the greeu and glassy brine. 

The floor is of sand like the mountain drift. 

And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow ; 

From coral rocks the sea plants lift 

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow ; 

The water is calm aud still below, 

For the winds aud waves are absent there. 

And the sands are bright as the stars that glow 

In the motionless fields of upper air : 

There, with its waving blade of green, 

The sea-flag streams through the silent water, 

And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 

To blush, like a bauuer bathed in slaughter : 



There, with a light and easy motion, 

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea; 

Aud the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 

Are bendiug like corn on the upland lea : 

And life, in rare and beautiful forms. 

Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, 

Aud is safe when the wrathfnl spirit of storms 

Has made the top of the wave his own : 

Aud when the ship from his fury flies. 

Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, 

When the wind-god frowns iu the nmrky skies, 

And demons are waiting the wreck ou shore ; 

Then far below, iu the peaceful sea. 

The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, 

Where the waters murmur tranquilly. 

Through the bendiu" twigs of the coral grove. 



SONNET. 

ACnnSTIC TRIBUTE (1825) TO A BOSTON LADY, WIDELY 
CELEBUATED FOU IlER BEAUTY. 

Earth holds no fairer, lovelier one than thou. 
Maid of the laughing lip and frolic eye ! 
Innocence sits upon thy open brow 
Like a pure spirit in its native sky. 
If ever beauty stole the heart a.way. 
Enchantress, it would fly to meet thy smile ; 
Moments would seem by thee a summer day, 
And all around thee an Elysiau isle. 
Roses are nothing to the maideu blush 
Sent o'er thy cheeks' soft ivory, and night 
Has naught so dazzling in its world of light, 
As the dark rays that from thy lashes gush. 
Love lurks amid thy silkeu curls, and lies 
Like a keen archer iu thy kindling eyes. 



MAY. 



I feel a newer life iu every gale ; 

The winds that fan the flowers. 
And with their welcome breathings fill the sail, 

Tell of serener hours, — 
Of honrs that glide nnfelt aw.iy 
Beneath the sky of May. 

The spirit of the gentle south wind calls 

From his bine throue of air. 
And where his whispering voice iu music falls, 

Beauty is budding there ; 
The bright ones of the valley break 
Their slumbers and awake. 



JAMES GATKS I'EriCIWlL.— UII.IJAM JIOU'/TT. 



48:! 



Tho waving vcrdiiro rolls along the itlaiu, 

Anil tho wiiU- forest weaves, 
To welcome l):iek its iilayfiil mates again, 

A canopy of leaves : 
And from its darkening sbadow floats 
A gusli of trembling notes. 

Fairer and Iniglitcr spreads tlio reign of May ; 

Tho tresses of tho woods 
With the light dallying of tlio west wind iday, 

And tho fnll-brimniing floods, 
As gladly to llieir goal they rnn, 
Hail the rctnrning sun. 



A VISION'. 

"Whence dost thou conio to me, 

.Sweetest of visions. 
Filling my slumbers witli lioliest joy ?"' 

" Kindly I bring to thee 

Feelings of childhood, 
That in thy dreams tlion be happy awhile." 

'•Why dost thou steal from mo 

Ever as slumber 
Flies, and reality chills me again?" 

"Life thnu must struggle through: 

Strive, —and in slumber 
Sweetly again I will steal to thy soul." 



lllilliam t)ouutt. 

Ilowitt (1795-187!1), husband of Mary Ilowilt, was a 
native oflleanor, in Derbyshire, Euijland. Of Quiikcr de- 
scent, he was educated at a public seuiiuary of Friends. 
He was a great student of lantruages, and wrote verses 
almost from boyliood. He and Ijis wife, after the year 
IS)7, made literature their cliief means of support. He 
was the uutlior of "The Rural Life of England," "Visits 
to Remarkable Places," and other successful prose works, 
including translations. He also published a " History of 
Ibe Supernatural." He went, with his two sons, to Aus- 
tralia in IS-Vi, and gave the results of bis experiences in 
several volumes. With bis wife and fauidy he resided 
at times in Germany and Italy. His poetry is scattered 
mostly through ".\nnuids" and miigazincs; In 1871 he 
published " The Mad War Planet, and other Poems." 
About the year IHTjO be became an actii'e Spiritualist, and 
wrote copiously in defence of the modern phenomena, 
wbUb he reconciled with a broad Christianity. He died 
in Rome, in the eigbtyfinirtli year of his age. He bad 
a brother, Richard, who also wrote poetry. 



IIOAK-FROST: A SONNET. 

What dream of beauty ever equalled this! 
What bands from Fairy-land have sallied forth, 
With snowy loliag<! from the abundant North, 
With imagery from tho realms of bliss ! 
What visions of my boyhood do I miss 
That hero aro not restored! All s|)lcndor8 pure, 
All loveliness, all graces that allure; 
Shapes that amaze; a paradise that is, — 
Yet was not, — will not in few moments be : 
(■lory from nakedness, that playfully 
Mimics with passing life each suinnier boon ; 
Clothing the ground — rejileuishiug the tree; 
Weaving arch, liower, and delicate festoon ; 
Still as a dream, — and like a dream to flee ! 



THE WIND IX A FKOl.IC. 

The Wind one morning sprang np from sleep, 

Saying, "Now for a frolic! now for a leap! 

Now for a mad-cap galloping chase 1 

I'll make a commotion iu every ]ilaee!'' 

So it swept with a bustle right tlirongh a great 

towu, 
Creaking tho signs, and scattering down 
Shutters; and whisking, with merciless squalls. 
Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls : 
There never was heard a nnuli lustier .shout, 
As the apples and or.anges tumbled about; 
And the urchins, that stand with tlu'ir thievish eyes 
Forever on watch, ran oft' each with a prize. 

Then away to the field it went blustering and 
humming. 
And tho cattle all wondered whatever was coming: 
It plucked by tho tails tho grave matronly cows. 
And tossed the colts' inaues all over their brows, 
'Till, oflTendcd at such a familiar salute. 
They all turned their backs and stood sulkily mute. 

So on it went, capering, and playing its pranks. 
Whistling with reeds ou tho broad river's banks. 
Puffing tho birds as they sat on the spray. 
Or the traveller grave on tho king's highway. 

It was uot too nice to hustle tho bags 
Of tho beggar, and flutter his dirty rags: 
'Twas so bold, that it feared not to play its joke 
With the iloctor's wig, or tho genlleman's cloak. 
Through the forest it roared, .and cried, gayly," Now, 
You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow !" 
And it nuidc them bow without more ado. 
Or cracked their great branches through and 
through. 



484 



CrCLOP^DIA OF BBITISR AXD AMERICA]^ FOETRT. 



Then it rushed, like a monster, on cottage and 

farm, 
Striliing tln'ir dwellers -with sudden alarm, 
So tbcy ran out like bees when threatened with 

harm. 
There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over 

their caps, 
To see if their poultry were free from mishaps; 
The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud, 
Aud the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd ; 
There was rearing of ladders, and logs layiug on, 
Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon 

to be gone. 
But the wind had swept on, and met in a lane 
"With a school-boy, who panted and struggled in 

vain : 
For it tossed him, aud twirled him, then passed, 

and he stood 
With his hat in a pool, aud his shoe in the mud. 
Then away went the Wind in its holiday glee! 
And now it was far on the billowy sea ; 
Aud the lordly ships felt its staggering blow, 
And the little boats darted to and fro : — 
But, lo ! night came, and it sank to rest 
On the sea-bird's rock in the gleaming west, 
Laughing to think, in its fearful fun. 
How little of mischief it had done! 



3o\)\\ ©arbincr (Haullnns Brainnvb. 

AMERICAN. 

Braiuard (179.5-1838) was a native of New London, 
Conn., son of a judge of the Supreme Court. He was 
ccUicated at Yale College, and in 1823 went to Hartford 
to take editorial charge of the Connecticut Mirror. Sam- 
uel G. Goodrieh, author of the " Peter Parley Tales," was 
his intimate friend, and persuaded him to publish his first 
volume of poems. This appeared in New York, in 1830, 
from the press of Bliss & AVhite. A second edition, with 
a memoir by J. G. Whittier, appeared in 1833; aud this 
was followed by a third, in 1843, from the press of Hop- 
kins, Hartford. " At the age of eight-and-twenty," says 
Goodrich, " Brainard was admonished that his end was 
near. Witli a submissive spirit, in pious, gentle, cheer- 
ful faith, he resigned himself to his doom. In person he 
was short; his general appearance that of a clumsy boy. 
At one moment he loolced stupid, and then inspired. He 
was true in friendship, chivalrous in all that belongs to 
personal honor." An instance of his ready wit is given 
in a retort lie addressed to a critic, who had objected to 
the use of the word "6)-i«e,"as a word which "h.ad no 
more business in sentimental poetry than a pig in a p.ir- 
lor;" to which the poet replied that his critic, "living 
inland, must have got his ideas of the salt-water from his 
father's pork-barrel." 



THE SEA-BIRD'S SONG. 

On the deep is the mariner's danger, 

On the deep is the mariner's death ; 
Who to fear of the tempest a stranger 
Sees the last bubble burst of his breath ? 
'Tis the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, 

Lone looker ou despair; 
The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, 
The only witness there. 

Who watches their course who so mildly 
Careen to the kiss of the breeze ? 

Who lists to their shrieks who so wildly 
Are clasped in the arms of the seas? 
'Tis the sea-bird, etc. 

Who hovers on high o'er the lover. 
And ber who has clung to his neck ? 

Who,se wing is the wing that can cover 
With its shadow the foundering wreck? 
'Tis the sea-bird, etc. 

My eye in the light of the billow. 
My wing on the wake of the wave, 

I shall take to my breast for a pillow 
The shroud of the fair and the brave. 
I'm the sea-bird, etc. 

My foot on the iceberg has lighted. 

When hoarse the wild winds veer about ; 
My eye, when the bark is benighted, 

Sees the lamp of the light-house go out. 
I'm the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, 

Lone looker ou despair ; 
The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, 
The only witness there. 



STANZAS. 

The dead leaves strew the forest walk. 

And withered are the pale wild flowers ; 
The frost hangs black'ning on the stalk, 

The dew-drops fall in frozen showers. 

Gone are the Spring's green sprouting bowers, 
Gone Summer's rich and mantling vines, 

And Autumn, with her yellow hours, 
Ou hill and plain no longer shines. 

I learned a clear ami wild-toned note. 

That rose aud swelled from yonder tree — 



JOHN GARDISER CJCLKIXS BRAIXAllD.—JOHX KEATS. 



485 



A gay birtl, with too sweet a throat, 

There iierclieil, anil raised her soug for me. 
The wiiucr conies, and where is she? 

Away, where snninier wings will rove. 
Where buds are fresh, and every tree 

Is vocal with tho uotcs of love. 

Too mild the breath of SoutliiMii sky, 

Too fresh tho llower that blushes there, 
Tho Northern breeze that rushes by 

Finds leaves too green, and buds too fair; 

Xo forest-tree stands stripped and bare, 
Xo stream beneath the ice is dead, 

Xo monntain-top, with sleety hair, 
Bends o'er the snows its reverend head. 

Go there with all tho birds — and seek 

A happier clime, with livelier llight. 
Kiss, »villi tho snn, tlio evening's cheek, 

And leave me lonely with tho night. 

I'll gazo upon the cold north light. 
And walk wliero all its glories shone — 

See — that it all is fair and bright. 
Feel — that it all is cold and gone. 



TO THE DAUGHTER OF A FRIEXD. 

I pray theo by thy mother's face. 

And by her look, .liid by her eye, 
l?y every decent matron grace 
Tliat hovered round tho restiug-placo 

Where thy young head did lie, — 
And by the voice that soothed thine ear, 
Tho hymn, the smile, tho sigh, the tear, 

That matched thy changeful mood; — 
By every prayer thy mother taught. 
By every blessing that she sought, — 

I pray theo to be good. 



THE FALLS OF XIAGARA. 

In his " Recollections ofn Lirctlmc,"S.G. Goodrich (ITDS-ISSS) 
tells lis thnt he wng present when Brainnrd dnshed off the fol- 
Inwins lines ill ilio priiiliiig-oBIcc while the coinpiisitor wns 
wniiiiiy for copy. 

The thoughts are strange thnt crowd into my brain 
While I look ui>waid to thee. It would seem 
As if (Jdd piinii'd thee from his hollow hand; 
Had hung his bow upon thy awful front; 
Had spoke in that loud voice which seemed to him 
Who dwelt ill Patmos for his Saviour's 8.ake, 
The sound of many waters ; and Lad bade 



Thy Hood to chronicle tho ages back. 
And notch his centuries in the eternal rocks. 
Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we. 
That hear tho question of that voice sublime J 
Oh what are all the notes that ever rang 
From war's vain trumpet by thy thundering side f 
Yea, what is all the riot man can make, 
In his short life, to thy unceasing roar? 
And yet, bold babbler! what art thou to Him 
Who drowned a world, and heaped tho waters far 
Above its loftiest mountains f — A light wave 
That breaks and whispers of its Maker's might! 



^oljn Keats. 

John Keats (1796-1S21) was bora in London, October 
29th, 1796, in the house of bis giaiidlalher, who kcp't a 
livery-stable at Mooillelds. Educated at Euficld, at fif- 
teen years of age .John was apprenticed to a surgeon. 
Ill 1818 he published "Endymion,"' a poem of great 
promise, and sliowiug rare imaginative powers. It was 
criticised severely by Crokcr and GifTord in the Quarter- 
hj Review ; for Keats, having been lauded and befriended 
by Leigh Hunt, was treated by his Tory critics as be- 
longing to a distasteful school of politics. Keats did 
not write politics, but he had a friend who did. It is 
not probable that the Quarterly's abuse hastened the 
jouug poet's death, as is generally supposed. He suf- 
fered less than Shelley imagined from censure that he 
knew to be unjust. To him and others Keats modestly 
admitted the shortcomings of Ins early work. "I have 
written," he said, "independently, without judijment ; I 
may write independently, and with judgment, hereafter. 
The genius of poetry must work out its own salvation 
in a man." That Keats was largely influenced in his 
style by his familiarity with the poems of Leigh Hunt is 
quite apparent; but he soon surpassed his model. " En- 
dymion " seems to have worked its way gradually to 
recognition as the production of a true poet; and the 
praises bestowed on it awakened the jealousy of Byron, 
who wrote : " No more Keats, I cntrc.it I Ihiy him alive ; 
if some of you don't, I must skin him myself. There is 
no hearing the drivelling idiotisin of the miinikin." But 
Byron lived to lament his rough words; and (Novem- 
ber, 1S21) attributes his indignation to Keats's deprecia- 
tion of Pope, which, he says, "hardly permitted me to 
do justice to his own genius, which, malgre all the fan- 
tastic fopperies of his style, was undoubtedly of great 
liromise. His fragment of 'Hyperion' seems actually 
inspired by the Titans, and is as sublime as ..^scliylus." 

In 1.S20 appeared Keats's "Lamia," "Isabella," "The 
Eve of St. Agnes," and other poems. Of a delicate anil 
sensitive constitution, he had seriously impaired his 
health tiy the care he had lavished on his dying brother, 
Tom ; and he made a trip to Italy with the hope of re- 
covering strength : but the seeds .of consumption were 
lodged in his constitution. Speaking of his brother's 
death, he writes: "I have a firm belief in immortality, 



486 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BEITISB AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



ami so had Toin." "The Eve of St. Agnes" was praised 
warmly by Jeffrey and other leading eritics. It is one 
of the most charming and perfect of the poet's works, 
and written, it would seem, imder Spenserian influence. 

At Rome Keats became seriously worse, and died on 
the 23d of Febi-uary, 1831. A few days before his death 
he had expressed to his friend, Mr, Severn, the wish that 
on his gravestone sliould be the inscription ; "Here lies 
one whose name was writ in water." Shelley was moved 
by Keats's death to produce the fiery elegy of "Ado- 
nais," worthy to be classed with the "Lyeidas" of Mil- 
ton, and tlie "In Memoriam" of Tennyson. Keats's 
ranli is at the head of all the poets who have died young. 
The affluence of his imagination is sucli that he often 
seems to have given himself no time to select and prop- 
erly dispose of his images. His "Hymn to Pan," in 
"Endymion," was referred to by Wordsworth as "a 
pretty piece of Paganism" — a just criticism, but one 
that somewhat nettled Keats. He would have been a 
more popular, if not a greater, poet, if he had been less 
in love with the classic mythology. He has had a brood 
of imitators, American as well as English. 

Coleridge, in his "Table-Talk," gives an interesting 
reminiscence, as follows: "A loose, slack, not well- 
dressed youtli met Mr. and myself in a lane near 

Highgate. knew him, and spoke. It was Keats. 

He was introduced to me, and stayed a minute or so. 
After he had left us a little way, he came back, and said, 
' Let me carry away the memory, Coleridge, of having 
pressed your hand '.' ' There is death in that hand,' I 
said to , wlien Keats was gone ; yet this was, I be- 
lieve, before the consumption showed itself distinctly." 

The fame of Keats has not diminished since his death. 
The fact that what he wrote was written before his 
twenty-si.xth year will long give to his productions a 
peculiar interest. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



St. Agues' Eve, — ab, liitter chill it was ! 

The owl, for all bis feathers, was a-cold ; 

The bare limped trembling tbrongb tbo frozen 

grass, 
Anil silent was tbo flock in woolly fold ; 
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers while be told 
His rosary, and while bis frosted breath. 
Like pious incense from a ceuser old. 
Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death, 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while bis prayer 
be saitb. 

II. 

His prayer bo saitb, this patient, holy man ; 
Then takes bis lamji, and risetb from bis knees, 
And back returnetb, meagre, barefoot, wan. 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : 
Tbo sculptured dead on each side seem to freeze. 
Imprisoned in black, purgatorial rails: 



Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 

He passetb by ; and bis weak spirit fails 
To think bow they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 



Northward be turnetb through a little door, 
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 
Flattered to tears this ag^d man and poor : 
But no — already bad bis deatb-bell rung ; 
The joys of all bis life were said and sung. 
His was barsb i)enance on St. Agnes' Eve : 
Another way be went ; and soon among 
KoMgb ashes sat be for bis soul's reprieve, 
And all night kept awake, for sinner's sake to grieve. 



That ancient Beadsman beard the prelude soft ; 
And so it cb.anced, for ni.any a door was wide. 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,# 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to cliide ; 
The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests ; 
Tbo carvdd angels, ever eager-eyed. 
Stared, where npon their beads the cornice rests. 
With hair blown back, and wings ijut crosswise ou 
their breasts. 



At length burst in the argent revelry. 
With plume, tiara, and' all rich array. 
Numerous as sbadows haunting fairily 
The brain, new stuffed, in youth, with triumphs gay 
Of old romance. These let us wish away. 
And turn, sole-tliougbted, to one Lady there. 
Whose heart bad brooded, all that wintry day. 
On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care, 
As she had beard old dames full many times declare. 



Tliey told her bow, npon St. Agues' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of delight, 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honeyed middle of tbo night. 
If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
As, supperless to bed they must retire. 
And couch supine their beauties lily-white ; 
Nor look behind nor sideways, but require 
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. 



Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline : 
The music, ye.arning like a god in pain, 
She scarcely beard ; her nmiden eyes divine, 



JOnX KEATS. 



487 



Fixed on tlio floor, saw many a sweeping train 
Pass by — she liooded not at all : in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 
And back retired — not cooled by high disdain. 
But slie saw not : her licait was otherwhere ; 
She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. 



She danced along with vague, regardless eyes ; 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: 
The hallowed hour was near at hand ; she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and tho thronged resort 
Of whisperera in anger or iii sport; 
'Jlid looks of love, defiance, hate, aud scorn, 
Hoodwinked with faery fancy ; all amort. 
Save to St. Agnes and her fambs nnsborn, 
.\nd all tho bliss to be befcne to-morrow mora. 



.So, purposing each moment to retire, 
She lingered still. Meantime, across tho moors 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on lire 
For Madeline. lieside the portal doors, 
Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline 
Bnt for one moment in tho tedious hours. 
That be might gaze and worship all unseen ; 
i'erchanco speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth, such 
thin;rs have been. 



Ho ventmos in : let no buzzed whisper tell : 
All eyes bo mnllled, or a humlred swords 
Will storm his heart. Love's feverous citadel : 
For him. those chambers held barbarian hordes. 
Hyena foemeii, and hot-blooded lords, 
Whoso very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage : not one breast affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansi<Mi foul, 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 



Ah, happy chance! tho aged creature came, 
Shuflliug along with ivory-headed wand. 
To wlieio he stood, liid from (he torch's flame, 
]!ehind a broail hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland : 
He startled her ; but soon slio knew his face. 
And gra.sped his fingers in her palsied hand. 
Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this 

place ; 
Tliey are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty 

race ! 



"Get hence! get hence! there's dwarlisU llilde- 

brand ; 
He had a fever late, and in the fit 
He curs<5d thee and thine, both house and land; 
Then there's that old Lend JIaurice, not a whit 
More tamo for his gray hairs — Al.is me! flit! 
Flit like a ghost away." — "Ah, Gossip dear, 
We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit, 
And tell me how" — "Good Saints! not hero, 

not here ; 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy 

bier." 

XIII. 

He followed tluough a lowly arched way. 
Brushing the cobwebs with bis lofty jilnnie; 
And as she muttered " Well-a — well-a-day I" 
He found him in a little moonlit room. 
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
"Now tell mo where is Madeline," said he; 
"Oh tell me, Angola, by tho holy loom 
Which none bnt secret sisterhood may see. 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 



"St. Agnes! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve,— 
Yet men will nuirder npon holy days: 
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve. 
And be liege-lord of all tho Fives and Fays, 
To venture so : it fills mo with aimizo 
To see theo, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
God's help! my lady fair tho conjurer plays 
This very night: good .angels her deceive! 
But let mo laugh awhile, I've mickle lime to grieve." 



Feebly she liinglu-th in the laiigulil moon, 
While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 
Like puzzled urchin on an agf'd crone 
Who keepcth closed .1 wondrous rid<lle-book, 
As spectacled she sits in ehinniey nook. 
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 
His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook 
Tears, at the thought of those encli!iiitmciits cold, 
Aud Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 

XVI. 

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose. 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
Made purple riot: then doth he propdso 
A stratagem, that makes tho beldame start : 
"A cruel nniu and impious tlnui art: 



488 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Sweet lady, lot her pray, and sleep, auU dream, 
Aloue with lier good augels, far apart 
From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst 
seem." 

XVII. 

" I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," 
Quoth Porphyro : " Oh may I ne'er find grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last 

prayer, 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace. 
Or look with ruflian passion in her face : 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
Or I will, even in a moment's space. 
Awake, with horrid shout, mj' foemen's ears. 
And beard them, though they be more fauged than 

wolves and bears." 



"Ah! why wilt thou aftright a feeble soul? 
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard thing, 
Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll ; 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening. 
Were never missed." Thus plaining, doth she 

bring 
A geutler speech from burning Porphyro; 
So wofiil, and of such deep sorrowing. 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever ho shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 



Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
Him in a closet, of such jirivacy 
That he might see her beauty uuespied. 
And win, perhaps, that night a peerless bride. 
While legioned fairies paced the coverlet, 
And jiale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met. 
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 



"It shall bo as thou wishest," said the Dame: 
"All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
Quickly on this feast -night: by the tambour 

frame 
Her own lute tliou wilt see: no time to spare; 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience kneel in 

prayer 
The while : Ah ! thou must needs the l.ady wed, 
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 



So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly passed ; 
The dame returned, and whispered in his ear 
To follow her ; with ag(5.d eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe' at last. 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed, and chaste ; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased aniaiu. 
His poor guide hurried back, with agues in her brain. 



Her faltering band upon the balustrade. 
Old Angela was feeling for the stair. 
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 
Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware : 
With silver taper's light, .and pious care. 
She turned, and down the agi5d go.ssip led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare. 
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; 
She comes, she comes again, like ringdove frayed 
and fled. 

XXIII. 

Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: 
She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide : 
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide .' 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble. 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side; 
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell. 

XXIV. 

A casement high and triple-arched there was. 
All garlanded with carven imageries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and buuches of knot-grass, 
And di.anionded with panes of quaint device. 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazoniugs, 
A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens 
and kings. 

XXV. 

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. 

And threw warm gules ou Madeline's fair breast. 

As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon ; 

Kose-bloom fell on her hands, together iiressed, 

And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 

And ou her hair a glory, like a saint; 

She seemed a splendid angel, newly dressed, 



JOHN KEATS. 



489 



Save wings, for Iicaveu : — Porpliyro grew faint : 
She kuelt, 80 imio a tiling, so free from !iRir(al taint. 



Anon Ills heart revives: her vespers »lone, 
Of all its wroatlicil pearl.s her hair she frees; 
Unclasps her warnii^d jewels, one by one ; 
Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees ; 
Half-hidden, like a meriuaid in sea-weed. 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, 
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in lior bed. 
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 



Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay, 
Until the poppie<l warmth of slei'p oppressed 
Her soothcil limbs, and soul fatigued away; 
Flown, liki' a thought, until the morrow-day ; 
lUissfnlly havened both from joy and pain ; 
Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray : 
Blinded alike from snu.'ihino and from rain. 
As though a rose should .shut, and be a bud again. 



Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porphyro g;i7.ed upon her empty dress. 
And listened to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness; 
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, 
And breathed himself; then from the closet crept, 
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 
Anil over the hushed carpet, silent, stepped. 
And 'tween the curtaius peeped, where, lo ! — how 
fast she slept. 



Then by the bedside, where the faded moon 
Maile a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: — 
Oh for some drowsy Moridiean amulet ! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 
Tho kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
Atliay his ears, though but in dying tone: — 
The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 



And still she slept an aziirc-lidded sleep, 
In blancliM linen, smooth, and lavendercd, 
While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
Of caudied apple, (|uince, and plum, and gourd; 



With jellies soother than tho creamy curd. 
And lucent sirnps, tinct with cinnamon ; 
Mauna aud dates, in argosy transferred 
From Fez : and spicdd dainties, every one, 
From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon. 

XXXI. 

These dclieates ho heaped with glowing hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver ; sumptuous they stand 
In tho retired quiet of the uight. 
Filling the chilly room witb perfume light. — 
" And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite ; 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." 



Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
By tho dusk curtains: — 'twas a midnight charm 
Impossible to melt as icdd stream ; 
Tlie lustrous salvers in tho moonlight gleam ; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: 
It seemed ho uever, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
So mused awhile, enfoiled in woofcd phauta.sies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and in chords th.at tenderest be, 
He played an ancient ditty, long since mute, 
In Provence called " La belle dame sans nierci :" 
('lose to her ear tonchiug the melody; — 
Wherewith disturbed, she uttered .a soft moan ; 
Ho ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 
Her blue aft'raydd eyes wide oi>cn shone ; 
Upon bis knees be sank, i)ale as smooth-sculptured 
stone. 

XXXIV. 

Her eyes were ojien, but sho still beheld. 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep ; 
There was a painful change, that uigb expelled 
The bli.sses of her dream so pure and deep. 
At which fair Madeline began to weep, 
,\n(l nuiaii forth witless words witb many a sigli ; 
Wliile still her gaze <ui Porphyro would keep, 
Who knelt, with jointed hands and piteous eye, 
Fearing to move or speak, she looked so drcaniingly. 

XX.W. 

" Ah, Porphyro !"' said she ; " but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine car, 



490 



CYCLOPEDIA OF ISHITISn AND AMEEICAX POETRY. 



Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; 
Ami those sad eyes were spii'itnal aud clear: 
How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, aud 

drear ! 
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those comphiinings dear' 
Oh leave me not iu this eternal woe. 
For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go." 



Beyond a mortal mau impassioucd far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose. 
Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star 
Seen 'mid the sapijhire heaven's deep lepose ; 
luto her dream he melted, as the rose 
Blendeth its odor with the violet, — 
Solution sweet : meantime the frost-wind blows 
Like Love's alarum, pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-paues: St. Agues' moon hath set. 



'TIs dark; quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet ; 
"This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!" 
'Tis dark; the ic^d gusts still rave aud beat; 
"No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! 
Porphyro will leave me here to fade aud pine. — 
Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? 
I curse not, for my heart is lost iu thine. 
Though thou forsakcst a deceived thing ; — 
A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, unpruned wing.'' 



"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! 
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blessed ? 
Thjf beauty's shield, heart-shaped, aud vermeil- 
dyed ? 
Ah, silver shrine, hero will I take ray rest. 
After so many hours of toil aud quest, 
A famished pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
Though I have foiuul, I will not rob thy nest. 
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou tliink'st well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no vude iulidel. 



"Hark! 'tis an elfin storm from fairy-land, 
Of haggaid seeming, but a boou indeed ; 
Arise — arise! the morning is at h.and; — 
The bloated wassailers will never heed : — 
Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to sec, — 
Drowned all iu Eheuish and the sleepy mead: 
Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be, 
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." 



She hurried at his words, beset with fears, 
For there were sleeping dragons all around, 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready speai's — 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found; 
Li all the house was heard no human sound. 
A chain-dropped lamp was flickeriug by each door; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound. 
Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 



They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ! 
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, 
Where lay the Porter, iu uneasy sprawl, 
With a huge empty flagon by his side ; 
The wakeful blood-hound rose, aud shook his hide. 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns ; 
By one and one the bolts full easy slide : — 
The chains lie sileut on the foot-worn stones ; 
The key turns, and the door upon its hiuges groans. 



And they arc gone : ay, ages long ago 
These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the Baron dreamed of many a woe. 
And all his warrior-guests, with shade aud form 
Of witch, and demon, and large coffiu-worm. 
Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old 
Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform ; 
The Beadsman, after thousand avds told. 
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. 



ODE. 



Bards of Passion aud of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Have ye souls in heaven too. 
Double-lived in regions new ? 
Yes, and those of heaven commune 
With the spheres of sun and moon ; 
With the noise of fountains wondrous, 
Aud the parle of voices thund'rous; 
With the whisper of heaven's trees 
And one another, in soft ease 
Seated on Elysian lawns 
Browsed by none but Diau's fawns; 
Underneath large bluebells tented. 
Where the daisies are rose-scented. 
And the rose herself has got 
Perfume which on earth is not; 



JOIIX KEATS. 



491 



Wlicro the night iiigulo doth sing 
Not a senseless, tranced thing, 
But divine nielotlions trnth ; 
I'liilosopViic niinihcrs smooth ; 
Tales and golden histories 
Of heaven and its mysteries. 

Tlins ye live on high, and then 
On the earth yo live again ; 
And the sonls yo left hehintl you 
Teach us, here, the way to tiud yon, 
Where your other sonls are joying. 
Never slnnihercd, never cloying. 
IIiMe, your carlh-born sonls still speak 
To mortals, of their little -week; 
Of their sorrows and deliglits ; 
Of their passions and their spites; 
Of their glory and their shame ; 
Wliat doth strengthen and what maim. 
Tlins ye teach ns, every day. 
Wisdom, though fled far away. 

liards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your sonls on earth ! 
Ye have sonls in heaven too. 
Double-lived in regions new ! 



BEAUTY. 
FnoH *' Endymiox." 

\ thing of beauty is a joy forever: 

Its loveliness increases; it will never 

Pass into iH)tliingness ; hut still will keep 

A bower quiet for ns, and a. sleep 

1- nil of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. 

Therefore, on every morrow are we wreathing 

A flowery band to bind ns to the earth, 

Spite of despondence, of the Inhuman dearth 

Of nolfle natures, of the gloomy days. 

Of all the unhealthy and o'erdarkened ways 

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all. 

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, 

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady l)oon 

Tor simple sheep; and sueli aro daffodjls 

With the green worlil they live in; and clear rills 

That for themselves a cooling covert make 

"(Jainst the hot season : the niid-furest brake, 

Kich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms; 

-Vnd such, too, is the grandeur of the dooms 

Wo have imagined for the mighty dead; 

-VU lovely tales that we have heard or re.vl : 



An endless fountain of immortal drink. 
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 

Nor do wo merely feel these essences 
For one short hour ; no, even as the trees 
That whisper round a temple become soon 
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, 
The passion poesy, glories iulinite. 
Haunt ns till they become a cheering light 
I'nto our souls, and bound to ns so fast. 
That,- whether there ho shine, or gloom o'erc.ist, 
They alway must be with ns, or we die. 

Theiefore, 'tis with full hapiiincss that I 
Will trace the story of Kudymion. 
The very music of the name has gone 
Into my being, and each pleasant scene 
Is growing fresh before me as the green 
Of our owu valleys: so I will begin 
Now, while I cannot hear the city's din ; 
Now, while the early budders aro just new, 
And run iu mazes of the youngest hue 
About old forests; while the willow trails 
Its delicate amber; and the dairy-pails 
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year 
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer 
My little boat, for many quiet hour.s. 
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers. 
Many and many a verso I hope to write 
Before the daisies, vermeil-rimnicd and white. 
Hide in deep herbage ; and ere yet the bees 
Hum about globes of clover and sweet-peas, 
I must bo near the middle of my story. 
Oh! may no wintry season, bare and Iioary, 
See it half tinished ; but let autumn bold. 
With universal tinge of sober gold, 
Bo all about mo when I make an end. 
Ami now at once, adventuresome, I send 
My herald thought into a wilderness: 
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress 
My uncertain path with green, that 1 may speed 
Easily onward, on through flowers and weed. 



LA BELLE D.\ME S.\.\S MERCL 

A BALLAD. 

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms ! 

Alone and palely loitering f 
The sedge t.as withered from the lake, 

And no birds sing. 
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! 

So haggard and so woe-bcgone f 



492 



CrCLOFJ^DIA OF BRITISH JND AMERICAN POETRY. 



The squirrel's granary is full, 

Aud the harvest's tloue. 
I see a lily on thy brow, 

With anguish moist aud fever dew ; 
Aud on thy checks a fadiug rose 

Fast withereth too. 

1 met a lady in the mead — 

Full beautiful, a fairy's child ; 
Her hair was long, her foot was light, 

Aud her eyes were wild. 
I made a garland for her head 

Aud bracelets too, and fragrant zone ; 
She looked at me as she did love, 

And made sweet moau. 
I set her on my pacing steed, 

And nothing else saw all day long ; 
For sidelong would she bend, aud sing 

A fairy soug. 

She found me roots of relish sweet, 

And honey wild, and manna dew; 
And sure iu language strange she said — 

" I love thee true." 
She took me to her elfiu grot, 

And there she wept, and sighed full sore ; 
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes 

With kisses four. 
Aud there she InlMd me asleep ; 

And there I dreamed — Ah ! woe betide ! 
The latest dream I ever dreamed 

Ou the cold hill's side. 

I saw pale kings and princes too — 

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; 
They cried : " La belle dame saus merci 

Hath thee iu thrall!" 
I saw their starved lips iu the gloam, 

With horrid waruing gap(5d wide ; 
Aud I awoke and found me hero 

Ou the cold hill's side. 
Aud this is why I sojourn here 

Aloue and palely loitering, 
Though the sedge is withered from the lake, 

Aud no birds sing. 



But wlieu the page of everlasting Truth 

Has on the attentive mind its force iuipi-essed. 

Then vanish all the ati'eetions dear in youth, 

Aud Love immortal fills the grateful breast. 

The wonders of all-ruling Providence, 

The joys that from celestial Mercy flow, 

Essential beauty, perfect eseelleueo, 

Ennoble aud refiuo the native glow 

The poet feels ; aud thence his best resource 

To paint his feelings witli subliniest force. 



TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME A LAUREL 
CROWN. 

Fresh moruing gusts have blown away all fear 

From my glad bosom — now from gloominess 

I mount forever — not an atom less 

Thau the proud laurel shall content my bier. 

No! by the eterual stars! or why sit hero 

In the Suu's eye, and 'gainst my temples press 

Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless 

By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear? 

Lo ! who dares say, "Do this?" Who dares call down 

My will from its high purpose ? Who say, " Stand," 

Or "Go?" This mighty moment I would frowu 

Ou abject Ca>s.ars — uot the stoutest band 

Of mail6d heroes should tear off my crown : 

Yet would I kneel aud kiss thy geutle hand ! 



SONNET. 

There was a season when the fabled name 
Of high Parnassus aud Apollo's lyre 
Seemed terms of excellence to my desire ; 
Therefore a youthful bard I may uot blame. 



SONNET. 

In a letter to his brolher nud eister in Aineric.i (May, 1810), 
Keats introduces this sonnet tliiis : "I have l)een endeavor- 
ing to discover a better Soiniet stanza tliau we have. The 
legitimate does uot suit the language well, iVora the pouncing 
rhymes ; the other appears too elegiac, and tlie coujilet at the 
end of it has seldom a pleasing effect. I do not pretend to 
have succeeded. It will e.\plain itself." 

If by dull rhymes our English must bo chaiued, 

Aud, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet 

Fettered, iu spite of paiudd loveliness. 

Let us find out, if wo uuist be constrained, 

Saudals more interwoven and comidete 

To fit the naked foot of Poesy; 

Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress 

Of every chord, aud see what may bo gained 

By ear industrious aud attention meet ; 

Misers of sound aud syllable, uo le.ss 

Than Midas of his coinage, let us be 

Jealous of dead leaves iu the bay-wreath crown ; 

So, if we may not let the Muse be free. 

She will bo bound with garlands of her owu. 



JOHN KEATS. 



4",i:! 



ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. 

The poetry of earth -is never dead: 

Wlioii all tlie birds arc faint with the hot sun, 

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 

I'rom hedge to hedge about the ncw-iiKiwii mead: 

That is the grasshopper's — ho takes the lead 

In summer luxury, — he has never done 

With his delights, for when tired out with fiiu, 

Ho rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 

The poetry of earth is ceasing never: 

On .a lone winter evening, when the frost 

Has wrought .a silence, from the stove there shrills 

The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, 

And seems to one iu drowsiness half lost. 

The grasshopper's among some grassy hills. 



KEATS'S LAST SONNET. 

Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art— 

Not iu lone splendor hung aloft the night, 

And watching, with eti-rnal lids apart. 

Like Nature's patient, sleepless eremite. 

The moving waters at their priest-like t.ask 

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, — 

Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors — 

No — yet still steadfast, still nuchangcablo. 

Pillowed ni)<>n my fair love's ripening breast, 

To fi'el forever its soft fall and swell, 

Awake forever iu a sweet unrest, 

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath. 

And so live ever — or else swoon to death. 



FAIRY SONG. 

Shed no tear! Oh, shed no tear! 
The llower will bloom another year. 
Weep no more ! Oh, weep no more ! 
Young buds sleep iu the root's white core. 
Dry your eyes! Oh, dry your eyes! 
Tor I was taught in Paradise 
To ease my breast of melodies — 
Shed no tear. 

Overhead ! look overhead ! 
'Mong the blos.soms white and red — 
Look up, look up. I tliitter now 
On this lliish p<micgrauate bough. 



See me ! 'tis this silvery bill 
Ever cures the good man's ill. 
Shed no tear! Oh, shed no tear! 
The llower will bloom another ycai'. 
Adieu, adieu — I fly, adien, 
I vanish iu the heaven's blue — 
Adieu, adieu ! 



F.<VNCY. 



Ever let the fancy roam, 

Pleasure never is at home : 

At a touch sweet Pleasure meltetli, 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 

Then let winged Fancy wander 

Through the thought still spread beyond her: 

0|)en wide the miud's cage-door. 

She'll dart fmtli and clondward soar. 

O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 

Summer's joys are spoiled by use. 

And the enjoying of the Spring 

Fades as does its blossoming ; . 

Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too, 

Blushing through the mist and dew, 

Cloys with tasting: AVhat do then? 

Sit thee by the ingle, when 

The sear fagrft blazes bright, 

Spirit of .a winter's night ; 

When the soundless earth is muflled, 

And the c.akdd snow is shuffled 

From the plonghboy's heavy shoou ; 

When the Night dotU meet the Noon 

In a dark conspiracy 

To banish Even from her sky, 

— Sit thee there, aud send abroad, 

With a mind self-overawed, 

Fancy, high-commissioned: — send her! 

She has vassals to attend her: 

She will bring, in spite of frost, 

Beauties that the earth hath lost; 

She will bring thee, all together, 

All delights of summer weather; 

All the buds and bells of May, 

From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 

All the heaped Autumn's wealth. 

With a still, mysterious stealth : 

She will mix the.se pleasures up 

Like three fit wines in a cup, 

Aiul thou shalt quaff it : — thou shalt hear 

Dist.ant harvest-carols clear; 

Rustle of the reapM corn ; 

Sweet bii'd.s aMthomiug the morn: 



494 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



And, iu the same moraeut — hark ! 
'Tis the early April lark, 
Or the rooks, with husy caw. 
Foraging for sticks and straw. 
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 
The daisy and the marigold ; 
White-plunicd lilies, and the first 
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; 
Shaded hyacinth, ahvay 
Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 
And every leaf and every flower 
Pearled with the self-same shower. 
Thou shalt see the iield-mouse peep 
Meagre from its cell(5d sleep ; 
And the snake all winter-thin 
Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 
Quiet on her mossy nest ; 
Then the hurry and alarm 
When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 
Acorns ripe down-pattering. 
While the autumn breezes sing. 

O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 

Everything is spoiled by use : 

Where's the cheek that dolHi not fade, 

Too much gazed at ? where's the maid 

W^hose lip mature is ever new ? 

Where's the eye, however blue, 

Doth not weary ? where's the face 

One would meet iu every place ? 

Where's the voice, however soft. 

One would hear so very oft ? 

At .1 touch sweet Pleasure melteth 

Like to bubbles when rain i)elteth. 

Let, then, winged Fancy find 

Thee a mistress to thy mind : 

Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter. 

Ere the God of Torment taught her 

How to frown and how to chide ; 

With a waist and with a side 

White as Hebe's, when her zone 

Slipped its golden clasp, and down 

Fell her kirtio to her feet. 

While she held the goblet sweet. 

And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 

Of the Fancy's silken loasU ; 

Quickly break her prison-string, 

And such joys as these she'll bring : — 

— Let the winged Fancy roam. 

Pleasure never is at homo. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe- ward had sunk : 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thy hapiiiness, — 
That thou, light-wingM Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows luimberless, 
Singest of sununer iu full-throated ease. 

Oh for a draught of vintage, that hath been 

Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green. 

Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth ! 
Oh for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stain6d mouth ; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

W^hat thou among the leaves hast uever known. 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 
W^here youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and 
dies ; 
AVhere but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs ; 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away! away! for I will fly to thee. 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards. 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain jierplexes and retards : 
Already with thee! tender is tlie night. 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne. 
Clustered around by all her starry Fays ; 
But here there is no light. 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy 
^^•.^ys. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
Wherewith the seasonable month endows 

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 



./0//.V KEATS. 



495 



Wliito liawthorn, ami the pastoral eglantine; 

Fast-fadin-; viulcts covcreil up in leaves; 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coniinj; niiisk-rose, fnll of dewy wiue, 

The nuirnimotis haunt of Hies on snuinier eves. 

ParUling I listen ; and, for many a time 

I have lieen half in love with easefnl Death, 
CaUed him soft names iu many a uuisc'd rhyme, 

To take into the air my qniet breath ; 
Now more thaQ ever seems it rich to die, 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain. 
While thon art ponring forth thy sonl abroad 
In sncli an ecstasy ! — 
Still wonldst thou sing, and I have ears iu vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Hird ! 

Xo hungry generations tread thee down : 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In nueieut days by emperor and clown : 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 
Through the sad heart of Kuth, when, sick for 
home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that ofttimes hath 
Cli irmed magic casements, opening ou tlie foam 
Of perilous se.TS, iu fuiry-lauds forlorn. 

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 

To toll mo back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adici- ! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 
I'ast the near meadows, over the still stream, 
I'p the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley -glades : 
Was it .a vision, or a waking dream T 

Fled is that music : — Do I wake or sleep ? 



ODE TO AUTrXIX. 

Se.nson of mists and mellow fruit fulness! 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves 
run ; 
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, 
And fdl all fruit with ripeness to the core ; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the huxel-shells 
With a sweet kernel ; to set buddiug more. 



And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until they think warm days will never cease. 

For summer has o'erbrimmed tlicirclaniuiy cells. 

Who hath not seeu thee oft amid thy store 1 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary tloor, 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep. 

Drowsed with tbe fume of poppies, while thy hook 
Spares the next swath and all its twiniJd flowers ; 
Aud sometimes like a gleaner thon dost keep 

Steady thy ladeu head across a brook ; 

Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 

Thou watchcst the last ooziugs, hours by hours. 

Where are tbe songs of spring ? Ay, where are they ? 

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — • 
While barr6d clouds bloom the soft-dying d.iy, 

Aud touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 

Among the river sallow.s, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 

Iledge-crickets sing: and now with trel)le soft 

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft, 
Aud gathering swallows twitter iu the skies. 



ODE OX A GRECLVX IKX. 

Thou still nuravished bride of quietness! 

Thou foster-child of Sileuce aud slow Time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our. rhyme: 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
Of deities or mortals, or of both, 

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady 1 
What men or gods are these ? What maidens 
loath f 
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape f 
What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasy f 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter; therefore, yo soft pipes. ])lay on; 
Not to the seusunl ear, but. more endeared, 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: 
Fair yonth, beneath the trees, thou c.iust not leave 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees bo bare ; 

Rohl lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 

Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; 

She caiuiot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 
Forever wilt thou love, and she bo fair! 



496 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



All, happy, bappy bougbs ! that caunot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever hid the spriug adieu ; 
And, hapjiy melodist, unwearied. 

Forever piping songs forever new ; 
More happy love! more happy, happy love! 

Forever warm and still to bo enjoyed, 
Forever panting and forever young ; 
All breathing human passion far above. 

That leaves a heart high-sorrowfnl and cloyed, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 

Aud all her silken flanks with garlands dressed? 
What little town by river or sea-shore, 

Or mouutain-built with peaceful citadel, 
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn ? 
Aud, little town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 

O Attic shape ! Fair attitiulc ! with brede 

Of marble men aud maidens overwrought. 
With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 

Thou, silent form ! dost tease ns out of thought 
As doth eternity : Cold pastoral ! 

When old age shall this generation waste, 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 

" Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 



(iavtlcn Colcritigc. 



The eldest son of the poet Coleridge, Hartley (1796- 
1849), bom at Clevcdon, inherited much of his father's 
genius, but also some of his defects of organization and 
temperament. At six years of age he attracted, by his 
superior gifts, tlie attention of Wordsworth, who wrote 
of him : — 

" O thou, wliose fancies from afar are brought, 

Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, 

And fittest to unutterable thought 

The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol; 

Thou fairy voyager I that dost float 

In such clear water, that thy boat 

May rather seem 

To brood on air than on an earthly stream: — • ' * 

I think of thee with many fears 

For what may be thy lot in future years." 

What would have become of the elder Coleridge but for 
the friends in whose home his later years found a refuge, 
no one can say. With no such friends or home, poor 
Hartley became a castaway. In 181.5 he was a student at 
Oxford, and obtained a fellowship-elect at Oriel ; but he 



was dismissed, on the ground of intemperance, before I\.is 
probationary year had passed. After some ineffectual lit- 
erary efforts in Loudon, he went to Amlileside, aud sought 
for pupils ; but his tutorial life, owing to his unfortunate 
habits, was a failure. The rest of his life was very sad, 
and its melancholy tone is in his verse. It was passed 
without .any settled employment. He read diligently, 
thought deeply, and wrote charmingly ; but his occa- 
sional fits of inebriety disqualified him for auy responsi- 
ble work, and at times overshadowed his mind with a 
depression which was pitiable. 

Few men have lived more beloved (especially by the 
poor who surrouuded him) than Hartley. At Grasmere 
and Rydal all knew his one infirmity ; but they also knew 
and loved his many virtues, while they admired his great 
talents. His name long continued a household word 
among the cottagers, whom he seems to have inspired 
with the affection they might have felt for a very dear 
though erring child. With hair white as snow, he had, 
as a friend remarked, "a heart green as May." As a 
poet. Hartley is esteemed chiefly for his sonnets, some 
of which possess a charm almost peculiar to themselves, 
even in an age which has abounded in that form of com- 
position. 

STILL I AM A CHILD. 

Loug time a child, and .still a child, when years 

Had painted manhood on my cheek, was I, — 

For yet I lived like one not born to die; 

A thriftless jirodigal of smiles and tears, 

No hope I needed, aud I knew no fears. 

But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep ; and waking, 

I waked to sleep no more, at once o'ertaking 

The vanguard of my age, with all arrears 

Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man. 

Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is gray. 

For I have lost the race I never ran : 

A rathe December blights my lagging May ; 

Aud still I am a child, though I be old, 

Time is my debtor for my years untold. 



SONG. 

She is not fair to outward view 

As many maidens be. 
Her loveliness I never knew 

Until she smiled on me; 
Oh! then I saw her eye was bright, 
A well of love, a spring of light. 

But now her looks are coy and cold, 
To mine they ne'er reply ; 

And yet I cease not to behold 
The loVelight in her eye : 

Her very frowns are fairer far 

Than smiles of other maidens are. 



HARTLEY COLEItUHiE. 



497 



NO COUKSE I CAREU TO KEEP. 

How long I sailed, aiul never took a tbongbt 

To wbat l>ort I was bound ! Secure as sleep, 

I dwelt upon tbe bosom of tlie deep 

And perilons sea. And tbongb my sbip w.is fnuiglit 

With rare and precious fancies, jewels brought 

I'min fairy-land, no conr.se 1 cared to keep, 

N'or changeful wind uor tide I heeded anglit, 

lint joyed to feel tbo merry billows leap. 

And watch the sunbeams dallying with the waves ; 

Or haply dream what ro/ilnis beneath may lie 

Where the clear ocean is an emerald sky, 

.\nd mermaids warble in their coral caves, 

Vet vainly woo me to their secret home ; — 

And sweet it were forever so to roaiu ! 



TO WOKDSWOliTir. 

There have been poets that in verse display 
The elemental forms of human pa.ssions : 
Poets have been, to Avhom the fickle fa.shions 
And all the wilful liunnirs of the day 
Have furni.slied matter for .'v polished lay: 
.\nd many are the smooth, elaborate tribe 
Who, emulous of thee, the shape describe. 
And fain would every shifting lino portray 
Of restless Nature. But thon, mighty Seer! 
Tis thino to celebrate the thoughts that make 
The life of souls, the truths for whoso sweet sake 
W(i to ourselves and to our God arc dear. 
Of Nature's inner shrine thou art the priest, 
Where most she works when we perceive her least. 



THE FLIGHT OF YOLTH. 

Youth, thou art tied, — but where are all the charms 
Which, though with tliee they came, and p:issed 

with thee. 
Should leave a perfume and sweet memory 
of what they have been f — All thy boons and harms 
Have perished quite. — Thy oft renewed alarms 
Forsake the fluttering echo. — Smiles and tears 
Die on my cheek, or, petrified with years. 
Show the iluU woe which no compassion warms. 
The mirth none shares. Yet conld a wish, a thought, 
Iiiravel all the complex web of age, — 
Could all the characters that Time, hath wrought 
Ho clean eftaced from my memorial page 
liy one short word, the word I would not say: — 
I thank my God, because my hairs are gray. 
32 



NO\'Ti:MBER. 

The mellow year is hasting to its close ; 
The little birds have almost sung their last. 
Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast — 
That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows: — 
The jiatient beauty of the scentless rose. 
Oft Avith the Morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed, 
Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past. 
And makes a little summer Avhere it grows : — 
In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day 
The dusky waters shudder as they shine ; 
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling w.ay 
Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define, 
.\nd the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, 
Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twine. 



WISDOM THE GRAY HAIRS TO A MAX. 

'•I thank my God because my hairs are gray!" 
Hut have gray hairs brought wisdom? Doth the 

flight 
Of summer birds, departed while the light 
Of life is lingering on the middle way. 
Predict the harvest nearer by a day f 
Will the rank weeds of hopeless appetite 
Droop at the glance and venom of the blight 
That made the vermeil bloom, the flush so gay. 
Dim and unlovely, as a dead worm's shroud ? 
Or is my heart, that, wanting hope, has lost 
The strength and rudder of resolve, at peace T 
Is it no longer wrathful, vain, ami proud f 
Is it a Sabbath, or untimely frost, 
That makes the labor of the soul to cease T 



TO SHAKSPEARE. 

The soul of man is larger tlian the sky: 

Deeper than ocean, or the abysmal dark 

Of the unfatbonied centre. Like that Ark, 

Wliich in its sacred hold uplifted high, 

0"er the drowned hills, the human family. 

And stock reserved of every living kind. 

So, in the compass of the single mind. 

The .seeds and pregnant forms in e.s.seuce lie, 

That make .all Avnrlds. Great Poet, 'twas thy art 

To know thyself, and in thyself to be 

Whate'er love, hate, ambition, destiny. 

Or the firm, fatal purpose of the heart, 

Can make of Man. Yet thon wert still the same, 

Serene of thoughf, niihiirt by thy own flame. 



498 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



LIBERTY. 

Say, What is Freedom ? What the right of souls 
Wliich all ■who kuow are bound to keep or die, 
And who knows not, is dead ? In vain we pry 
In the dark archives, and tenacious scrolls 
Of written law, though Time embrace the rolls 
In his lank arms, and shed his j'ellow light 
On every barbarous word. Eternal Eight 
Works its own way, and evermore controls 
Its ow^u free essence. Liberty is Duty, 
Not License. Every pulse that beats 
At the glad summons of imperious beauty 
Obeys a law. The very cloud th.it fleets 
Along the dead green surface of the hill 
Is ruled and scattered by a godlike will. 



NO LIFE VAIN. 

Let me not deeiu that I was made in vain. 
Or that my Being was an accident, 
Which Fate, in working its sublime intent. 
Not wished to be, to hinder would not deign. 
Each droji uncounted iu a storm of rain 
Hath its own mission, and is duly sent 
To its own leaf or blade, not idly spent 
'Mid myriad dimples on the shipless main. 
The very shadow of an insect's wing, 
For which the violet cared not while it stayed. 
Yet felt the lighter for its vanishing. 
Proved that the sun was shining by its shade : 
Then can a drop of the eternal spring. 
Shadow of living lights, in vain be made ? 



THE WAIF OF NATURE. 

A lonely wanderer upon earth am I, 
The waif of nature — like uprooted weed 
Borne by the stream, or like a shaken reed, 
A frail dependent of the fickle sky ; 
Far, far away, are all my natural l;in : 
The mother that erewhile h.ntli hu.shed my cry, 
Almost hath grown a mere fond memory. 
Where is my sister's smile ? my brother's boister- 
ous din ? 
Ah ! nowhere now. A matron grave and sage, 
A holy mother is that sister sweet. 
And tliat bold brother is a pastor, meet 
To guide, instruct, reprove a sinful age, 
Almost I fear, and yet I fain would greet ; 
So far astray hath been my pilgrimage. 



TO A NEWLY-MARRIED FRIEND. 

How shall a man foredoomed to lone estate, 

Untimely old, irreverently gray. 

Much like a patch of dusky snow in May, 

Dead sleeping iu a hollow — all too late — 

How shall so poor a thiug congratulate 

The blest completion of a patient wooing. 

Or how commend a younger man for doing 

What ne'er to do hath been his fault or fate? 

There is a fable, that I once did read, 

Of a bad angel, that was someway good. 

And therefore on the brink of heaven he stood, 

Looking each way, and no way could proceed ; 

Till at the last he purged away his sin 

By loving all the joy he saw within. 



THE SAME, AND NOT ANOTHER. 

Think upon Death, 'tis good to think of Death, 

But better far to think upon the Dead. 

Death is a spectre with a bony head. 

Or the mere mortal body without breath, 

The state foredoomed of every sou of Seth, 

Decomposition — dust, or dreamle.ss sleep. 

But the dear Dead are they for whom wo weep. 

For whom I credit all the Bible saith. 

Dead is my father, dead is my good mother. 

And what on earth have I to do but die ? 

But if by grace I reach the bless(;d sky, 

I fain would see the same, and not another ; 

The very father that I used to see. 

The mother that has nursed me on her knee. 



ON RECEIVING ALMS. 

What can a poor niau do but love and pray ? 

But if his love be selfish, then his prayer. 

Like noisome vapor, melts iu vacant air. 

I am a debtor, and I cannot pay. 

The alms which drop upon the public way, — • 

The casual tribute of the good and fair. 

With the keen, thriftless avarice of despair 

I seize, and live thereon from day to day, 

Ingrate and purposeless. — And yet not so : 

The mere mendicity of self-contempt 

Has not so far debased me, but I know 

The faith, the hope, the piety, exempt 

From worldly doubt, to which my all I owe. 

Since I have nothing, yet I bless the thought : — 

Best are they paid whose earthly wage is naught. 



TBOMAS DALE. — WILLIAM MOTHERITELL. 



499 



iLljoiiias Dale. 



Dale ( 17117 -ISTO) wiis ii native of Loiulon. He was 
Canon of St. Paul's, and ultimately Dean of Rochester, 
and was the author of two volumes of sermons (lS3:i- 
1830). A collection of his poems appeared In 184i. 
They are noteworthy for beauty and delicacy of diction, 
and for smoothness of versllication. He was for some 
time Professor of Enijlisli Literature at the Loudon Uni- 
versity, and subseiiucntly at Kini;'3 Collesje. He was the 
author of "Tlic Widow of Nain," a poem; also of two 
volumes of sermons, published in 1830 and 1830. 



ST.\yZ.\S FOR MUSIC. 

Again tlio flowers wo loved to twino 

Wrcatbo wild rouud every tree ; 
Aj;ain the snninicr sunheani.s shine, 

That cannot sliine on thee. 
Verdure returns with fieshcr bloom 

To vale and mountain brow ; 
.Ml nature breaks its from the touib; 

But— "WTiere art thou?" 

At eve, to sail upon the fide, 

To roam along tbo shore, 
So sweet while tbou wert at my side, 

Can now deligbt no more : — 
Tliero is in heaven, aud o'er the flood, 

The same deep azure now ; 
The same notes w.arble througb the wood ; 

But— "Wboro art tbouf" 

Men say there is a voice of mirtb 

lu every grove aud glon ; 
But sounds of gladness on tbe cartb 

I cannot know again. 
The rijipling of the summer sea, 

Tbe bird upon tlie bougb, 
All speak with one sad voice to me; 

'Tis— " Where art thou f 



DIRGE. 



Fbou *' The Widow or Nain." 

Dear as thim wert, and justly dear, 

We will not weep for thee; 
One thought shall check tbe starting tear. 

It is — that thou art free. 
And thus shall Fnitb's conBoliug power 

Tbo tears of love restrain ; 
Obi who that saw thy p.arting bour, 

Could wish thee hero again! 



Triumpbant in thy closing eye 

The hope of glory shone, 
Joy breathed in tliiuo expiring sigb, 

To think tbe fight was won. 
Gently tbe passing spirit fled, 

Sustained by grace divine: 
Oh ! may sucli grace on nie be shed, 

Aud make niv end like tbiue ! 



lllilliitm itlotljciiDcll. 

.Motherwell (1797-1835) was a native of Glasgow. Af- 
ter studying Latin and Greek at the University, he was 
educated for the law. In lS:iS he became editor of the 
Paideij Adverliser, and began to devote himself to lit- 
erary pursuits. In ISSO he took charge of the Glasgow 
Courier, editing it with courage and ability. In politics 
he was a Tory, but a very sincere one. lie early showed 
a taste for poetry; and in his fourteenth year had pro- 
duced the first draft of bis " Jcanie Morrison;" of which 
-Miss Mitford says : " Let young writers observe that this 
finish was the result, not of a curious felicity, but of the 
nicest elaboration. By touching and retouching, during 
many years, did ' Jeanle -Morrls.on' att.iin her perfection, 
and yet how completely has art concealed art ! How en- 
tirely does that charming song appear like an irrepressi- 
ble gush of feeling !" 

A volume of MotherweU's poems appeared in 18.S2, and 
at once gave him rank as a vigorous and genuine writer. 
It was republished lu Boston In 1840. In his " .Minstrel- 
sy, Ancient and Modern," he earned celebrity as a liter- 
ary antiquarian. At one period of his life he overstep- 
ped some social conventions, aud incurred much unliap- 
plness thereby, to which reference Is occasionally made 
In the more personal of his poems. His taste, enthu- 
siasm, and social qualities rendered him very popular 
among his townsmen and friends. Ho was suddenly 
struck down by apoplexy in the thirty-eighth year of his 
age. 



THE CAVALIER'S SONG. 

A steed, a steed of matcbless speed ! 

A sword of metal keenc ! 
All else to noble hcartes is drosse. 

All else on eartlio is mcane. 
Tbo ncigbyinge of the war-horse prowdo, 

Tbe rowlingc of the drum, 
Tbe clangor of tbe trnmpet lowde, 

Bo sonndes from heaven that cnme; 
And oh! the thundering presse of knightcs 

Wbenas their war-cryes swell. 
May tole from heaven an angel bright 

And rouse a fiend from hell. 

Then monntc! then innund' ! brave gallants all. 
And don your belmes amaino : 



500 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Deathe's couriers, fame autl honor, call 

Us to the fielde agaiue. 
No slirewisli teares shall fill our eye 

When the sword-hilt's in our hand, — 
Heart-whole we'll part, and uo whit sighe 

For the fayrest of the land ; 
Let piping swaiue, aud craven wight 

Thus weepe and puling crye, 
Our business is like men to fight, 

And hero-like to die! 



JEANIE MORRISON. 

The heroine of this pathetic song, Sliss J.ane Morrison, after- 
ward Mrs. Murdoch, was in her seventh year, in 1S07, in the same 
class-room at school with young Motherwell. She never met 
the poet in after-life. 

I've wandered east, I've wandered west. 

Through mony a weary way ; 
But never, never can forget 

The luve o' life's young tl.ay ! 
The fire that's hlawn on Beltane e'en, 

May'weel he black gin Yule; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 

Where first fond luve grows cule. 

dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
The thochts o' by-gane ye.irs 

Still fling their shadows ower my path, 

And blind my een wi' tears : 
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears. 

And sair and sick I pine, 
As memory idly summons up 

The blithe blinks o' laug.syuo. 

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 

'Twas then we twa did part: ; 
Sweet time — sad time! tw.a bairns at scale, 

Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 
■'Twas then we sat on ae l.aigh bink, 

To leir ilk ither lear ; 
And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, 

Eemembercd evermair. 

1 wonder, Jeanie, afton yet, 
When sitting on that bink, 

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, 
What our wee heads could tliink. 

When baith bent doim ower ae braid page, 
Wi' ae bulk on otir knee, 

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 
My lesson was in thee. 



Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, 

How cheeks brent rod wi' shame. 
Whene'er the scule-weans, langhin', said 

We cleeked thegither haine ? 
And mind ye o' the Saturdays 

(The scule then scail't at noon), 
When we ran oft" to speel the braes, — 

The broomy braes o' June ? 

My head rius round and round about — 

My heart flows like a sea, 
As ane by aue the thochts rush back 

O' scule-tiine and o' thee. 
morn in' life! O morn in' luve! 

O lichtsome days and lang, 
Wlien hinnied hopes around our hearts 

Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 

Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 

The deaviu' dinsome toun, 
To wander by the green burnside, 

Aud hear its waters croon ? 
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, 

The flowers burst round our feet, 
Aud in the gloamiu' o' the wood 

The fhrossil whusslit sweet ; 

The thro.ssil whusslit in the wood, 

Tlie burn sang to the trees— 
And we, with Nature's heart in tunc, 

Concerted harmonies ; 
And on the knowe .abunc the burn 

For hours tliegifher sat 
In the silentness o' joy, till baith 

Wi' verj- gladness grat. 

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Tears trinkled donn your cheek 
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet naue 

Had ony power to speak ! 
That was a time, a blessdd time, 

When hearts were fresh and young, 
When freely gushed all feelings forth, 

llnsyllabled — unsung ! 

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 

Gin I has been to thee 
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 

As ye hae been to me ? 
Oh, tell me gin their music fills 

Thine ear as it does mine ! 
Oh, s,ay gin e'er your heart grows grit 

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ? 



iriLLIJM MOTUEinVELL.—TIIOMAS HATXES BATLT. 



TiOl 



I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 

I've borne a wciiry lot ; 
Hilt in my wanderings, far or near, 

Yo never were forgot. 
The fonut tbat tirst burst frao tbis bcart. 

Still travels on its way ; 
And cbaunels deeper, as it rins. 

The hivo o' life's young day. 

• 1 dear, dear Jeauio Morrison, 

Since wo were siudercd youug, 
I've never seen your face, nor Iicard 

The music o' your tongue ; 
lint I could bug all wretcbeducss, 

And liaitpy could I dee, 
Did I but ken your beart still dreamed 

O' by-gano days aud me ! 



LINES GIVEN TO A FRIEND 

A DAY on TWO BEFORE THE DECEASE OF THE WRITER. 

Wben I bciieatb the cold red earth am sleeping. 

Life's fever o'er, 
Will there for mo bo any biiglit eyo weeping 

That I'm no more ? 
Will there be any heart still memory keeping 

Of heretofore f 

When tlio great winds through leafless forests rush- 
ing, 

Sad music make. 
When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gush- 

Like full hearts break, — 
Will there then one, whose heart desiiair is crushing, 
Mourn for my sake ? 

When the bright sun upon that spot is shining. 

With purest ray, 
And the small llowcr.s, their buds and blossoms 
twilling, 

Burst through that clay, — 
Will there bo one still on that spot repining 

Lost hopes all day ? 

When no star twinkles with its eye of glory. 

On that low mound. 
And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary, 

lis loncncss crowned, — 
Will there bo then on*>, versed in misery's story, 

Pacing it round T — 



It may be so, — but this is selfish sorrow- 
To ask such meed, — 

A weakness and a wickedness to borrow 
From hearts that bleed, 

Tho wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow 
Shall never need. 

Lay mo then gently in my narrow dwelling. 

Thou gentle heart ; 
And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling 

Let no tear start ; 
It were in vain, — for Time hath long been kuelling,- 

" Sad one, depart I'' 



Cll)oma0 ijanucs Uanlij. 

Bayly (1T97-1839), a popular song-writer, was a native 
of Bath, England. He wrote thirty-six dramas and farces, 
aiiioug which " Perfection " and " Tom Noddy's Secret" 
still keep possession of the American stage. " Perfec- 
tion" was refused by the managers, but Madame Vestris 
saw its merits, and brought it out with gloat applause. 
Bayly married young and happily, but liis latter days were 
saddened by pecuniary reverses. He bore all, however, 
in the spirit and with the hope of a sincere Christian. 
In the epitaph, written by Theodore Hook, it is said of 
him : "He was a kind parent, an affectionate husband, a 
popular author, and an accomplished gentleman." His 
poetical works, in two volumes, with a memoir by his 
widow, appeared in 1848. Archdeacon Wrangham ren- 
dered some of Bayly's songs into Latin. Here are four 
lines of his " I'd be a Butterfly : " 

"Ah! Sim P.ipilio nntiis hi floscnlo, 
RoBa ubi liliaqne et violte lialent ; 
Floribus ndvolans, avolaiis, osciilo, 
Gemmulas taugcus, qiiie snavu olcut !" 



THE SOLDIER'S TEAR. 

Upon the hill ho turned. 

To take a last fond look 
Of the valley and tho village church, 

And the cottage by tho brook. 
Ho listened to the sounds 

So familiar to his ear, 
Aud tho soldier leaned upon his sword, 

Ami wiped away a tear. 

Beside that cottage porch 

A girl was on her knees ; 
She held aloft a snowy scarf 

Which fluttered in the breeze. 
She lirealhed .1 prayer for him — 

A prayer he could not hear ; 



502 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBIC AN POETRY. 



But lie paused to bless her as she knelt, 
And he wiped away a tear. 

He turned gnd left the spot. 

Oh, do not deem him weak! 
For dauntless was the soldier's heart, 

Though tears were on his cheek. 
Go watch the foremost ranks 

In danger's dark career : 
Be sure the hand most daring there 

Has wiped awaj- a tear. 



I'D BE A BUTTERFLY. 

I'd be a butterfly born in a bower. 

Where roses, and lilies, and violets meet ; 
Koving forever from flower to flower, 

Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. 
I'd never languish for wealth or for power, 

I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet ; 
I'd bo a butterfly born in a bower, 

Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. 

Oh! could I pilfer the wand of a fairy, 

I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings. 
Their summer-day's ramble is sportive and airy, 

They sleeii in a rose when the nightingale sings. 
Those who have -wealth must be watchful and wary. 

Power, alas! naught but misery brings; 
I'd be a butterfly, sportive and airy. 

Rocked in a rose when the nightingale sings. 

What though you tell me each gay little rover 

Shrinks from the breath of the first antuniu day; 
Surely 'tis better, when summer is over. 

To die, when .all fair things are fading away. 
Some in life's winter may toil to discover 

Means of procuring a weary delay: 
I'd bo a butterfly, living a rover, 

Dying when fair things are fading away. 



SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES. 

She wore a wreath of roses 
The night that first wo met ; 

Her lovely face was smiling 
Beneath her curls of jet. 

Her footstep had the lightness. 
Her voice the joyous tone, — 



The tokens of a youthful heart, 
Where sorrow is unknown. 

I saw her but a moment. 
Yet methinks I see her now, 

With the wreath of summer flowers 
Upon her snowy brow. 

A wreath of orange blossoms. 

When next we met, she wore ; 
The expression of her features 

Was more thoughtful than before; 
And standing by her side was one 

Who strove, and not in vain, 
To soothe her, leaving tliat dear home 

She ne'er might view again. 
I saw her but a moment, 

Yet methinks I see her now, 
With the wreath of orange blossoms 

Upon her snowj- brow. 

And once again I see that brow, 

No bridal-wreath is there ; 
The widow's sombre cap conceals 

Her once luxuriant hair. 
She weeps in silent solitude. 

And there is no one near 
To jiress her hand within his own, 

And wipe away the tear. 
I see her broken-hearted ; 

Y'et methinks I see her now, 
In the jiride of youth and beauty, 

With a garland on her brow. 



THE PREMATURE WHITE HAT. 

I met a. man in Regent Street, 

A daring man was he ; 
He had a hat upon his head 

As white as white could he ! 
'Twas but the first of March ! — away 

Three hundred yaids I ran. 
Then cast a retrospective glance 

At that misguided man. 

I thought it might bo possible 

To do so foul a deed, 
Yet not commit the murderous acts 

Of which too oft we read : 
I thought he migiit have felt distress. 

Have loved — and loved in vain — 
And wore that p.allid thing to cool 

The fever of his brain ! 



THOMAS nJTNES BATLY.—JOHX FILLET. 



503 



Perchance ho had no relative, 

Ni> coiilulential frioiul, 
To say when suninier months begin 

And those of winter end. 
Perchance ho had a wife, who was 

Unto his side a thorn, 
And wlio had basely thrust him forth 

T<> bravo dcconini's scorn. 

But no! — a smilo was on his check; 

He thon-;lit himself flic thing! 
And all nnblushingly he wore 

The yarnitnro of spring! 
'Twas evident the man could not 

Distinguish wrong from right ; 
And cheerfully ho walked along. 

Unseasonably white ! 

Then, nnperceived, I followed him ; 

Clandestinely I tried 
To ascertain in what strange spot 

So queer a man could hide : 
Where ho could pass his days and nights, 

And breakfast, dine, and sup ; 
And where the peg could l)e on which 

Ho hung that white liat up! 

lie paused at White's — the white capote 

Made all the members stare ; 
He passed the Athena'um Club, 

lie had no footing there! 
He slooil a ballot once (alas! 

There sure was pique in that) — 
Though they admit light-headed men. 

They blackballed the white hat! 

And on he went, sclf-satisBcd, 

And now and then did stop. 
And look into the looking-ghtss 

That lines eouie trinket-shop. 
And smilingly adjusted it! 

'Twas that wliiili made mo vexed — 
"If this is l)orne," said I, "he'll wear 

His nankeen trousers next!" 

The wretched being I at length 

Compassionately stopped. 
And used the most persnasive words 

Entreaty could adopt. 
I said his hat was premature ; 

I never left bis side. 
Until he swore most solemnly 

The white hat should be dvcd. 



3ol)n J"'mlcij. 

AMERICAN. 

Finley (1797-1806) was a native of Brownsbnrg, Rock- 
bridge County, Va. lie went to a country school, and 
learned " to read, write, and cipher as far us the rule of 
three." After serving an apprenticeship as a tanner and 
currier, he went West, and settled at Kiclimond, Wayne 
County, Ind., wlicre he was mayor some dozen years. 
He jiuljlished many shoit poems wliicli had a wide circu- 
lation, and gave evidence of talents, wliieh might have 
led to higher literary distinction if his early advantages 
of education had been greater. He belongs to the real- 
istic school in verse, and his poems will hardly please 
those who deny to Pope the name of poet. His " Bache- 
lor's Hall " has been widely circulated, and was long at- 
tributed to Moore, the Irish poet. 



BACHELOR'S HALL. 

Bachelor's Hall! what a quare-lookin' place it is! 

Kapo me from sieh all the days of my life! 
Sure, but I think Avhat a burnin' disgrace it is 

Niver at all to be gettiu' a wife. 

See the old bachelor, gloomy and sad enough. 

Placing las taykcttle over the fire ; 
Soon it tips over — St. Patrick ! he's mad enough 

(If ho were present) to light wid the squire. 

Then, like a hog in a mortar-bed wallowing. 
Awkward enough, see him knadiug his dough ; 

Troth! if the bread he could ate widout swallowing, 
How it would favor his palate, yon know! 

His dishcloth is missing; the pigs are devouring it ; 

In the pursuit ho has battered his shin ; 
A plate wanted washing — Grimalkin is scouring it; 

Thnuder and turf! what a pickle he's in! 

His meal being over, the table's left setting so; 

Dishes, take care of yourselves, if you can ! 
But hunger returns, — then he's fuming and fretting 
so, 

Och! let him alone for a baste of a man! 

Pots, dishes, pans, and such grasy commodities, 
Ashes, and prata-skins, kivcr the lloor ; 

His cupboard's a storehouse of comical oddities, 
Sich as had niver been neighbors before. 

Lato in the night, then, he goes to bed shivcrin', 
Niver the bit is the bed made at all ! 

He crapes, like a tarrapin, under the kiveriu' — 
Bad luck to the plcter of Bachelor's Hall I 



504 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



jl^crbcrt Knoivlcs. 



Knowk'S (1798-1817), a native of Canterbiirj', Englaml, 
and of the liumblest parentage, was left an orphan when 
a mere lad. He excited attention by his abilities, 
however, and was helped in his education by Southcy, 
Rogers, and others. The following lines, written when 
Knovvlcs was eighteen, have been justly celebrated. lie 
did not live long to avail himself of the geucrous aid of 
literary friends. 



LINES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCH-YARD OF 
RICHMOND, YORK.SHIRE. 

"Lord, it is good for ns to be liere; if Ihou wilt, let us ni.ake 
liere tlu'ee tabenmcles : one fur Ihoe, aud one for Moses, and one 
for Elias." — Matthew xvii. 4. 

Methiuks it is good to be licre ; 

If tlioii wilt, lot u.s bnikl, — but lor whom ? 

Nor Elias uor Moses appear ; 

Bnt the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom. 
The abode of the dead, and the jilace of tlie tomb. 

.Shall we build to Ambition? Ah! uo: 
Affrighted, be shrinkcth away; 

For see, they -wonld pin bim below 

111 a small narrow cave ; and, begirt with cold clay, 
To tlio meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 

To Beauty ? Ah 1 no : she forgets 
The charms that she wielded before ; 

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets 

The skin vvliich but yesterday fools could ador<', 
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it 
wore. 

Shall we build to the purple of Pride, 
The trappings which dizeu the proud ? 

Alas ! they are all laid aside ; 

And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed, 
Bnt the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the 
shroud. 

To Riches ? Alas ! 'tis in vain : 

Who bid, in their turns have been hid ; 

The treasures are squandered again ; 

And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid, 
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffm-lid. 

To (bo pleasures which Mirth can afford, 
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer ? 

Ah! here is a plentiful board, 

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, 
And none but the worm is a reveller here. 



Shall we build to Affeetiou aud Love? 
Ah! no: they have withered aud died. 

Or fled with the spirit above : 

Friends, brothers, .and sisters are laid side by side. 
Yet none liave saluted, and none have replied. 

Unto Sorrow ? The dead cannot grieve ; 

Nor a sob, nor a sigh meets miuo ear, 
Which eompa.ssion it.self could relieve : 

Ah ! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear ; 

Peace, peace, is the watchword, the only one here. 

Unto Death, to whom mouarehs must bow? 
Ah ! no : for his empire is known, 

And here there are trojihies enow; 

Bene.ath,the cold dead, and around, the darlc stone. 
Are the signs of a .sceptre that none nuiy disowu. 

The first tabernacle to Hope wo will build, 
And look for the sleepers around us to rise ; 

The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled ; 
Aud the third to the Lamb of the Great Sacriticc, 
Who bequeathed us tliom both when he rose to 
the skies. 



Solju 13anim. 



Banim (1708-1843) was a native of Kilkenny, Ireland, 
and received his education in its college. lie wrote 
" Tales of the O'llara Family " (182.5-'(j), in which he was 
assisted by his brother Michael (born 179G). As a novelist, 
John Banim's rank is among the best ; and some of his 
poems are full of pathos and vigor. He was the author 
of the five-act play of " Damon and Pythias," brouglit 
out May, 1821, at the Covent Garden Theatre, London, 
and of which Leigh Hunt says he " never saw a more 
successful reception. The interest is strongly excited 
from the first, and increases to the last." Banim ex- 
presses his acknowledgments to Shell, the gifted orator, 
for revising the play. The part of " Damon " was a favo- 
iite one both with Maeready and Forrest. The extract 
we quote has been sliglitly abridged from the original. 



SOGGARTH ARGON. 

Am I the slave they say, 

Soggarth aroou ?' 
Since you did show the way, 

Soggarth aroon. 
Their slave no more to be, 
While they would -work with me 
Ould Ireland's slavery, 

Soggarth aroon ? 

' Priest dear. 



JOnX liAXIM. 



505 



Why not licr poorest man, 

So^gnrtli aroon, 
Try ami do all he can, 

Soggarth aruDii, 
llor coiuiiiaiuls to fulfil 
Of his own heart and will, 
Shle by side with yon still, 



Loyal and brave to yon, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Yet be no slave to yon, 

Soggarth aioon, — • 
Nor, ont of fear to yon, 
Stand np so near to yon,— 
Och ! out of fear to you, 



Who, in the winter's night, 

Soggaith aroon, 
When the cold blast did bite, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Cnino to my cabin-door, 
And, on my earlhen-llnre. 
Knelt by nie, siek and poor. 



Who, on the marriage-day, 

f'oggarth aroon, 
Madi^ the poor cabin gay, 
Soggarth aroon, — 
And did both langh and sing, 
JIaking onr hearts to ring, 
At the poor christening, 



Who, as friend only met, 

Soggarth aroon. 
Never did flout me yet, 

Soggarth aroon ? 
And, when my hearth was dim, 
Gave, while his eye did brim. 
What I should give to him, 

Soggarth aroon f 

Och ! you, and only yon, 

Soggarth aroon ! 
And for this I was true to yon, 

Soggarth aroon ; 
/ii love they'll never shake, 
When, for ould Ireland's sake, 
We a true part ditl take, 

Soggarth arooii ! 



FROM "DAMON AND PYTHIAS," Act V. 

Pythias. Calantho hero! My poor, fond girl! 
Thou art the first to meet me at the block ; 
Thou'lt bo the last to leave me at the grave ! 

Calanthc: O my Tythias, ho yet may come ! 
Into the sinews of the horse that bears him 
Put swiftness, gods! — let him (uitrace ami shame 
The gaUoping of clouds upon the storm I 
Blow, breezes, with him ; lend every feeble aid 
Unto his motion! — and tlion. tlirico solid earth, 
Forget thy immutable fixedness — become 
Under his feet like flowing water, and 
Hither How with him ! 

J'l/lli. 1 have taken in 
All the horizon's vast circumference 
That, in the glory of the setting sun, 
Opens its wide expanse, yet do I see 
No signal of his coming. — Nay, 'tis likely — 
Oh no I he could not ! It is impossible ! 

C'ul. I say ho is false! he is a nnirdcrer! 
He will not come! the traitor doth prefer 
Uife, ignominious, dastard lifi'I — Thou minister 
Of light, and measurer of eternity 
In this great purpose, stay thy going down, 
(Ireat sun, behind the confines of this world! 
On yonder purple monutains make thy stand ; 
For while thine eye is opened on mankind, 
Hope will abide within thy blessi^d beams : 
Tliey dare not do the murder in tliy presence! 
Al;ia ! all heedless of my frantic cry. 
He plunges down the precipice of heaven ! 

Procles. Take a last farewell of your mistress, sir, 
And lo(dc your last upon the setting snn ; 
And do both rjuiekly, for your hour comes on. 

Pillli. Come here, Calanthc — clo.ser to mo yet! 
Ah ! what a cold transition it will be 
From this warm touch, all full of life and beauty I — 

Cal. Hush! Stand back there! 
There is a minute left: look there! Io(di there! 
But 'tis so far of}", and the evening shades 
Thicken so fast, there are no other eyes 
But mine can catch it! Y'et, 'tis tliere ! I see it! 
A shape as yet so vague and quest ionable, 
'Tis nothing, just about to change and take 
I 111' form of something! 

I'lllh. Damon, I do forgive thee! — I but ask 
Some tears unto my ashe.s. • • • IJy the gods, 
A horse and horseman ! — Far upon the hill. 
They wave their hats, and ho returns it — yet 
I know him not — his horse is at the stretch! 
Why should they shout as ho comes on f It is — 
No ! — that was too unlike — but there, now — there ! 



506 



CYCL0P2ED1A OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Lile ! I scarcely dare to wish for thee ; 

Aud yet — that jutting rock has hid him from rac. 
No ! let it not be Damon ! — he has a wife 
Aud child ! Gods, keep him hack ! 

Damon {without). Where is he? {Hushes in.) 
Ha ! he's alive, untouched ! 

Pyth. Damon, dear friend — 

Dam. I can but laugh — I cannot speak to thee! 

1 can but play the maniac, aud laugh. 
Even iu the very crisis to have come, — 

To have hit the very forehead of old Time! 

By heaveus ! had I arrived au hour before, 

I should not feel this agony of joy — 

This triumph over Dionysius! 

Ha, ha ! But thou didst doubt me ; come, thou 

didst — 
Own it, and I'll forgive thee. 

Pyth. For a moment. 

Dam. O that false slave! Pythias, he slew my 
horse, 
In the base thought to save me. I'd have killed him, 
And to a precipice ^vas dragging him. 
When, from the very brink of the abyss, 
I did behold a traveller afar. 
Bestriding a good steed. I rushed upon him : 
Choking with desperation, and yet loud, 
Iu shrieking anguish, I commanded him 
Down from his saddle : he denied me — but 
Would I then be denied ? As hungry tigers 
Clutch their poor prey, I sprang upon his throat — 
Thus, thus, I had him, Pythias ! Come, your hoj-se. 
Your horse! I cried. Ha, ha! 



Dauii) iUarbctI) iUoiv. 

Under the signature of " Delta," Moir (1798-1S51) was 
a frequent contributor to MackwoocVs Marjimne. A na- 
tive of Musselburaii, Scotland, he practised there as a 
surgeon, nuiuU beloved by all who knew him. His po- 
etical works, edited by Thomas Aird, were published iu 
1852. Moir was a successful prose writer, and bis " Au- 
tobiography of Mansie Waueh" (1838) is quite an amus- 
ing production. He published volumes of verse iu 1818, 
183i, and 1843. His " Sketches of the Poetical Literature 
of the last Half Century " appeared in 1851. 



LANGSYNE. 

Langsyne ! — how doth the word come back 

With magic meaning to the heart 
As memory roams the sunny track. 

From which hope's dreams were loath to part! 



No joy like by-past joy appears ; 

For what is gone we fret and pine : 
Were life spun out a thousand years, 

It could not match Langsyne ! 

Langsyne! — the days of childhood warm, 

When, tottering by a mother's knee. 
Each sight and sound had power to charm, 

And hope was high, aud thought was free ! 
Langsyne ! — the merry school-boy days — 

How sweetly then life's sun did shine ! 
Oh ! for the glorious prauks and plays. 

The raptui'cs of Langsyne ! 

Langsyne! — yes, iu the sound I hear 

The rustling of the summer grove ; 
And view those angel features near 

Which tirst awoke the heart to love. 
How sweet it is iu pensive mood 

At windless midnight to recline. 
And fill the mental solitude 

With spectres from Langsyne ! 

Langsyne ! — ah, where are they who shared 

With us its pleasures bright and blithe ? 
Kindly with some hath fortune fared. 

And some have bowed beneath the scythe 
Of death, — while others scattered far 

O'er foreign lands at fate repine. 
Oft wandering forth, 'neath twilight's star. 

To muse on dear Langsyne ! 

Langsyne ! — the heart can never be 

Again so full of guileless truth ; 
Langsyne ! — the eyes no mo're shall see. 

Ah no! the rainbow hopes of youth. 
Langsyne ! — with thee resides a spell 

To raise the spirit and refine : — 
Farewell ! — there can be no farewell 

To thee, loved, lost Langsyne ! 



Samuel Coocr. 

Lover (1798-1868) was a native of Dublin. His first 
occupation was that of a miuiature painter. In 1838 his 
best known novel, " Handy Andy," was commenced in 
Bentleifs MiiccUmiy. As a song-writer he won a high de- 
gree of popularity. He also produced several pieces foi' 
tlie stage, among which are " The Beau Ideal," " The 
White Horse of the Peppers," and "II Paddy Whack in 
Italy." With his short Irish sketches and liis songs he 
made up a public entertainment, which he gave with 
much success in Ireland, but with less in the United 
States. His " Life," by Bayle Bernard, appeared in 1874. 



SAMUEL LOTEIi.— THOMAS HOOD. 



507 



RORY O'MORE ; OR, GOOD OMENS. 

Young Rory O'Moio conrtod Kathleeu Bawn ; 
He was bold as the hawk, aud slio soft as the dawn ; 
Ho wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, 
And ho thought the best way to do that was to 

tease. 
" Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, 
Rcjiroof on her lip, but a .smile iu her eye; 
" AVitli your tricks, I don't know, iu tliroth, what 

I'm about ; 
Faith, you've teased till I've iiut on my cloak in- 
side out." 
"Och! jewel," says Rory, " that same is the way 
Y'ou'vo thrated my heart for this many a day; 
Aud 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to he sure f 
For 'tis all for good-luck," says bold Rory O'Morc. 

'■Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the 

like. 
For 1 half g.ave a promise to soothering Hike ; 
The ground th.at I walk on he love.s I'll be bound" — • 
"Faith!" says Rory, " I'd rather love you than the 

ground." 
" Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't ht me go: 
Sure I dream every night that I'm hating you sol" 
" Och !" says Rory," that same I'm delighted to hear. 
For dhramcs always go by conthrarics, my dear. 
Och I .jewel, keep dliraniing that same till you die, 
Aud bright morning will give dirty night the black 

lie! 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to bo sure f 
Since 'tis all for good-luck," says bold Rory O'More. 

"Arrah, Kathleen, my darliut, you've teased me 

enough ; 
Sure I've thra.shed, for your sal<c,Diuny Grimes and 

Jim Dull'; 
And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite 

a baste, 
So I think, after that, I may talk to the priiste." 
Then Kiuy, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, 
.So soft and so white, without freckle or speck; 
AtkI he looked in her eyes that were beaming with 

light, 
Aud ho kis.sed her sweet lip.s — Don't you think he 

w,as right f 
"Now, Rory, leave off, sir, — you'll hug mo no 

more, — 
That's eight times to-day you have kissed me be- 
fore." 
"Then hero goes another," says he, "to ni.ikc sure, 
For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More. 



THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. 

In Ireland ttiey have a siiperstitiou that wbeu a child Bmilcs 
iu its sleep it is talking will) angels. 

A baby was sleeping, 

Its mother was weepiug, 
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ; 

And the tempest was swelling 

Round the fisherman's dwelling ; 
And she cried, " Dermot, darling, oh come back to 
me !" 

Iler beads while she numbered. 

The baby still slumbered, 
And smiled iu her face as she bended her knee : 

" Oh, blessed be that warning, 

My child, thy sleep adorning, 
For I know that the angels are whispering with llice. 

"And while they are keeping 
Bright watch o'er thy sleei)ing, 

Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! 
And say thou wouldst rather 
They'd watch o'er thy father! 

For I know that the angels are whispering to thee." 

The dawu of the morning 

Saw Dermot returning. 
And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to sec ; 

And closely caressing 

Her child with a blessing, 
Said, " I knew that the angels were whisi)cring with 
thee." 



UlljOIlUaS tjOOLl. 



Tlootl (179S-1S4.5) was a native of London, the son of 
a bookseller. At school he picked up some Latin and 
more French. On leaving, he was planted on a counting- 
house stool, where he remained long cnougli to get ma- 
terials for tlie following sonnet: 

"Time wa?, I sat npoii a lofty stool. 
At lofty dojik, and with a clerkly pen 
Regan each morning, at the stroke of ten, 
To write in Bell & Co.'e commercial schi>oI ; 
In Warnford Court, a shady noitk and cool, 
The favoritcretreat of merchant men: 
Yet would my pen tnrn vagrant even then, 
And take stray dips iu the Castalian pool. 
Now double entry— now a flowery trope — 
Mingling poetic honey with trade wax— 
Blogg Brothers — Milton— Grote and Prescntt — Pope — 
Bristles— and Hogg— Glynn Mills and Halifax— 
Rogers and Towgood— Ucmp— the Bard of Hope- 
Barilla-Byron— Tallow— Burns — and Flax ! " 

.\fler pnf.«ine: two years with his father's relatives in 
Dundee, Hood returned to London, and was apprenticed 



508 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



to his uncle, Robert Sands, as an engraver. He made liis 
first mark as a writer by joining with his brother-in-law, 
J. H. Reynolds, in a playful volume of "Odes to Great 
People" — such as Graham, the aeronaut; Macadam, the 
improver of roads; and Kitchener, author of "The 
Cook's Oracle." In 1836 Hood jinblished his first series 
of " Whims and Oddities ;" a second series in 1837 ; and 
then a volume, " Tlie Plea of the Midsummer Fairies, 
with otlier Poems." In 183',) he commenced "The Comic 
Annual," which was continued for nine years. In 1834 
he published "Tylney Hall," a novel. It was a failure. 
Ill health compelled him to travel on the Continent to 
recruit; and on his return home he became editor of the 
Neil) MonHihj Mtiga-.ine. From this he retired in 1843, and 
in 1844 started Hood's Miir/azine. and contributed to its 
pages until within a montli before his death. His cele- 
brated "Song of the Sliirt" first appeared in I'liiu/i in 
1844. 

Hood died a poor man, leaving a widow and two chil- 
dren. His life was one of incessant brain-work, aggra- 
vated by ill health and the uncertainties and disquiets 
of aiitliorsliip. After liis death his literary friends con- 
tributed liberally to the support of his widow and fam- 
ily ; Government had already granted to Mrs. Hood a 
pension of £100. Tliere is a healthy moral tone in nearly 
all Hood's poetry, and in some of it lie shows higli im- 
aginative power. If he had not been compelled to coin 
his brain into money for immediate use, he would doubt- 
less have tried many nobler (liglits. He left a son of 
the same name, who died in 1874, not without giving 
tokens that he had inherited some of the paternal genius. 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

One more unfortunate, 

Weary of breath, 
Easlily importunate, 

Goue to lier death ! 

Take lier up tenderly, 

Lift her witli care ; 
Fashioued so slenderly. 

Young, and so f;iir ! 

Look at her garments, 
Olingiug like cerements ; 

Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing; 

Take her 1121 instantly, 
Loving, not loathing. 

ToHcli her not scornfully, 
Tliiuk of her mournfully, 

Gently and hunumly ; 
Not of the stains of her : 
All that remains of lier 

Now is pure -womanly. 



JIake uo deep scrutiny 
Into her mntiuj' 

Rash and uudutiful ; 
Past all dl.shouor, 
Death has left on her 

Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers, 

One of Eve's family ; 
Wipe those jioor lijis of hers, 

Oozing so clammily. 

Looji up her tresses 

Escaped from the comb — 
Her fair auburn tresses ; 
AVhilst wonderment guesses 

Where vsas licr home ? 

Who was her father ? 

Who was her mother? 

Had she a sister ? 

Had she a brother ? 

Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 

Yet than all other? 

Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 

Under the sun ! 
Oh, it was pitiful ! 
Near a whole city full, — • 

Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly, 

Feelings were changed ; 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God's providence 

Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 
So far in tho river. 

With many a light 
From window and casement. 
From garret to basement, 
She stood, with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of JIarch 

Made her tremble and shiver; 

But not the dark arch, 

Or the black flowing river; 



THOMAS HOOD. 



509 



Mail from life's history, 
Gliiil to (lentil's mystery 

Swift to lie hurled — 
Anywhere, any where 

Out of the world ! 

Ill she idiinged boldly, 
No matter how cohlly 

The roufj;h river ran ; 
Over the brink of it, 
Picture it, tbiuk of it, 

Dissohito man ! 
Lave in it, drink of it. 

Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly, 

Lift her with care ; 
Fashioned so slenderly, 

Yonn-j, and so lair! 
Ero her limbs frigidly 
Stiffen so rigidly, 

Decently, kindly, 
Smootbe and compose them : 
And her eyes, close them. 

Staring so blindly ! 

Dreadfully staring 

Through muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 

Fixed on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily. 

Spurred by contumely. 
Cold inhumanity, 
liurniug insanity. 

Into her rest ! 
Cross her hands hnnddy, 
As if praying dnuibly, 

Over her breast ! 
Owning her weakness. 

Her evil behavior. 
And leaving with meekness 

Her sins to her Saviour. 



THE SONG OK Tin: SHIRT. 

With lingers weary nud worn. 
With eyelids heavy and rod, 

A wom.au sat, in unwomanly rags. 
Plying her needle and thread. 
Stitch— stitch— slilrh '. 



In )>overty, hunger, and dirt ; 
And still with a voice of dolorous i)itch 
She sang the " Song of the Sliirt !" 

'• Work — work — work ! 

Willie the cock is crowing aloof! 
And work — work — work, 

Till the stars shine through the roof! 
It's O ! to be a .slave. 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has uever a soul to save, 

If this is Cbristiau work ! 

" Work — work — work, 

Till the br.iiu begins to swim ; 
Work — work — work. 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep. 

And sew them on in a dream ! 

"O men, with sl.stcrs dear! 

O men, with mothers and wives. 
It is not linen you're wearing out! 

lint human creatures' lives! 
Stitch— stitch — stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
Sowing at once, with a douldc thread, 

A shroud as well as a shirt. 

•• lint why do I talk of death f 

That phantom of grisly bone ; 
T hardly fear his terrible shape, i 

11 seems so like my own. 
It seems so like my own, 

llccaMse of the fasts I keep, 
O God ! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

" Work — work — work ! 

My lalior uever flags ; 
And what are its wages? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread, and rags. 

That shattered roof — and this naked floor- 

A table — a broken chair ; 
And ,a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falliug there ! 

" Work — work — work ! 

From weary chime to chime, 
Work — work — work, 

As prisoners work for cri tue ! 



510 



CTCLOI'JEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBICAX POETRY. 



Baud, and gusset, and seam, 
Seam, and gusset, and band. 
Till the heart is siek, and the brain benumbed, 
As well as the weary hand. 

" Work — work — work ! 

In the dull December light, 
And work — work — work. 

When the weather is warm and bright — 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling. 
As if to show me their sunny backs. 

And twit me with the spring. 

" Oh, but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — 
With the sky above luy head, 

And the grass beneath my feet ; 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel, 
Before I knew the woes of want 

And the walk that costs a meal ! 

"Oh, but for one short hour! 

A respite however brief! 
No blessed leisure for love or hope. 

But only time for grief! 
A little weeping would ease my heart, 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread!" 

With fingers weary and worn. 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch— stitch— stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — 
Would that its tone could reach the rich ! — 

She sang this "Song of the Shirt!" 



I REMEMBER. 

I remember, I remember 
The house where I was born, 
The little window where the suu 
Came peeping in at ruorn ; 
Ho never came a wink too soon, 
Nor brought too long a day ; 
But now, I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away. 



I remember, I remember 

The roses red and white, 

The violets and the lily-cups — 

Those flowers made of light ! 

The lilacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 

The laburnum on my birthday — 

The tree is living yet! 

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing. 

And thought tbe air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing: 

My spirit flew in feathers then 

That is so heavy now, 

And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow. 

I remember, I remember 

The fir-trees dark and high ; 

I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky : 

It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 

To know I'm farther off from Heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 



FAIR INES. 

Oh saw you not fair Ines? 

She's gone into the West, 

To dazzle when the sun is down. 

And rob the world of rest. 

She took our daylight with her, 

Tlie smiles that we love best. 

With morning blushes on her cheek. 

And pearls upon her breast. 

Oh, turn again, fair Ines ! 

Before the fall of night, 

For fear the moon should shine alone. 

And stars unrivalled bright. 

And blesstSd will the lover bo, 

That walks beneath their light, 

And breathes the love against thy check, 

I dare not even write! 

Would I had been, fair Ines, 
That gallant cavalier. 
Who rode so gayly by thy side 
And whispered thee so near! — 



THOMAS HOOD. 



511 



Were there no loving daincs at homo, 
Or no tnu' lovers hero, 
That he slioiild cross the seas to wiu 
The (loarcst of the dear f 

I saw thee, lovely Inos, 

Descend along the shore, 

With a hand of noble gentlemen, 

And banners waved before; 

And gentle youths and maidens gay, — 

And snowy pinnies they wore ; 

It wonid have been a beantcous dream, 

— If it had been no more ! 

Alas, alas, fair Ines ! 

She -went away with song. 

With mnsic waiting on her steps. 

And shontings of the throng. 

lint some were sad, and iVIt no niirtli, 

13nt only music's wrong, 

In sonnds that sang, Farewell, farewell, 

To her you've loved so long. 

rarewell, farewell, fair Ines, 

That vessel never bore 

So fair a, lady on its deck. 

Nor danced so light before : — 

Alas for pleasure on the sea, 

And sorrow on the shore ! 

The smile that bles.sed one lover's heart 

Has broken many more! 



FAREWELL, LIFE. 

WlilTTEN A FEW WEEKS BEFORE HOOD'S I)E.\T1I. 

Farewell, Life ! my senses swim. 
And the world is growing dim : 
Thronging sh.idows cloud the light. 
Like the advent of the night — 
Colder, colder, colder still, 
I'pward steals a vapor chill; 
.Strong the earthy odor grows — 
I smell the mould above the rose. 

Welcome, Life! the spirit strives: 
Strength returns, and hope revives; 
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn 
Fly like sliadows at the nu)ru — 
O'er the earth there comes n bloom; 
Sunny light for snllcn gloom, 
Warm ]ierfumo for vapor cold — 
I smell the rose above the mould. 



THE MONKEY-MAUTYU : A FABLE. 

'Tis strange what awkward figures and odd capers 
Folks cut who seek their doctrine from the papers; 
But there are many shallow politicians 
Who take their bias from bewildered journals — 

Turn State physicians. 
And make themselves fool's-cap of the diurnals. 

One of this kind, not human, but a monkey, 
Had read himself at last to this sour creed — 
That he was nothing but oppression's llunkey. 
And man a tyrant over all his breed. 

He could not read 
Of niggers whipped, or over-trampled weavers, 
But he applied their wrongs to his own seed, 
And nourished thoughts that threw him into fevers. 
His very dreams were full of ni.utial beavers, 
And drilling pugs, for liberty pugnacious. 

To sever chains vexations : 
lu fact, ho thought that all his injured liue 
Should take up i)ikes in hand, and never dro|) 'em 
Till they had cleared a road to Freedom's shrine — 
LTnless, perchance, the turnpike men should stop 'cm. 

Full of this rancor, 
Pacing one day St. Clement Danes, 

It came into his brains 
To give a look in at the Crown and Anchor ; 
Where certain solenni sages of the nation 
Were at that moment in deliberation 
How to relieve the wide world of its chains, 

Pluck despots down. 

And thereby crown 
Whitee as well as blackce — man— eipation. 
Pug heard the speeches with great approbation. 
And gazed with pride npon the Liberators ; 

To see mere coal-heavers 

Such perfect Bolivars — 
Waiters of inns sublimed to innovators, 
And slaters dignified as legislators — 
Small publicans demaTiding (such their high sense 
Of liberty) a universal license — 
And patten-makers easing Freedom's clogs — 

The whole thing seemed 

So fine, he deemed 
The smallest demagogues as great as Gogs! 

Pug, with some curious notions in his noddle. 
Walked out at last, and turned into the Strand, 

To the left hand. 
Conning some portion of the previous twaddle, 



512 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Aud stridiug ^vitb a step that seemed designed 
To represent the mighty Marcli of Mind, 

Instead of that slow waddle 
Of thought, to which our ancestors inclined — 
No wonder, then, that he should quickly find 
He stood in front of that intrusive pile 

Where Cross keeps many a kind 

Of bird confined, 
And free-boru animal, in durance vile — 
A thought that stirred up all the moukey-hile ! 

The window stood ajar — 

It was not far. 
Nor, like Parnassus, very hard to climb — 
The hour was verging on the snpper-time. 
And many a growl was sent through many a- bar. 
Meanwhile, Pug scrambled upward like a tar. 

And soon crept in. 

Unnoticed in the din 
Of tuneless throats that made the attics ring 
With all the harshest notes that they could bring ; 

For, like the Jews, 

Wild beasts refuse 
In midst of their captivity — to sing. 

Lord! how it made him chafe. 
Full of his new emancipating zeal. 
To look around upon tliis brute-bastile, 
Aud see the king of creatures in — a safe ! 
Tlie desert's denizen in one small den. 
Swallowing slavery's most bitter pills — 
A bear in bars unbearable! Aud then 
The fretful porcupine, with all its (piills. 

Imprisoned in a pen ! 
A tiger limited to four feet ten ; 

And still worse lot, 

A leopard to one spot. 

An elephant enlarged, 

But not discharged 

(It was before the elephant was shot) ; 
A doleful wanderow, that wandered not ; 
Au ounce much disproportioned to his pound. 

Pug's wrath waxed hot. 
To gaze upon these captive creatures round; 
Whose claws — all scratching — gave him full assur- 
ance 
They found their durance vile of vile endurance. 

He went above — a solitary mounter 

Up gloomy stairs — and saw a pensive group 

Of hapless fowls — 

Cranes, vultures, owls; 
In fact, it was a sort of pouUry-compter, 



AVhere feathered prisoners were doomed to droop : 
Here sat an eagle, forced to make a stoop. 
Not from the skies, but his impending roof; 

Aud there aloof, 
A pining ostricli, moping in a coop; 
With other samples of the bird creation, 
All caged against their powers and their wills, 
Aud cramped in such a space, the longest bills 
Were plainly bills of least accommodation. 
In truth, it was a very ugly scene 
To fall to any liberator's share. 
To see those wingi5d fowls, tliat once had been 
Free as the wind, no freer than fixed air. 

His temper little mended. 
Pug from this bird-cago walk at last descended 

Unto the lion and the elephant. 

His bosom in a pant 
To see all nature's free list thus suspended. 
And boasts deprived of what she had intended. 

They could not even prey 

In their own way ; 
A hardship always reckoned quite prodigious. 

Thus he revolved — 

Aud soon resolved 
To give them freedom, civil and religious. 

That night there were no country cousins, raw 
From Wales, to view the lion and his kin : 
Tlie keeper's eyes were fixed upon a saw — 
The saw was fixed upon a bullock's shin ; 

Meanwhile, with stealthy paw. 

Pug hastened to withdraw 
The bolt that kept the king of brutes within. 
Now, monarch of the forest ! thou shalt win 
Precious enfranchisement — thy bolts are undone ; 
Thou art no longer a degraded creature. 
But loose to roam with liberty and nature ; 
And free of all the jungles about Loudon — 
All Hauipstead's heathy desert lies before thee! 
Methiuks I see thee bound from Cros.s's ark. 
Full of tlio native instinct that comes o'er thee, 

Aud turn a ranger 
Of Hounslow Forest, and the Regent's Park — 
Tiiiu lihodcs's cows, the mail-coach steeds endanger. 
And gdl)l)le parish watchmen after dark : — 
Methiuks I see thee, with the early lark, 
Stealing to Merlin's cave — {thy cave). — Alas 
That such bright visions should not come to pass! 
Alas for freedom, and for freedom's hero! 

Alas for liberty of life and limb ! 
For Pug had only half unbolted Nero, 

When Nero halted him ! 



THOMAS HOOD. 



513 



THE LEE SHORE. 

Slept, and bnil, and thunder! 

And yo winds that rave, 
Till the sands thereunder 

Tinge the sullen wave — 

Winds that like a demon 
IIdwI with hiirrid note 

liound the toiling seaniau 
lu his tossing boat — 

rriiin his humble dwelling 
On the shingly shore, 

Where the billows swelling 
Keep such boUow roar — 

From that weeping woman, 
Seeking with her cries 

Sn('cor superhuman 

Trom the frowning skies — 

From the urchin pining 
For his father's knee — 

From the lattice shining, 
Drive him out to sea! 

Let broad Icagnes dissever 
Him from yonder foam ; — 

O God! to think man ever 
Comes too near his home ! 



TO CHARLES DICKENS, ESQ., 

ON HIS UEFAUTL'KE FOR AMEHICA. 

Pshaw ! away with leaf and berry, 

And the sober-sided cup ! 
Ihiug a goblet and bright sherry. 

And a bumper till me up ! 
Though a jilcilge I had to shiver. 

And the longest ever was! 
Ere his ve»,sel leaves onr river, 

I would drink a health to Boz! 

Here's success to all his antics. 

Since it pleases him to roam, 
And to p.idrlle o'er Atlantics, 

After such a nale at home! 
May ho shun all rocks whatever. 

And each shallow sand that lurks. 
And his pamarje be as clever 

As the best among his works. 



KUTH. 

She stood breast high amid the corn. 
Clasped by the golden light of morn, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun, 
Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an autumn flush. 
Deeply ripened: — such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born, 
Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Round her eyes her tresses fell, 
Which were blackest none ccmld tell ; 
lint long lashes veiled a light 
That had el.se been all too' bright. 

And her hat, with shady brim, 
Made her tres.sy forehead dim : — 
Thus she stood amid the stook.s, 
I'raising God with sweetest looks. 

Sure, I said. Heaven did not mean 
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come. 
Share my harvest and mv home. 



A PARENTAL ODE TO JIY SON. 

AGED TIIUEE YEAKS AND FIVE M U X T II S . 

Thou hapjiy, happy elf! 
(But stop — first let me kiss away that tear) 

Thou tiny image of my.sclf ! 
(My love, he's poking peas into his earl) 

Thou merry, laughing sprite! 

With spirits feather-light. 
Untouched by sorrow, and uusoilcd by sin, 
(Good heavens ! the child is swallowing a pin !) 

Tliou little tricksy Puck, 
With antic toys so funnily bestuck. 
Light as the singing-binl that wings the air, 
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) 

Thou darling of thy sire ! 
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) 

Thou imp of mirth and Joy ! 
In love's dear cj ain so strong ami bright a link, 
Thou idol of thy parents — \Drat the boy I 

There goes my ink !) 

Thou cherub — but of earth! 
Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight palo, 



514 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEItlCAN POETItT. 



Ill barmless sport aud luirtb, 
(The dog will bite liim if lio pulls its tail !) 

Thou huniau humming-bee, extracting honey 
From every blossom In the world that blows, 

Siugiug iu youth's Elysium ever sunny, 
(Another tumble — that's his precious nose !) 

Tby father's pride and hope ! 
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) 
With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, 
(Where tUd he learn that squint?) 

Thou young domestic dove ! 
(He'll have that jug off with auotber shove!) 

Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! 

(Are those toru clothes his best?) 

Little epitome of man ! 
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) 
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, 

(He's got a knife !) 

Thou enviable being ! 
No storms, no clouds, iu thy blue sky foreseeing, 

Play on, play on, my elfin John ! 

Toss the light ball — bestride the stick, 
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) 
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-do wu. 
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk. 

With many a lamb-like frisk, 
(He's got the scissors suipping at j-our gown!) 

Thou pretty opening rose ! 
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe j'our nose!) 
Balmy, and breathing music like the South, 
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!) 
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its stai-, 
(I wish that window had an iron bar!) 
Bold as the hawk, yet geutle as the dove, 

(I'll tell you what, my love, 
I cannot write unless he's sent above!) 



THE IMPUDENCE OF STEAM. 

Over the billows and over the brine, 
Over the water to Palestine ! 
Am I awake, or do I dream ? 
Over the ocean to Syria by steam ! 
My say is sooth, by this right hand ; 
A steamer brave 
Is on the wave, 
Bouud positively for the Holy Land ! 
Godfrey of Bulogine, and thou 

Richard, lion-hearted king. 
Candidly inform us, now. 



Did you ever? 

No, you never 
Could have fancied such a thing. 
Never such vociferations 
Entered your imaginations 
As the ensuing — 

" Ease her, stop her !" 
" Any gentleman for .Toppa ?'' 
" 'Mascus, 'Mascus ?" " Ticket, jjlease, sir !" 
" Tyre or Sidou ?" " Stop her, ease her !" 
" Jerusalem, 'lem ! 'lem !"— " Shur ! Shur !" 
" Do you go on to Egypt, sir ?" 
"Captain, is this the laud of Pharaoh?" 
■'Now look alive there! Who's for Cairo?" 
" Back her !" " Stand clear, I say, old fde !" 
" What gent or lady's for the Nile, 
Or Pyramids ?" " Thebes ! Thebes, sir !" " Steady I" 
" Now Where's that party for Engedi ?" — 
Pilgrims holy, Red Cross Knights, 

Had ye e'er the least idea, 
Even in your wildest flights, 
Of a steam trip to Judea ? 
What next marvel Time will show. 

It is difficult to say : 
" 'Buss," perchance, to Jericho ; 
" Only sixpence all the way." 
Cabs in Solyma may ply, 

— 'Tis a not unlikely tale — 
And from Dan the tourist hie 
Unto Beersbeba by " rail." 



THE DEATH-BED. 

We watched her breathing through the night. 

Her breathing soft and low. 
As iu her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently' we seemed to speak. 

So slowly moved about. 
As wo had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears. 

Our fears our hopes belied — 
Wo tlionght ber dying when she slept. 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came, dim and sad. 

And chill with early showers. 
Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 

Another morn than ours. 



JOHN MOULTRIE. 



515 



3ol)n iHoultric. 



Moultiie (1700-1874) was afsDchitcil willi Piticil, Ilen- 
IV Xflson Colciiilire, and ollicrs in tlic Kloniun and in 
Knit/Ill's Quarterly Miu/azinc. lie stndied for tliu Cliuicli, 
and became Rcctoi- of Rngliy. A complete edition of liis 
poems, with a memoir by tlic Rev. Dcrwent Coleridge, 
was published in lS7t>. Moultrie edited an edition of 
(iray's poetical works, lie was the author of "Sly 
Brother's Grave, and other Poems," published in 1S37; 
" Lays of the Ensrlish Church, 1843," etc. lie also edit- 
ed the " Poetical Remains " of his frieud, William Sidney 
Walker. 



"FORGET THEE!" 

'•Forget tlieo?" If to <hvani liy night, 

Ami mnso on tliec by day, 
If all the \vov.sliip deep ami wild 

A poet's heart can pay, 
if prayers in absence breatlieil for thee 

To Heaven's protecting power, 
If wiiigM thoughts that flit to thee,— 

A thousand in an hour, 
If busy Fancy blending theo 

With all my future lot, — 
If this thou call'st "forgetting," 

Thou, indeed, slialt bo forgot! 

"Forget thee?" Bid the forest-birds 

Forget their sweetest tune; 
" Forget thee f" Bid the sea forget 

To swell beneath the moon ( 
Hid the thirsty Howers forget to drink 

The eve's refreshing dew ; 
Thy.self forget lliine own "dear land," 

And its " nionutains wild and bine.'' 
Forget each old familiar face. 

Each loiig-romcmbered spot, — 
When these things arc forgot by thee, 

Then thou shalt bo forgot ! 

Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, 

Still calm and fancy-free, 
For God forbid thy gladsome heart 

Should grow less glad for me ; 
Yet, while that lieart is still unwon, 

Oh ! bid not mine to rove, 
But let it nurse its humble faith, 

And uncomplaining love ; — 
If these, preserved for patient years. 

At last avail me not, 
Forget nie then ; — but ne'er believe 

That thou canst be forgot ! 



HERE'.S TO THEE, MY SCOTTISH LASSIE. 

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie. 

Here's a hearty health to thee ! 
For thine eye so bright, thy form so light, 

And thy step so firm and free ; 
For all thine artless elegance. 

Ami all thy native grace. 
For the music of thy mirthful voice. 

And the sunshine of thy face ; 
For thy guileless look and speech sincere. 

Yet sweet as speech can be, 
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie, 

Here's a hearty lieallh to thee! 

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! — 

Thmigli my glow of youth is o'er. 
And I, as once I feU and dreamed. 

Must feel ami dream no more, — 
Though the world, with all its frosts and storm.s, 

Has chilled my soul at last. 
And genius, with the foodfnl looks 

Of youthful friendship, i)a.ssed, — 
Though my path is dark and lonely now 

O'er this world's dreary sea — ■ 
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie, — 

Here's a hiarly health to thee I 

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! — 

Though I know that not for me 
Is thiue eye so briglit, thy form so light, 

And thy step so linn and free ; 
Though thou, with cold and careless looks 

Wilt often jiass me by. 
Unconscious of my swelling heart. 

And of my wistful eye,^ 
Tlimigh thou wilt wed some Highland love. 

Nor waste one thought on me^ 
Here's ,a health, my Scollish la.vsic, 

Here's a hearty health to thee! 

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! 

When I meet thee in the throng 
Of merry youths and ni.'iidens 

Dancing lightsoindy along, 
I'll dream away an hour or twain. 

Still gazing on thy form. 
As it flashes through the baser crowd 

Like lightning through a storm ; 
And I perhaps shall touch thy hand, 

Anil share thy looks of glee, 
And for once, my Scottish lassie, 

Daucc a giddy dauco with thee! 



516 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AilEniCAN POETRY. 



Here's to thee, my Scottisli lassie ! — • 

I shall think of thee at eveu. 
When I see its first and fairest star 

Come smiling up through heaven : 
I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice 

In every wind that grieves, 
As it whirls from the abandoned oak 

Its withered autumn leaves; 
In the gloom of the wild forest, 

In the stillness of the sea, 
I sliall think, my Scottish lassie, 

I shall often think of thee ! 

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! — 

In my sad and lonely hours, 
The thought of thee comes over me 

Like the breath of distant flowers ; — 
Like the music that enchants mine ear, 

The sights that bless mine eye, 
Like the verdure of the meadow, 

Like the azure of the sky : — 
Like the rainbow iu the evening. 

Like the blossoms on the tree, — 
Is the thought, my Scottish lassie, — 

Is the lonely thought of thee. 

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie I — 

Though my muse must soon be dumb, — 
(For graver thoughts and duties 

Witli my graver years are come), — 
Though my soul miist burst the bonds of earth, 

And learn to soar on high. 
And to look on this ■world's follies 

With a calm and sober eye, — 
Though the merry wine must seldom flow. 

The revel eeaso for me — 
Still to thee, my Scottish lassie. 

Still I'll drink a health to thee! 

Here's a health, my Scottish lassie, 

Here's a parting health to thee ! 
May thine be still a cloudless lot, 

Though it be far from me ! 
May still thy laughing eye be bright. 

And open still tliy brow. 
Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free. 

Thy heart as light as now ! 
And whatsoe'er my after fate. 

My dearest toast shall be, — 
Still a health, my Scottish lassie. 

Still a hearty health to thee !' 

* Moultrie was one of the rinst srvrtcefiil nnd medihitive of 
England's minoi' poets; but he was uotof the "modern school." 



Uobcrt \M[q\\. 



PoUok (1799-1837) was a native olEaglesham, Scotland. 
He studied at the Glasgow University, and was five years 
in the divinity hall under Dr. Dick. His application to 
study bronifht on a pulmonary disease, and shortly after 
be began to preach (1837) he had to seek a milder air in 
the South of'Englaud. It elTected no improvement. The 
"Course of Time," his principal poem, had a prodigious 
success, passing through a vast number of editions both 
in Great Britain and America. It is a strange mixture 
of prosaic utterances with brief bursts of poetic fervor: 
a long disquisition in verse, extending to ten books. 
Johu Wilson said of it : " Though not a poem, it over- 
flows with poetry." The praise is overstrained. The 
oases in this desert of words are few and fur between. 
At times we see in the style the iuflueuce of Milton, 
Blair, and Young. It bears all the marks of mental im- 
maturity, and, as Chambers says, "is often harsh, turgid, 
and vehement, and deformed by a gloomy piety, which 
repels the reader, in spite of many fine passages." The 
same year witnessed PoUok's advent as a preacher, and 
his untimely death. 



INVOCATION: OPENING OF BOOK L 

From "The Course of Time." 

Eternal Spirit ! God of truth ! to whom 
All thiugs seem as they are ; Thou who of old 
The prophet's eye unsealed, that nightly saw, 
While heavy sleep fell down on other men. 
In holy vision tranced, the future pass 
Before him, aud to Judah's harp attuned 
Burdens which made the pagan mountains shake 
And Ziou's cedars bow — inspire my song ; 
My eye unscale ; me what is substance teach. 
And shadow what, while I of thiugs to come. 
As past, rehearsing, sing the Course of Time, 
The second Birth, and final Doom of man. 

The muse, that soft and sickly wooes the ear 
Of love, or chanting loud in windy rhyme 
Of fabled hero, raves through gaudy tale 
Not overfraught with sense, I ask not ; such 
A strain liofits not argument so high. 
Me thought, aud phrase, severely sifting out 
The whole idea, grant — uttering as 'tis 
The essential truth : Time gone, the righteous saved. 
The wicked damned, and Provideuco approved. 



PRIDE THE CAUSE OF SIN. 
From " The Course of Time," Book II. 

Pride, self-adoring pride, was primal cause 
Of all sin past, all pain, all woe to come. 

Uueonquerahle iiride I first, eldest sin ; 



ROBERT I'OLLOK.— GEORGE WASmXClTOX POJXE. 



.'>17 



Great fomitaiii-lieail of evil ; highest source 

Wheuco llowcd rebcUiou 'gainst tlic Oniiiipotciit, 

Wlieuco hate of man to man, ami all olso ill. 

I'riilo nt the bottom of the hiimau heart 

Lay, ami gave root ami nourishment to all 

That grew above. Great ancestor of vice ! 

Hate, unbelief, and blasphemy of God ; 

Envy and slander ; malice and revenge ; 

And ninnler, and deceit, and every birth 

Of dammed sort, was progeny of pride. 

It was the ever-moving, actiug force, 

The constant aim, anil the most thirsty wish 

Of every sinner unrenewed, to bo 

.\ god : — in purple or in rags, to have 

Himself adored : whatever shape or form 

His actions took : whatever phrase ho threw 

About his thoughts, or mantle o'er his life, 

To bo the highest, was the inward cause 

Of all — the purpose of the heart to be 

."^et up, admired, obeyed. I5ut who would bow 

The knee to one who served and was dependent? 

Hence man's perpetual struggle, night and day, 

To prove he was his own proprietor, 

And independent of his God, that what 

111' had might be esteemed his own, and praised 

-Vs such. He labored still, and tried to stand 

Alone, unpropped — to be obliged to none; 

And in tlie madness of bis pride he bade 

His God farewell, and turned away to bo 

A god himself; resolving to rely. 

Whatever came, upon his own right hand. 



TRUE HAPPI\E.SS. 
From "The Cuiiuse or Time," Book V. 

True happiness had no localities, 

Xo tones provincial, no peculiar garb. 

Where duty went, she went ; with justice went ; 

And went with meekness, charity, and love. 

\\'here'er a tear wa.s dried : a wounded heart 

Hiinnd up ; a brnis6l spirit with the dew 

Of sympathy anointed; or a pang 

Of honest suffering soothed; or injury 

Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven ; — 

WhireVr an evil pa.ssioii was subdui>d, 

Or Virtue's feeble embers fanned : where'er 

A sin was heartily abjured, and left; 

Where'er a jiious act was done, or breathed 

A jiious prayer, or wished a pious wish — 

There w.is a high and hrdy place, a spot 

Of sacred light, a most religious fane, 

Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled. 



HOLY LOVE. 

KnOM " The Coi'bse of Time." Book V. 

Hail, holy love I thou word that sums all bliss! 
Gives and receives all bli.ss ; fullest when most 
Thou givest. Spring-head of all felicity! 
Deepest when most is drawn. Emblem of God ! 
O'erllowing nmst when greatest numbers drink. 
Esseuce that binds the uncreated Three ; 
Chain that nnites creation to its Lord ; 
Centre to which all being gravitates. 
Eternal, ever-growing, happy love ! 
Enduring all, hoping, forgiving all ; 
Instead of law, fnllilling every law; 
Entirely blessed, because it seeks no more; 
Hopes not, nor feara ; but on the jircsent lives. 
And holds perfection smiling in its arms. 
Mysterious, infinite, exliaustless love ! 
On earth mystcrion.s, and mysterious still 
In heaven ; sweet chord, that harmouizes all 
Tlie harps of Paradise ; the spring, the well 
That tills the bowl, and banquet of the sky. 



A MOONLIGHT EVEXIXG. 
From '' The Cocrse of Time," Book V. 

It was an eve of autumn's holiest mood; 

The cornfields, bathed in Cyuthi.a's silver light. 

Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand : 

And all the winds slept soundly : nature seemed. 

In silent contemplation, to adore 

Its Maker: now and then the ag(?d leaf 

Fell from its fellows, rustling to the ground : 

And, as it fell, bade man think on his end. 

On vale and lake, on wood and mount.Tin high, 

With pensive wing outspread, sat heavenly Thought, 

Conversing with itself; Vesper looked forth 

From out her western hermitage, and smiled : 

And np the east, unclouded, rode the moon 

With all her star.s, gazing ou earth intense. 

As if she saw some wonder walking there. 



(Pcoigc lUasljiiuntou Doaiic. 

AMERICAN 

Born in Trenton, X. J., in 170!t, Doane studied for tlie 
EpiBcopiil Cliurcb, aud was consecrated bisliop of the 
diocese of his native State in 1832. He palilishcd a col- 
lection of poetical pieces in 1824, and wus the author of 
various theological treatises. lie died April 37, 1859. 



518 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



WHAT IS THAT, HOTHEK ? 
What is tbat, mother ? — 

The Lark, my chiUl, — 
The morn has but jnst looked out, ami smileil, 
Wlien he starts from his humble, grassy nest. 
And is up and away, with the dew on his breast. 
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere, 
To warble it out in his Maker's ear. 
Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays 
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. 

What is that, mother ? — 

Tlie Dove, my sou, — 
And that low, sweet voice, like the widow's moan. 
Is flowing out from her gentle breast, 
Constaut and pure, by that lonely nest, 
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn, 
For the distant dear one's quick retnru. 
Ever, my son, bo thou like the dove, — 
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love. 

What is that, mother ? — 

The Eagle, boy. 
Proudly careering his course of joy. 
Firm, in bis own mountain vigor relying, 
Breasting the dark storm, the red holt defying; 
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, 
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. 
Boy, may the eagle'.s flight ever he thine. 
Onward and upward, true to the line. 

What is that, mother? — 

The Sw.au, my love, — 
He is floating down from his native grove, 
No loved one now, no nestling nigh ; 
He is floating down by himself to die. 
Death darkens his eye, it uuplumes his wings. 
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings. 
Live so, my love, that when deatli shall come. 
Swan-like and sweet it may waft thee home. 



!2llanc vllcianbcr lUatts. 

Walts (1799-18G4) was a native of London. He l)c- 
c.ime connected with the periodical press, and was also 
among the first editors of those ilUistr.itcd " Annuals," 
once so fivshionablc, in which poems, essays, and stories 



by tlie popular writers of the clay were published. His 
"Lyrics of the Heart, with otlier Poems," .appeared in 
1851. He also conducted, at different periods. The Vnited 
Service Gazelle, The Slaudanl, and other newspapers. 



A REMONSTRANCE. 

ADDRESSED TO A FKIEND WHO COMPLAINED OF BEING 
ALONE IN THE WORLD. 

Oil ! say not thou art all alone 

T^pou this wide, cold-hearted earth ; 
Sigh not o'er joys forever flown, 

The vacant chair, — the silent hearth : 
Why should the world's unholy mirth 

Upon thy quiet dreams intrude. 
To scare those shapes of heaveidy birth 

That people oft thy solitude! 

Though many a fervent hope of youth 

Hath passed, and scarcely left a trace ; — 
Though carth-boru love, its tears and truth. 

No longer in th.y heart have place : 
Nor time nor grief can e'er efface 

The brighter hopes that now are thine, — 
The fadeless love, — all-pitying grace, 

Tliat makes thy darkest hours divine! 

Not all alone — for thou canst hold 

Communion sweet with saint and s.age, 
Aud gather gems, of price nutold. 

From many a pure, nntravelled page: — 
Youth's dreams, the golden light of age. 

The poet's lore — are still thine own: 
Then while such themes thy thoughts engage, 

Oh, how canst thou be all alone! 

Not .all alone : the lark's rich note. 

As nujunting up to he.aveu she sings; 
The thousand silvery sounds that float 

Above — below — on morning's wings : 
The softer murmurs twilight brings, — 

The cricket's chirp, cicala's glee : — 
All earth — that lyre of myriad strings — 

Is jubilant with life for thee! 

Not .all alone: the whispering trees. 

The rippling brook, the starry sky, — 
Have each peculiar harmonies, 

To soothe, subdue, and sanctify: 
The low, sweet breath of evening's sigh, 

For thee hath oft a friendly tone. 
To lift thy grateful thoughts on high,— 

To say, thou art not all alone ! 



ALARIC ALEXANDER WATTS.— JOHN ABRAHAM HERAUD. 



519 



Xot all alone : a watclifiil i\v«, 

Tliat notes tbo wandeiin}; sparrow's fall ; 
A saving lianil is ever niijli, 

A ;;racions Power atteiiils thy call : 
Wlieu sadness holds thy heart in thrall, 

Is oft His tenderest mercy shown ; 
Seek then the balm vouchsafed to all. 

And thou canst never bo alonk. 



FOREVKK THINE. 

Forever thine, whate'er this heart betide : 
Forever mine, where'er onr lot bo cast ; 

Fate, that may rob ns of all wealth beside, 
Shall leave us love — till life itself be i)ast. 

The world may wrong ns, wo will brave its hate ; 
Fal.se friends may change, and falser hopes de- 
cline ; 
Thongli bowed by cankering cares, we'll sniilci at 
Fate, 
Since thou art mine, beloved, and I am tliiml 

Forever thine, when circling years have spread 
Time's snowy blo.ssoms o'er thy placid brow ; 

When youth's rich glow, its " purple light," is fled, 
And lilies bloom where roses llonrisli now; — 

Say, shall 1 love the fading beauty less 

Who.se spring -tide radiance has been wlmlly 
mine f — 

No, — come what will, thy steadfast truth I'll ble.ss. 
In youth, iu age — thine own, forever thine! 

Forever thine, at evening's dewy hour. 

When gentle hearts to tenderest thoughts incline: 

When balmiest odors from each closing llower 
Are breathing round me, — thine, forever thine! 

Forever thine! 'mid Fashion's heartless throng; 

In courtly bowers; at Folly's gilded sliriue; — 
Smiles <m my cheek, light words n|>(>n my tongue, 

>Iy deep heart still is thine, — forever thine! 

Forever thine, amid the boisterous crowd. 

Where the jest sparkles, with the sparkling wine; 

I may not name thy gentle name aloiul. 

But cliink to thee iu thought, — forever thine! 

I would not, sweet, profane that silvery sound, — 
The depths of love could sucli rude hearts divine T 



Let the loud laughter peal, the toast go round, 
Jly tlionghts, my thoughts arc thine, — forever 
thine ! 

Forever thine, whate'er this heart betide; 

Forever mine, where'er onr lot be cast ; 
Fate, that may rob us of all wealth beside, 

Shall leave us love, — till life itself be past! 



iJoljii nbraljam ticraaLi. 

An English poet and miscellaneous writer (born 1799), 
Hcraud has been a diligent, if not a successful, cultivator 
of the poetic art. He has written tragedies, lyrics, and 
nnrrativc poems : " The Legend of St. Loy " (1821) ; " The 
Descent into Hell, and other Poems" (1830); "Judgment 
of tlic Flood: a Poem" (1834); "TIjc War of Ideas" 
(1871). It was his fortune to be snubbed by the ciilies, 
and not always unjustly. On his asking Douglas Jcnold 
wliclbcr he bad ever seen his " Descent into Hell," the 
reply was, "No, but I would like to sec it." Hcraud 
was a man of genius, though his writings show much 
misplaced power and abortive striving. Cbanibcrs says 
of him, that "he was in poetry whiil Martin was in art, 
a worshipper of the vast, the remote, and the terrible." 
His "Descent" and "Judgment" are chiefly remarkable 
as psychological curiosities. 



THE EMIGRANT'S HOME. 

Prepare theo, .sonl, to quit this spot. 
Where life is sorrow, doubt, and pain : 

There is a laud where these are not, 
,\ laud where Peace and Plinty reign. 

Ami. after all, is Earth thy home T 

Thy place of exile, rather, where 
Tluui wert conveyed, ere tlnuight could come. 

To uiake thy young renienibrance clear. 

Oh ! there iu thee are traces still, 
Which of that other country tell — 

That angel-land where came no ill, 

Willie thou art destined yet to dwell. 

Yon aznro depth thou yet shalt sail. 
And, l.ark-like, sing at heaven's gale ; 

The bark that shall through air prevail, 
Even now thy pleasure doth await. 

The Ship of .Souls w ill thrid the space 

'Twixt earth and heaven with sudilcn flight ; 

Dread not- the darkness to embrace. 
That leads thee to the Land of Light ! 



520 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Ulilliam Kcnncbii. 



Kennedy (1799-1849) was a niitive of Paisley, Scotland. 
Before he was tweuty-flve years old he wrote " My Early 
Days," a pathetic little story, which had great success, 
and was repuhlished in Boston. In 1837 appeared his 
volume of poems, under the title of "Fitful Fancies;" 
in 1830, "The Arrow and the Rose, and other Poems." 
He was the literary associate of Motherwell in conduct- 
ing the Pdiskij ilcujazine. Removing to London, he en- 
gaged in some literary enterprises with Leitch Ritchie. 
He accompanied the Earl of Dalhousie to Canada as his 
private secretary, and was appointed consul at Galves- 
ton, Texas, where ho resided several years. In 1841 he 
published in two volumes, in London, the "Rise, Prog 
ress, and Prospects of the Republic of Texas." He re- 
turned to England in 1847, retired on a pension, and 
took up his residence near London, where he died, short- 
ly after a visit to his native Scotland. 



LINES 

WRITTEN AFTER A VISIT TO THE GRAVE OF MY FRIEND, 
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, NOVEMBER, 1847. 

Place we a stone at bis head and his feet ; 
Sprinkle his sward with tlie small flowers sweet ; 
Piously halloAv the poet's retreat : — 

Ever approvingly, 

Ever most lovingly, 
Turned ho to nature, a worshipper meet. 

Harm not the thorn which grows at his head ; 
Odorous lienors its blossoms will shed. 
Grateful to him, early summoned, who sped 

Hence, not unwillingly — 

For he felt thrillingly— 
To rest his poor head 'mong the low-lying dead. 

Dearer to hiui than the deep minster-bell. 
Winds of sad cadence, at midnight, will swell, 
Vocal with sorrows he knoweth too well, 

Who, for the early day, 

Plaining this roundelay, 
Might his own fate from a brother's foretell. 

Worldly ones treading this teiTace of graves. 
Grudge not the minstrel the little he craves, 
When o'er the snow-mound the winter-blast raves, — 

Tears — which devotedly, 

Though all nnnotodly. 
Flow from their spring in the sonl's silent caves. 

Dreamers of noble thoughts, raise him a shrine. 
Graced with the beauty which lives in his line ; 



Strew with pale flowerets, when pensive moons 
shine, 

His grassy covering, 

Where spirits, hovering, 
Chant for his requiem music diviue. 

Not as a record he lacUeth a stone ! 

Pay a light debt to the singer we've known — 

Proof that our love for his name hath not flown 

With the frame perishing — 

That we are cherishing 
Feelings .ikin to the lost poet's own. 



A THOUGHT. 

Oh that I were the great soul of a world ! 

A glory in space ! 
By the glad hand of Omnipotence hurled 

Snblinic on its race I 
Reflecting the marvellous beauty of heaven, 

Encircled with jo.y ; 
To endure when the orlis shall was dim that are 
given 

Old Time to destroy! 

Oh that I were this magnificent spirit! 

Embodied to prove 
The measureless bliss they were sure to inherit, 

Who lived in my love: 
With elements infinite fitted for taking 

All forms of my will, — 
To give me forever the rapture of making 

More happiness still ! 



Hobcvt (Comfort Sanbs. 

AMERICAN. 

Sands (1799-1833) was a native of the city of New 
York, and a graduate of Columbia College, of the class 
of 181.5. One of his college companions, two years his 
senior, was James Wallis Eastburn, who was also a poet, 
and wrote, in conjunction with Sands, the jjoem of " Ya- 
moyden," founded on the history of Philip, the Pequod 
chieftain. Eastburn took orders in the Episcopal Church, 
and died in 1819, in his twenty-second year. The best 
part of "Yamoyden" is the "Proem," written by Sands, 
and containing some graceful and pathetic stanzas in ref- 
erence to Eastburn, one of which we subjoin : 

" Gn forth, sad fi\a;;meuts of a broken strain. 
The l.'ist tliiit either bard shall e'er essay ! 
The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again, 
That first awoke them in a happier day : 



liOBEltT COMFORT SANDS. 



521 



Where sweeps the ocenii breeze its desert wny, 
llis requiem murmurs o'er the nionDii)^ wnve; 
Aod he who feebly now proloiip* tl»e Iny, 
Shnll ne'er the minstrel's hnllowcd honors crave : 
llis harp lies' buried deep iu that unlitnely grave !" 

Sands was a lawyer, tint the attractions of literature 
drew him away from liis prolussion, and he became an 
associate editor of the Comniercial Adialiscr. He vent- 
ured on several literary projects, edited magazines, and 
wrote a " Life of Jolin Paul Jones." lie did not live 
to fullil tlie promise which his early compositions gave. 
He died unmarried, haviiip; always lived at home in liis 
father's house. llis " Writings In Prose and Verse, with 
a Memoir of tlic Author," in two volumes, were pub- 
lished by the Jlessi-s. Harper in 1831. 



THE DEAD OF 1832. 

O Time and Deatli ! witli certain pace, 
Though still iineiiual, Iiiirrying on, 

O'crtnrniiig in your anfnl race 

The cot, tho palace, anil the tliionp, — 

Not always in the .storm of war, 
Xor by tho pestilence that sweeps 

From tho plague-smitten realtus afar 
Beyond the old and soleinu deeps, 

In crowds tho good and mighty go, 
And to flio.so vn.st dim chambers hie. 

Where, mingled with tho vile aiul low, 
Dead Cicsars and dead Sliakspcares lie! — 

Dread Ministers of God ! sometimes 
Ye smite at once, to do His will, — 

Iu all earth's ocean-severed climes, — 
Those — whose renown ye cannot kill ! 

When all tho brightest stars that burn 
At once are banished from their spheres, 

Men .sadly a.sk. When shall return 
Such lustre to the coming years f 

For where is be' — who lived so long — 
Who raised tho modern Titan's ghost, 

Atid showed his fate, iu powerful song, 
Who.se soul for learning's sake was lost ' 

Where he — who backward to the birth 
Of Time it.self adveuturons trod, 

And ill the mingled mass of earth. 
Found out the handiwork of God V 



' Goethe and bis "Fnust." 



' Cnvier. 



Where he — who in the mortal head' 

Ordained to gaze on heaven, could trace 

The soul's vast features, that shall tread 
The star.s, when earth is nothingness f 

Where he— who struck old Albyn's lyre,' 
Till round the world its echoes roll. 

And swept, with all a prophet's lire, 
The diapason of tho soul f 

Where ho — who read the mystic lore,' 
Uiiried, where buried I'haroahs sleep, 

And dared presumptuous to explore 

Secrets four thousand years could keep f 

Where he — who with a poet's eye,' 
Of truth, on h)\vly nature gazed. 

And made even sordid Poverty 

Classic, when iu his numlicrs glazed ? 

Where — that old .sage, so hale and staid,' 
The "greate.st good" who sought to linil ; 

Who in his garden mused, and niaile 
All fiirms of rule, for all mankind ? 

.\nd thou — whom millions far removed" 
Revered — the hierarch meek and wise ; 

Thy ashes sleep, — adored, beloved ! — 
Near where thy Wesley's coQin lies! 

He too, the heir of glory — where 
Hath great Napoleon's scion fled ? 

Ah! glory goes not to an heir! 
Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead! 

But hark ! a nation sighs ! for he,' 
Last of the brave, who perilled all 

To make an infant empire free, 
Obeys the inevitable call I 

They go — and with them is a crowd. 

For human rights who tliought and did I 
Wo rear to them no temples proud, 

Each hath his mental iiyraniid. 

All earth is now their sepulchre. 

The Mixi), their monument sublime — 
Young in eternal Fame they are — 

Such are your triumphs, Death and Time ! 



' Spnrzhcim. 
' rhnmiwIlioD. 
* Jeremy Benthnm. 
' Charles Carroll. 



» Scott. 

* Crnbbc. 

• Adam CInrkc. 



522 



CYCLOFJLDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



lUilliam U. (D. Pcabobij anb (Dlincr 
111. S. IJcabo^ij. 

AMERICANS, 

William Boui-ne Oliver Pe:ibody (17a9-1847) aiul Olivei- 
■William Bourne Peabociy (1709-1848) were twin brothers, 
natives of Exeter, N. H., and sons of Judge Oliver Pea- 
body. Tliey entered Harvard College together at the 
early age of thirteen, and graduated in 1817. Both were 
men of fine intellectual endowments, gentle and afl'cc- 
tionate, keenly sensitive to all that is beautiful and good 
in nature and in art. Both brothers studied divinity, and 
became clergymen. 'William was settled over the Unita- 
rian Church in Siiriiigfield, Mass., in 1820, and continued 
in his pastorate till liis death. Oliver w-is settled, in 
1845, over the Unitarian Church in Burlington, Vt. Botli 
brothers wrote poetry, very similar in style; and both 
were so indifl'erent to fame that neither made a collection 
of his writings. A selection from the sermons and poems 
of William was published in 1849. The noble "Hymn 
to the Stars " (see page .544) is believed to have been 
from the pen of O. W. B. Peabody, but is not in his .MS. 
collection. 

The poetical faculty is not uufreqnently inherited, and 
this was notably so in the case of Colonel Everett Pea- 
body (1830-18(13), son of 'William, and who wrote the fol- 
lowing spirited song, which was sung at a supper given 
in 1853 by the Boston Independent Cadets : 

*''We have met again to-night ; we're hand in hand once more, 
A century behind u?, eternity before; 

Then let the wine-cup circle round ; like the cavaliers of old, 
III the revel we'll be joyous, iu the hoar of battle bold. 
Fill the Clip, t)rimming up; Iiy its light divine. 
We swear he is no true Cadet who shuns the sparkling wine. 

"For the wine-cup and the sword are married since the day 
When King Arthur spread the festive hoard, and led the bat- 
tle fray. 
And shall we part what Heaven hath joined ? No ! thunders 

forth with might 
The gh<ist that you have summnncd up, one of his kijghts— 
to-night. 
Fill the cup, brimming up, etc. 

".\ud if the armies of the foe invade our native land. 
Or rank disniiicm gathers up its lawless, faithless band. 
Then the arm upon our ancient shield shall wield his Ijlade 

of miglit, 
And we'll show our worthy brethren that gentlemen can light. 
Fill the cup, brimming up, etc." 

The result showed that Colonel Everett Peabody was 
no mere hero on paper. The last stanza is prophetic of 
his own high daring and honorable death. He was acting 
Brigadier-general iu the battle of Shiloli,ncar Pittsburgh 
Landing, iu which the Twenty-fifth Missouri regiment 
took part, in 186'3. If it bad not been for his vigilance in 
sending out a sconting-party, the whole of tlie brigade 
under his command would have been captured by the 
Confederate army. While waving his sword, and bravely 
rallying his men in the action that ensued, a Minie-ball 
struck him in the upper lip, passed tlirough his head, 
and killed him instantly. There was no officer more be- 
loved by his men, or whose loss was more deplored. 



THE AUTUMN EVENING. 

W. B. 0. rE,VBODT. 

Bebolil the Western evening ligbt ! 

It melts iu deepeuing gloom : 
So calmly Christians sink iiway, 

Descending to the tomb. 

The winds breathe low ; the withering leaf 
Scarce whispers from the tree : 

So gently flows the parting breath, 
When good men cease to be. 

How beautiful on all the hills, 

The criinsou light is shed ! 
'Tis like the peace the dying gives 

To mourners rotiud his bed. 

How mildly on the wandering cloud 

The sunset beam is cast '. 
'Tis like the memory left behind 

When loved ones breathe their last. 

And now, above the dews of night, 

The yellow .star appears ; 
So faith springs in the hearts of those 

Whose eyes are dim with tears. 

But soon the morning's liappier light 

Its glories shall restore ; 
And eyelids that arc sealed in death 

Shall wake to close no more. 



THE ALARM. 

W. B. 0. Peabody. 

Look there! the beacon's crimson light 

Is blazing wide and far! 
And sparkles in its towering height 

The rocket's signal star! 
Rise 1 rise ! the cannon rolls at last 

Its deep and stern reply ; 
And heavier sleep is coming fast 

Than seals the living eye. 

And now the warning trumpet peals! 

The battle's on the way ; 
The bravest heart that moment feels 

The thrilling of dismay. 
Around the loved, in shrinking fear, 

Love's straining arms are cast; 



i 



WILLIAM IS. O. PEABODY ASl) OLIVKll W. li. PEABODT. 



52:! 



The heart is in that siu^Ie tear, 
That parting is tho last. 

A thonsand windows flash with fires 

To light them tlirongh the gloom, 
Before the taper's liauie expires, 

To glory or the toml). 
Far down tlie hollow street reljounds 

The charger's rattling heel ; 
And ringing o'er tho pavement sounds 

The cannon's crushing wheel. 

Then answers to tho echoing drum 

The bugle's stormy blast ; 
With crowded ranks the warriors come, 

And bands are gathering fast ; 
Red on their arms tho torch-light gleams. 

As on their footsteps spring, 
To perish ere tho morning beams — 

For death is on tho wing. 

The courier, in his arrowy flight. 

Gives out the battle-cry! 
And now march on with stern delight — 

To fall is not to die .' 
Already many a gallant name 

Your country's story beare : 
Go! rival all your fathers' fame. 

Or earn a death like theirs. 



N.\TrRE AND X.VTURE'S GOD. 

ADDnESSED TO A LITTLE <:li:i, OF NINE YEAHS. 
W, It. O. PEAIIODr. 

Louisa, did you never tr.ico 
Tho smilo on Nature's glorious face. 
That seems to breathe from every part 
The deep expression of a heart f 
I know you have ; — in every flower 
You feel a presence and a power : 
To yon the blue and silent sky 
Has meaning, like an earnest eye; 
And all the warm ami living glow 
Where foliage heaves, and waters flow. 
Inspires in every changing tone 
Some feelings answering to your own. 

Rut till me whence that smile can be? 
The earth says, " It is not in me;'' 
"'Tis not ill me,'' tho deep replies; 
Tho same voice answers from the iikics. 



The smile divine that nature wears 
Comes from some higher source than theirs: 
For such expression never springs 
From lifeless and unuieaniug thiugs ; 
They have iio influence to impart, 
They have no power to touch the Iieart ; 
And all the brightness round them tlirown 
Is beautiful, but not their own. 

Then there ranst bo a living soul 
That quickens and iuforms the whole ; 
There is! in Nature ever shino 
The kindlings of that Soul Divine. 
And thus the rich and dreamy haze. 
That sweetly veils the autumn days. 
The scarlet leaves that, glancing round. 
With rainbow fragments strew the ground, 
Tlie clear transparency of noon. 
The bright and thoughtful harvest-moon, 
And all around us and abovi^, 
Reflect a Father's smile of love. 

I know that your young heart discerns 

What man's hard spirit coldly learns — 

The truth which throws tho brilliaut ray 

Of joy upon tho earthly way ; 

You have a Father, — kind and true, 

And full of sympathy for yon ; 

And, though with warm ati'ection blessed. 

Remember that he loves you best ; 

Oh turn, then, to that Friend above. 

Resolve to answer love with love; 

And ever act the filial part 

With faithful and coiiliding heart. 



VISIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 
O. \\. B. Peabodt. 

Yes, visions of Lis future rest 

To man, the pilgrim, hero are shown ; 

Deep love, pure friendship, thrill his breast, 
And hopes rush in of joys unknown. 

Released from earth's dull round of cares, 
Till' aspiring soul her vigor tries; 

rinnies her soiled pinions, and prepares 
To soar amid ethereal skies. 

Around us float in changing light 
The dazzling forms of distant years, 

And earlli becomes a glorious sight, 
Beyoud which opcuiiig heaven appears. 



524 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



TO A DEPARTED FRIEND. 

0. V,'. B. Teabodt. 

Too lovely aud too early lost! 

My memory clings to thee ; 
For thou wast ouee my giiidiug-star 

Amid the treacherous sea ; — 
But doubly cold aud cheerless now, 

The wave too dark before, 
Sluce every beacon-light is quenched 

Along the midnight shore. 

I saw thee first, when hope arose 

On youth's triumphant wing, 
Aud thou wast lovelier than the light 

Of early dawning spring. 
Who then could dream that health aud joy 

Would e'er desert the brow. 
So bright with varying lustre once, — 

So rliill and changeless now? 

That brow ! how proudly o'er it then 

Tliy kingly beauty huug. 
When wit, or eloqueucc, or mirth. 

Came buruing from the tongue ; 
Or when upon that glowing cheek 

The kindling smile was spread, 
Or tears, to thine own woes denied, 

For others' griefs were shed ! 

Thy mind ! it ever was the home 

Of high aud holy thought ; 
Thy life, an emblem of the truths 

Thy pure example taught ; 
When blended in thine eye of light, 

As from a royal throne, 
Kindness, and peace, and virtue there 

In mingled radiance shone. 

One evening, when the autumu dew 

Upon the hills was shed. 
And Hesperus far down the west 

His starry host had led, 
Thou said'st how sadly and how oft 

To that prophetic eye. 
Visions of darkness and decline, 

And early death were nigh. 

It was a voice from other worlds. 
Which none beside might hear ; — 

Like the night breeze's plaintive lyre. 
Breathed faintly ou the ear ; 



It was the warning kindly given, 

When blessed spirits come. 
From their bright paradise above, 

To call a sister home. 

How sadly ou my spirit then. 

That fatal warning fell! 
But oh! the dark reality 

Auother voice may tell ; 
The quick decline, — the parting sigh, — ■ 

The slowly moving bier, — 
The lifted sod, — tlie sculptured stone, — 

The unavailing tear ! — 

The amaranth flowers that bloom in heaven, 

Entwine thy temples now ; 
The crown that shines immortally. 

Is beaming ou thy brow ; 
The .seraphs round the burning throne 

Have borne tliee to thy rest. 
To dwell among the saints on high. 

Companion of the blessed. 

Tbe sun hath set in folded clouds,— 

Its twilight rays are gone ; 
And, gathered in tbe shades of night. 

The storm is rolling ou. 
Alas ! how ill that bursting storm 

The fainting spirit braves, 
When tbey, — the lovely and the lost, — 

Are gone to earlj* graves ! 



THE DISEMBODIED SPIRIT. 

O. W. B. Teabodt. 

O sacred star of evening, tell 

In what unseen, celestial sphere. 
Those spirits of the perfect dwell. 

Too pure to' rest in sadness here. 

Roam they the crystal spheres of light, 

O'er iiaths by holy angels trod. 
Their robes with heavenly lustre bright, 

Their home, the Paradise of God? 

Soul of tlic just ! and canst thou soar 
Amid those radiant spheres sublime. 

Where countless hosts of heaven adore. 
Beyond the bounds of space or time ? 

And canst thou join the sacred choir, 

Throufrh heaven's hi"h dome the song to raise, 



WILLI MI U. 0. rEAIiODY ASl) OLirER (('. li. PEABODT.—GRESriLLIC MELLEX. 525 



Where seraphs strike the goldeu lyre 
III cver-during notes of praise f 

Oh, who woulJ heed tlie cliilliiig blast 
That blows o'er time's eveiitlul sea, 

If bid to hail, its peril past. 
The bright wave of eternity! 

And who the sorrows would not bear 
Of such a transient world as this. 

When Hope displays, beyond its care. 
So briiiht an entrance into bliss! 



IIYMX OF NATURE. 



W. B. 0. Peabodt. 



God of the earth's extended plains, 

The dark green fields eontented lie: 
The mountains rise like holy towers, 

Where man might commnne witU the sky. 
The tall clift' challenges the storm 

That lowers upon the dale below, 
AVhere shaded fountains send their streams. 

With joyons music in their How. 

God of the dark and heavy deep ! 

The waves lie sleeping on the sands. 
Till the tierce trumpet of the storm 

Hath summoned up their tlniiidoring bands; 
Then tlie white sails are dashed like foam, 

Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas. 
Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale 

Serenely breathes, '• Depart in peace." 

God of the forest's solemn shade ; 

The grandeur of the lonely tree. 
That wrestles singly with the gale. 

Lifts np admiring eyes to thee: 
But more m.ajestic far they stand 

When, side by side, their ranks they foriii. 
To wave on high their plumes of green, 

And fight their battles with the storm. 

God of the light and viewless air! 

Where summer breezes sweetly flow. 
Or. gathering in their angry might, 

The fierce and wintry tempest.s blow, — 
All — from the cveuiug's plaintive sigh. 

That hardly lifts the drooping flower, 
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry — 

Breathe forth the language of thy power. 



God of the fair and open sky ! 

How gloriously above us .springs 
The tented dome of heavenly blue 

Suspended on the rainbow's wings! 
Kach brilliant star that sparkles through, 

Each gilded cloud that waDders free, 
In evening's purple radiance, gives 

The beauty of its jnaise to Thee. 

God of the rolling orbs above! 

Tliy name is written clearly bright 
In the warm day's unvarying blaze. 

Or evening's golden shower of light. 
For every fire that fronts the sun. 

And every spark that glows alone 
Around the utmost verge of heaven. 

Were kindled at thy burning throne. 

God of the world ! the hour must come. 

And nature's self to dust retnrn ; 
Her crumbling altars must decay, 

Her incense-fires shall cease to burn : 
But still her grand and lovely scenes 

Have made man's warmest praises flow, 
For hearts grow holier as they trace 

The beaut V of the world below. 



0?rciuiillc i^lcllcii. 



Mcllen a79!^-18il) was a native of Biildefoid, Me. He 
graduated at Cambridge, and studied law; but a ten- 
dency to epilepsy prevented all professional success. He 
resided at times in Boston, Wasliington, and New York. 
A man of singular elevation and purity of character, and 
a true poet in feeling, he lacked the artistic gift by which 
expression is made to interpret and impart, in aplest, 
briefest form, what is powerfully felt. The oliief collec- 
tion of his poems, "The Martyr's Triumph, Buried Val- 
ley, and other Poems" (of which few copies are to be 
found), was published in Boston in 1S33. 



Tin: BUGLE. 

"But still the dingle's hollow thront 
Prolonged the swelling bugle's note ; 
The owlets started from their drenm, 
Tlie e.igles answered with their scream: 
Uiiund and around the sounds were cast, 
Till echo 'tnmed au answering blast." 

Ladj/ 0/ the Lake. 

O wild enchanting Lorn ! 
Whoso music tip the deep and dewy air 
.Swells to the clouds, and calls on echo there. 

Till a new melody is boru ; — 



526 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BKITISII AXD AMEItlCAX POETRY. 



Wiike, Wiike again ! tho niglit 
Is beiuliug fioin her tluoiie of beauty ilowii, 
With still stars beaniiiia; on her azure cronu, 

Intense and eloquently blight! 

Night, at its pulseless noon, 
When the far voice of waters mourns in song, 
And some tired watch-dog, lazily and long. 

Barks at the melaucholy moon I 

Hark ! how it sweeps away, 
Soaring and dying on the silent sky. 
As if some sprite of sound went wauderiug by, 

With lone halloo and roundelay. 

Swell, swell in glory out ! 
Thy tones come pouring on my leaidng lieart, 
And my stirred spirit hears thee with a start 

As boyhood's old, remembered shout. 

Oh, have ye heard that peal 
From sleeping city'.s moou-batlied battlements, 
Or from the guarded field and warrior tents. 

Like some near breath around you steal ? 

Or have ye, in the roar 
Of sea., or storm, or battle, heard it rise. 
Shriller than eagle's clamor, to the skies, 

Where wings and tempests never soar? 

Go, go ! 110 other sound, 
No music that of air or earth is born. 
Can match the mighty music of that horn, 

On midnight's fathomless profouud ! 



lolju ilinUtI). 



Indali (1799-1840), a Scottish soug-writer, was a native 
of Ahertleen, the son of an innkeeper, and the youngest 
of seven sons born in succession. On completing an 
ordinary education at the gi-ammar-school, he was ap- 
prenticed to a piano-forte-maker. Excelling as a piano- 
tuner, he got employment in that capacity in London. 
He composed songs from his boyhood. In 1837 lie pub- 
lished "May Flowers," a 13mo vohunc of lyrics, chiefly 
in the Scottish dialect. His second volume of poems 
appeared in ISil. 



THE GATHERING.' 

Kise, rise! Lowland and Highland men. 

Bald sire to beardless son, each come, and early ; 

' This sons: hiis been erroneously ascribed to James Hogg, 
the Ettiick Shepherd. 



Rise, rise ! main-land aud islaud men, 

Belt on your broad claymores — fight for Prince 
t'harlie ; 

Down from the mountain steep, 
Up from the valley deep, 
Out froui the clachau, tho botUic, and shieling, — 
Bugle aud battle-drum. 
Bid chief and vassal come ! 
Bravely our bagpipes the pibroch are pealing. 

Men of the mountains — descendants of heroes ! 

Heirs of the fame as the hills of your fathers ; 
Say, shall the Sonthrou, tho Sassenach, fear us. 
When to the war-peal each plaided elan gathers ? 

Too long on the trophied walls 

Of your ancestral halls. 
Red rust has blunted the armor of Albyu ; 

Seize, then, — yo mountain Macs ! — 

Buckler and battle-axe, 
Lads of Lochabcr, Braeniar, and Breadalbin ! 

When hath the tartan-plaid mantled a coward ? 
When did the blue-bonnet crest the disloyal? 
Up, then, aud crowd to the standard of Stuart, 
Follow your leader, the rightful, the royal 1 

Chief of Clanronald, 

Donald Wacdonald ! 
Lovat ! Lochiel ! with the Grant aud the Gordon I 

Rouse every kilted clan. 

Rouse every loyal man, 
Gun on the shoulder, and thigh the good sword on ! 



FROM ''THERE LIVES A YOUNG LASSIE.' 

There lives a young la.ssio 

Far down yon lang glen ; 
How I lo'e that lassie 

There's nae ano can ken ! 
O ! a saint's faith may vary, 

But faithful I'll be ; 
For well I lo'o Mary, 

An' Mary lo'es me. 

Red, red as the rowan' 

Her smiling wee niou' ; 
And white as the gowan' 

Her breast aud her brow ! 
Wi' a foot o' a fairy 

She links' o'er the lea : 
O ! weel I lo'e Mary, 

And Mary lo'es me. 



Mouut.Tiii-ash berry. " Daisy. 



3 To trip along 



AXOSyMorS .l.\I> MISCELLAXEOCS I'OEMS. 



527 



I As tlio (lovo that bus waiulereil awny from his iicst, 
^nOnillllOUG anl) fUiGCclIanCOUS |30CinG l.-.tiinis to tlio mate ins foiKl heart h>vcs the best, 

oftllC ISth an^ m\) (TrntmicS. ','" "•^' *■'■""' "'" ""'■'f *"'^.'; a-l vanishing sc.nc, 

' ! Ill my dear one, the lass \vi tlic boiiiiie blno cen. 



MEKKV MAY THE KKKL KOW. 

AsoxvMors (ScoTTlsn — 18t» Centl'ky). 

As I came ilowii throiiKh Caniiobie, 
Tlirough Camiobie, through Caniiobie, 
The Slimmer siiii bad shut his c'e, 

And loud a lass did sing, O : 
Ye westlin winds, all gently blow ; 
Y'c seas, soft ;is my wishes How ; 
And merry may the shallop row 

That ray true love sails in, O! 

My love hath breath like roses sweet, 
Like roses sweet, like roses sweet, 
And arms like lilies dipped in wcet, 

To fold a maiden in, O! 
There's not a wave that swells the sea 
]lnt bears a prayer and wish frae mc ; — 
Oh soon may I my true love see, 

\Vi' his banld bands again, O! 

My lover wears a bonnet blue, 
A bonnet bine, a bonnet blue — 
A rose so white, a heart so true, 

A dimple on his chin, 0! 
He bears a blade his foes have felt. 
And nobles at his nod have knelt; 
My heart will break, as well as melt, 

Should he ne'er come again, () I 



OH SAW YE THE LASS T 

ANOSTMoi's (Scottish— ISxn CESTvav). 

I >li saw ye the l.-iss wi' tin' bonnie bini' I'en ? 
Her smile is the sweetest that ever w;is seen; 
Her cheek like the rose is, lint iVesher, I ween ; 
She's the loveliest lassie tliat trips on the green. 

The home of my love is below in (he valley, 
Where wild (lowers welcome the wandering bcc ; 
lint the sweetest of (lowers in that spot that is seeu 
Is the dear one I love w i' the lionnio bini; ecn. 

When night overshadows her cot in the glen. 
She'll steal out to meet her lovcil Donald again ; 
And when the moon shines on yon valley so grceu, 
I'll weleonie the lass wi' the lioniiie blue eeii. 



THE PAUPER'S DRIVE. 

Thomas Xoel (BmTlsll— 19tii Centuiiv). 

There's a grim one-hor.se hearse in ajolly roiunl trot. 
To the church-yard a pauper is going, I wot ; 
The road it is rough, and the hoar.se has no springs; 
And hark to the dirge which the sad driver sings: 

Rattle his bones over the stones! 

He's only <a pauper, whom nobody owns I 

Oh, where are the mourners ? Alas ! there .are none ; 
He has left not a gap in the world now he's gone — 
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man : 
To the grave w itli his carcass as fast as yon can : 

Rattle his bones over the stones ! 

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! 

What a. jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din! 
The whip how it cracks, and the wheels how they 

spin ! 
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled! 
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world! 

Rattle his bones over the stones! 

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! 

Poor pauper defunct! he has made .some approach 
To gentility, now that he's stretched in a cnnch ! 
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last; 
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast! 

Rattle his bones over the stones ! 

He's only a iiauper, whom nobody owns! 

Y'ou bnmplcins! who stare at your brother conveyed. 

Behold what respect to a cloddy is ]iaid ! 

And be joyful to lliiuk, when by death you're laid 

low, 
Y'ou've a ch.anco to the grave like a geiiinian to go! 

Rattle his bones over the stones ! 

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! 

But a truce to this strain ; for my soul it is sad. 
To think that a heart in humanity clad 
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end. 
And depart from the light without leaving a friend. 

Bear soft his bones over the stones ! 

Though a p.aupcr, he's one whom his M.ikcr 
yet owns ! 



528 



CYCLOPEDIA OF imiTISH AND AMERICAN POETllT. 



SONNET: DECEMBER MORNING. 

Anna Seward (Lichfield, England — 1747-1809). 

I love to ri.se ere gleams the tardy light, 
Winter's pale dawu ; and as warm tires illume, 
And cheerful tapers shine around the room, 
Througli misty windows bend my musing sight. 
Where, round the dn.sky lawn, the mansions white. 
With shutters clo.sed.peer luintly through the gloom, 
That slow recede.s ; while yon gray spires assume, 
Rising from their dark pile, an added height 
By indistinctness given. Then to decree 
The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold 
To friendship or the Muse, or seek with glee 
Wisdom's rich page. O hours more worth than gold. 
By whose blessed use we lengthen life, and, free 
From di-ear decays of age, outlive the old ! 



SONG OF BIRTH. 

Anonyjiocs (Bkitish — 19th Century). 

Hail, new-waked atom of the Eternal whole. 
Young voyager upon Time's mighty river ! 
Hail to thee, Human Soul, 

Hail, and forever! 
Pilgrim of life, all hail ! 
He who at first called forth 
From nothingness the earth. 
Who clothed the hills in strength, and dug the sea; 
Who gave the stars to gem 
Night, like a diadem, 

Thou little child, made thee ; 
Young habitant of earth. 
Fair as its flowers, though brought in sorrow forth. 
Thou art akin to God who fashioned thee! 

The Heavens themselves shall vanish as a scroll. 
The solid earth dissolve, the stars grow jiale. 
But thou, O humau Soul, 

Shalt be immortal! Hail! 
Thou young Immortal, hail ! 
He, before whom are dim 
Seraph and cherubim. 
Who gave the archangels strength and majesty, 
Who sits upon Heaven's throne, 
The Everlasting One, 

Thou little child, made thee ! 
Fair habitant of Earth, 
Immortal in thy God, though mortal by thy birth. 
Born for life's trials, hail, all hail to thee! 



SONG OF DEATH. 

Anonymous (British — 19th Century). 

Shrink not, O human Spirit, 
The Everlasting Arm is strong to save ! 

Look up, look up, frail nature, put thy trust 
In Him who went down mourning to the dust, 

And overcame the grave ! 

Quickly goes down the suu; 

Life's work is almost done ; 
Fruitless endeavor, hope deferred, and strife ! 

One little struggle more, 

One pang, and then is o'er 
Ail the long, mournful, weariness of life. 

Kind friends, 'tis almost past ; 

Come now and look your last ! 

Sweet children, gather near, 

And his last blessing hear, 
See how he loved you who departeth now ! 
And, with thy trembling step and pallid brow. 

Oh, most beloved one. 

Whose breast he leaned upon, 

Come, faithful unto death, 

Receive his parting breath! 
The fluttering spirit panteth to be free, 
Hold him not back who speeds to victory ! 
— The bonds are riven, the struggling soul is free ! 

Hail, hail, enfranchised Spirit! 
Thou that the wiue-press of the field hast trod! 
On, blessed Immortal, on, throngh boundless space. 
And stand with thy Redeemer face to face ; 

And stand before thy God ! 

Life's weary work is o'er. 

Thou art of earth no more ; 
No more art trammelled by the oppressive claj-. 

But tread'st with winged ease 

The high acclivities 
Of truths sublime, up Heaven's crystalline way. 

Here is no bootless quest ; 

This city's name is Rest ; 

Here shall no fear appal ; 

Here love is all in all; 
Here shalt thou wiu thy ardent soul's desire ; 
Here clothe thee in thy beautiful attire. 

Lift, lift thy woud'riug eyes! 

Yonder is Paradise, 

And this fair shining band 

Are spirits of thy land ! 
And these who throng to meet thee are thy kin. 
Who have awaited thee, redeemed from sin ! 
— The city's gates unfold — enter, oh ! enter in ! 



jyONTMOUS AyD MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



52y 



YOUNG AIRLY. 

ANONTUOl'S (ScoTTisn— 18tu CESTl-aV). 

Ken yo aiiglit of brave Lodiiel f 

Or keu ye auglit of Airly ? 
They bavo belted on tlieir bright broadswords, 

And oft" and awa' wi' Charlie ! 
Now bring me fire, my merry, merry men, 

And bring it red and yarely — 
At mirk midnight there flashed a light 

O'er the topmost towers of Airly. 

What lone' is yon, quo' the gude Lochiel, 

Which gleams so red and rarely f 
By the God of my kin, quo' yonng Ogilvic, 

It's my ain bonuio hamc of Airly ! 
Put np your sword, said the brave Lochiel, 

And calm yotir mood, sai<l Charlie; 
Ere morning glow we'll raise a lowo 

Far brighter than bonnio Airly. 

Oh, yon fair tower's my native tower ! 

Xor will it soothe my mourning. 
Were London jialace, tower, and town, 

As fast and brightly burning. 
It's no my liame — my fathei-'s hame, 

That reddens my cheek sae sairlie — 
But my wife, and twa sweet babes I left 

To snioor' in the smoke of Airly. 



LOVE'S REMONSTRANCE. 
James Kennet (see Page 359). 

Dear Tom, my brave, free-hearted lad, 

Wliere'er you go, God bless you ; 
Yiiu"d better speak than wish you had. 

If love for me distress you. 
To me, they say, your thoughts incline. 

And possibly they may so : 
Then, once for all, to quiet mine, 

Tom, if you love me, say so. 

On that sound heart and manly frame 

Sits lightly sport or labor, 
Good-humored, frank, and still the same. 

To parent, friend, or neighbor : 
Then why postpone your love to own 

For me, from day to day so. 
And let mo whisper, still alone, 

"Tom, if you love me, say sof" 



• A flame. 



' To smother. 



How oft when I was sick, or sad 

With some remembered folly, 
The sight of you has made me glad, — 

And then most melancholy ! 
Ah ! why will thoughts of one so good 

Upon my spirit prey so f 
By yon it should be understood — 

"Tom, if yon love me, say so!" 

Last Monday, at the cricket-matcli. 

No rival stood before you ; 
In harvest-time, for quick despatch 

The farmers all adore you ; 
And evermore your praise they sing, 

Though one thing you delay so, 
Aud I sleep nightly murmuring, 

"Tom, if you love me, say so!" 

^^^latc'er of ours you chance to seek. 

Almost before you breathe it, 
I bring with blushes on my cheek, 

And all my soul goes with it. 
Why thank me, then, with voice so low, 

And faltering turn away so 1 
When next you come, before you go, 

Tom, if you love me, say sol 

When Jasper Wild, beside the brook, 

Resentful round us lowered, 
I oft recall that lion-look 

That quelled the savage coward. 
Bold words and free you uttered then : 

Would they could find their way so, 
When these moist eyes so plainly mean, 

" Tom, if you love me, say so !" 

My friends, 'tis true, are well to do, 

And yours are poor and friendless; 
Ah, no ! for they are rich in you. 

Their happiness is endless. 
Y'on never let them shed a tear, 

Save that on you they weigh so ; 
There's one might bring you bettor cheer; 

Tom, if you love me, say so ! 

My uncle's legacy is .all 

For you, Tom, when you choo.se it ; 
In better hands it cannot (Till, 

Or better trained to use it. 
I'll wait for years; but lot mo not 

Nor wooed nor plighted stay so ; 
Since wealth and worth make oven lot, — 

Tom, if you love me, say so I 



530 



CYCLOPMDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN' POETRY. 



SONNET: COMPARISON. 

Anonymous (Beitish — 19th Century). 

The lake lay hid in mi.st, ami to the saud 

The little Ijillows hasteniug silently 

Came sparkling ou, in many a gladsome band, 

Soon as they touched the shore all doomed to die. 

I gazed upon them with a pensive eye ; 

For, ou that dim and melancholy strand, 

I saw the image of man's destiny : 

So hurry we right onward thoughtlessly, 

Unto the coast of that Eternal Land, 

Where, like the worthless billows in their glee. 

The first faint touch unable to withstand, 

We melt at once into eternity. 

O Thou who weighest the waters in thine hand, 

My awe-struck spirit puts her trust in Thee ! 



THE CROCUS'S SOLILOQUY. 

Miss nauimh Flagg Gould (1789-lS65),by whom the follnwing 
little poem was written, was a native of Lancaster, Vt., but sub- 
sequently resided in Newbiiryport, Mass. A volume of her po- 
ems appeared iu 1832 ; another in 1S36 ; and a third in 1S41. 

Down in my solitude under the snow, 
Where nothing cheering can reach me, 

Here, without light to see how to grow, 
I'll trust to nature to teach me. 



I will not despair, nor be idle, nor frown, 

Locked in so gloomy a dwelling ; 
My leaves shall run up, and my roots shall run down, 

While the bud in my bosom is swelling. 

Soon as the frost will get out of my bed, 
From this cold dinigeon to free me, 

I will peer up with my little bright head ; 
All will be joyful to see me. 

Then from my heart will young petals diverge. 
As rays of the sun from their focus; 

I from the darkness of earth will emerge, 
A happy and beautiful crocus. 

Gayly arrayed iu my yellow and green, 

When to their view I have risen, 
Will they not wonder that one so serene 

Came from so dismal a prison ? 

Many, perhaps, from so simple a flower 

This little lesson may borrow : 
Patient to-day, through its gloomiest hour, 

We come out the brighter to-morrow. 



THE MANAGING MAMMA. 

Anonymous (British — 19Tn Century). 

She walketh up and down the marriage mart, 

And swells with triumph as her wares depart ; 

In velvet clad, with well-bejewelled hands. 

She has a smile for him who owns broad lands, 

And wears her nodding jilumes with rare efi'ect 

Iu passing poverty with head erect. 

She tries each would-be suitor in the scale — 

That social scale whose balance does not fail ; 

So much for wealth, so much for noble blood. 

Deduct for age, or for some clinging mud. 

Her daughters, too, well tutored by her art. 

All unreluct.int iu her game take part ; 

Or, meekly passive, yield themselves to fate, 

Kuowing full well resistance is too late. 

Thus are her victims to the altar led, 

With shiuiug robes and flowers upon the head ; 

There, at the holy shriue, 'mid sacred vows. 

She fancies Heaven will bless what earth allows. 

And sells her child to Mammon with a smile, 

While Mephistopheles approves the style. 



A RIDDLE ON THE LETTER H. 

Miss Catherine M. Fanshawe (England — 17G4-lS3i), 

'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas muttered in hell, 
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell ; 
On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, 
And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed. 
'Twill be found in the sphere, when 'tis riven asun- 
der, 
Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder, 
'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath. 
Attends at his birth and awaits him in death : 
Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health. 
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth ; 
Iu the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care, 
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir. 
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound. 
With the husbandman toils, and with mouarchs is 

crowned. 
Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, 
But woe to tho wretch who expels it from home. 
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, 
Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion is drowned. 
'Twill not soften the heart ; and though deaf be the 

ear. 
It will make it acutely and instautly hear. 
Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower, 
All, breathe on it softly — it dies iu an hour. 



AXOXTMOUS AXD MISCELLA2,^E0VS POEMS. 



531 



SWEET TYIJANT, LOVE. 

The fiillowinf^ appeared in the London Literary Gazfttf, Octo- 
ber9, 1S30, us uiidouhtodly the proditctiou of James Thomson. 
It was taken from a manuscript volnme of dramatic and oth- 
er collections, made by a Mr. Ogle, who published a work ou 
Gems, toward the latter part of the ISth century. The internal 
evidence is good, and justidea the ascription. For an account 
of Thomson, sec page IG5. 

Sweet tyrant, Love ! but hear ine now, 

And cure, while young, tbi-s pleasing smart, 
Or rather aid my trembling vow. 

And teaeh mo to reveal my heart : 
Tell her whose goodness is my bane, 

Wboso looks have smiled my peace away — 
Oil, whisper how she gives me pain, 

Whilst undesigning, frank, and gay ! 

'Tis not for common chantis I sigh. 

For what the vulgar beauty call ; 
'Tis not a cheek, a lip, an eye — 

But 'tis the sonl that lights them all. 
For that I drop the tender tear. 

For that I make this artless moan, 
Ob, sigh it. Love, into her car. 

And make the bashful lover known I 



THE END OF THE DROUGHT. 
Asomicors tO>iTisB— I!>Ta CENTcnr). 

The rain's come at last ! 
And 'tis i>ouring as fast 
As if it would iiay the arrears of the past ; 
While the clouds on the wind 

Press on thicker and thicker. 
As if they'd a mind 

To disgorge all their liquor. 

Let them patter away — 
There's a toper to-day 
That will take their whole tonnage to moisten his 
clay : 

Yea, though they keep np 

For a fortnight their dropping, 
Ho won't llineh .1 cup. 
Nor retjuiro any mopping. 

Yea, earth that w.is cursed 
With a vehement thirst, 
Is drinking so eager you'd fancy he'd burst; 
And his hot chappy lips — 

I low bo smacks them together 



As he gulps, tastes, and sips 
The delicious wet weather ! 

See the beautiful flowers, 
How they soak in the showers 
That pl.tsh ou the meadows or splash through the 
bowers ! 

Leaves, blossoms, and shoota 

Quaff with succulent mouth ; 
Aud the fibres and roots 
Are imbibing the South. 

The farmer's nice ear 
Distinctly can hear 
The growth of his crops through their b.acchanal 
cheer ; 

And the boozy potatoes 
Cry out, under cover, 
"With elbow-room treat us, 
AiT.ah ! neighbors, lie over." 

The horses and cows, 
Neglecting to browse. 
Stand still ^\hen they give their parched hides a 
carouse ; 

And the indolent sheep 

Their frieze j.ickets unbutton, 
While with rain-drops they steep 
Their half-roasted mutton. 

The birds of the air 
Seem little to care. 
If the snmmcr should never again dry up fair ; 
For tlipy'ro dabbling, like snipes, 

And rejoicing together, 
^^^lilo the quall tunes his pipes 
To icct-iceather ! tcct-iccathcr ! 

The dncks and the drakes 
Spread their feathers in flakes. 
And dabble their bellies in stable-yard lakes ; 
And nothing on earth 

Can be half so abstird 
.\s the bibulous mirth 
Of the pond-loving bird. 

In brief, to sum up — 
.Ml things seem to sup 
New vigor from Nature's most bountiful cup: 
While the sky dropping rain. 

And the sun, shining southerly, 
Make the country again 

Look good-natured and motherly. 



532 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THREE KISSES OF FAREWELL. 

From one of "Esther Wtnn's Love-letters," by the Anont- 
Mous Author of the Saxe-Holm Stories (187y). 

Three, only three, my darliug, 

Separate, solemn, slow : 
Not like the SAvift anil joyous ones 

We used to know, — 
Wheu we kissed because we loved each other, 

Simply to taste love's sweet. 
And lavished our kisses as the summer 

Lavishes heat, — 
But as they kiss wbose hearts are wninj;. 

When hope and fear are speut. 
And nothing is left to give, except 

A sacrament ! 

First of the three, my darliug, 

Is sacred unto paiu : 
We have hurt each other ofteu, — 

We shall again, — 
When we pine because we miss each other, 

Aud do not understand 
How the written words are so much colder 

Thau eye and band. 
I kiss thee, dear, for all such pain 

Which we may give or take ; — 
Buried — forgiven before it comes, 

For our love's sake ! 

The second kiss, mj' darling. 

Is full of joy's sweet thrill ; 
We have blessed each other always; 

We always will. 
We sh.all reach until we feel each other. 

Past all of time and space. 
We shall listen till we hear each other 

In every place. 
The earth is full of messengers 

Which love sends to and fro. 
I kiss thee, darling, for all the joy 

Which we shall know. 

The last ki.ss, oh, my darling. 

My love — I cannot see 
Through my tears, as I remember 

What it may be. 
We may die and never see each other. 

Die with no time to give 
Any sign that our hearts are faithful 

To die as live. 
Token of what they will not sec 

Who see our parting breath : 



This one last kiss, my darling, seals 
The .seal of death! 



THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION. 

In OasselPs " Illiistratetl Readini^s," edited by Tom Hood, 
the younger (1S35-1S75), this ainnsiu^ song is credited to Wil- 
liam Pitt, who was master attendant at .Jamaica Doclc-ynrd, aud 
afterward at Malta, where he died in 1S40. It is credited in 
many collections to Charles Dibdiu ; an error arisino; probably 
from the fact that Dibdin wrote a song under the same title, 
aud corameucing— 

"Spanking Jack was so comely, so pleasant, bo jolly, 

Though winds blew great guns still he'd whistle and sing ; 
Jack loved his friend, and was true to his Molly, 
Aud, if honor gives greatness, was great as a king." 

This song was set to rausic, and published by Novello & Co., 
London. Pitt's song (a much better one) was also set to music, 
aud published by Purday & Son, Loudon. 

One night came on a hurricane. 

The sea was nujuntains rolling, 
When Barney Buntlino turued his quid. 

And said to Billy Bowling — 
"A strong nor'-wester's blowing, Billy — 

Hark ! don't yo hear it roar now ? 
Lord help 'em ! how I pities all 

Unhappj' folks on shore now! 

"Foolhardy chaps who live in town — 

What danger tliey are all in ! 
Aud now are quaking in their beds, 

For fear the roof should fall in.. 
Poor creatures! bow tlu'y envies ns, 

And wishes, I've a notion. 
For our good luck, in such a storm. 

To be upon the ocean. 

" But as for them who're out all day. 

On business from their houses. 
And late at night are coming home. 

To cheer the babes aud spouses. 
While you and I, Bill, on the deck 

Are comfortably lying — 
My eyes ! what tiles and chimney-pots 

About their heads are flying ! 

"And very ofteu have wo beard 

How men are killed and undouc 
By overturns of carri.ages. 

By thieves and tires in Loudon. 
We know what risks all landsmen run. 

From noblemen to tailors ; 
Then, Bill, let us thank Provideuce 

That von and I are sailors I" 



JXONTMOUS ASD MlSCKLLANKUfS I'OEMS. 



533 



WHEKE IS HEf 

Uenrj-Xcelc (ITSS-lSiS), anttior of the followinj; poem, was a 
native of London, wlio pnbliished two volumes of poem?, and 
wrote "The Uimiiince of English History." Just after his tliir- 
tictb birthday be committed suicide iu a fit of despoudeucy. 

Ami wlicro is lio f Not by tlio side 

Of her whoso wants he loved to toiul ; 
Not o'er those valleys wanileriiii^ wide, 

Where, sweetly lost, ho oft wotiUl weud 
That form beloved ho marks no more ; 

Those scenes ndiiiircd no more shall son — 
Tliose seeiies are lovely as before. 

And she as fair — but where is hoT 

No, no! the radiance is not dim 

That used to gild his favorite hill ; 
The pleasures that were dear to him 

Are dear to life and nature still ; 
lint all! his home is not so fair; 

Neglected must his garden be — 
The lilies droop and wither there, 

And seem to whisper, where is he T 

His was the pomp, the crowded hall ! 

But where is now the proud display ? 
His riches, honors, pleasures, all 

Desire could frame : but where are tliey f 
And he, as some tall rock that stands 

Protected by the circling sea, 
Surrounded by admiring bands, 

Seemed jiroudly strong — and where is he? 

The cluirch-yard bears an added stone, 

The fireside shows a vacant chair; 
Here sadness dwells and weeps alone, 

And death displays his banner there; 
The life has gone, tho breath has fled. 

And what has been no more shall be ; 
The well-known form, the welcome tread, 

O where are lliey ? and where is he f 



HEAVING OF THE LEAD. 

.Xnontmocs (Diiitisii— 18tu Cextirt). 

Tor Euglaiul when with favoring gale 
Our gallant ship up Channel steered, 

And, scuilding under easy sail. 

The high blue western land appeared ; 

To heave tho lead the seaman sprung. 

And to the pilot chccrly snng, 

"By the deep — nine I" 



And bearing up to gain the port, 

Sonio well-known object kept in view ; 

An abbey-tower, the harbor-fort. 
Or beacon to tho vessel \v\w ; 

While oft tho lead the seaman Hung, 

.Vnd to the pilot cbeerly sung, 

" By tho mark — seven !" 

.\nd as tho much-loved shore we near, 
With transport wo behold tho roof 

Wliere dwelt a friend or partner dear. 
Of faith and lovo .a matchless proof. 

Tho lead once more tho seaman flung, 

And to tho watchful pilot sung, 

"Quarter less — five!" 

Now to her berth the ship draws nigh : 
Wo shorten sail — she feels tho tide — 

"Stand clear the cable," is the cry — 
Tho anchor's gone ; we safely ride. 

The watch is set, and through the night 

We hear tho seaman with delight 

Proclaim— "All's well!" 



COMING THROUGH THE EYE. 

Anonymol-3 {ScoTTisn — 18th Centcky). 

(iin a body meet a body 

C'omin' through the rye, 
Gin a body kiss a body. 

Need a body cry ? 
Every lassie has her laddie — 

Ne'er a ane hae I ; 
Yet a' the lads they smile at mo 

When comiu' through the rye. 
Auiang the train there is a swain 

I dearly lo'e mysel' ; 
But whaur his hame, or what his name, 

I dinna care to tell. 

Ciin a body meet a body 

C'omin' frao the town, 
Gin a body greet a body, 

Need a body frown f 
Every lassie has her laddie — 

Ne'er a ane hao I ; 
Yet a' tho lads they smile at mo 

When coniin' through tho rye. 
Aniang tho train there is a swain 

I dearly lo'e mysel' ; 
But whaur his hame, or what his name, 

I dinna care to tell. 



534 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



OH ! SAY NOT WOMAN'S HEART IS BOUGHT. 
Thosias Love Peacock.' 

Oh ! say not woman's heart is bought 

With vain and empty treasure ; 
Oh! say not woman's heart Is caught 

By every idle pleasure. 
When first her gentle bosom knows 

Love's flame, it wanders never ; 
Deep in her heart the passion glows, — 

She loves, and loves forever. 

Oh! say not woman's false as fair, 

That like the bee she ranges; 
Still seeking flowers more sweet and rare, 

As fickle fancy changes. 
Ah, no ! the love that first can warm 

Will leave her bosom never ; 
No second passion e'er can charm, — • 

She loves, and loves forever. 



LOVE AND AGE. 

Thomas Love Peacock.' 

I jilayed with you 'mid cowslips blowing. 

When I was six and you were four ; 
When garlands weaving, flower-balls thrnwiug, 

Were pleasures soon to please no more. 
Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather. 

With little playmates, to and fro, 
We wandered hand in hand together: 

But that was sixty years ago. 

You grew a lovely roseate maiden. 

And still our early love was strong ; 
Still with no care our days were laden, 

They glided joyously along : 
And I did love you very dearly — 

How dearly, words want power to show ; 
I thought your heart was touched as nearly : 

But that was fifty years ago. 

Then other lovers came around yon. 
Your beauty grew from year to year. 

And many a splendid circle found you 
The centre of its glittering sphere. 

' Novelist and poet, Peacock (Engtand — 1785-1860) wrote 
"Heiidloug Hall" (1S15). His cllief poems ^vei-e "Palmyra" 
(ISOti): "The Genius of the Thames" (1810,1812); and "Rho- 
dodaphue; or, the Thcssalian Spell" (1818). Peacock held an 
appointment in the India House, hut found his hest relaxation 
in literature. 



I saw you then, first vows forsaking. 

On rank and wealth jour hand bestow ; 

Oh, then I thought my heart was breaking, — 
But that was forty years ago. 

And I lived on, to wed another: 

No cause she gave me to repine ; 
And when I heard you were a mother, 

I did not wish the children mine. 
My own young flock, iu fair progression. 

Made up a jileasant Christmas row : 
My joy in them was past expression ; 

But that was thirty years ago. 

You grew a matron plump and comely. 

You dwelt in la.shion's brightest blaze ; 
My earthly lot was far more homely, — 

But I too had my festal days. 
No merrier eyes have ever glistened 

Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, 
Than when my youngest child was christened ; 

But that was twenty years ago. 

Time passed. My eldest gill was married. 

And I am now a grandsire gray ; 
One pet of four years old I've carried 

Among the wild-flowered meads to play. 
In our old fields of childish pleasure, 

Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, 
She fills her basket's ample measure, — 

And that is not ten years ago. • 

But though first love's impassioned blindness 

Has jiassed away in colder light, 
I still have thought of you with kindness, 

And shall do, till our last goodnight. 
The ever-rolling silent hours 

Will bring a time we shall not know, 
When our young days of gathering flowers 

Will be an hundred vears ago! 



GO, SIT BY THE SUMMER SEA. 

Anonymous (British — 18th Century). 

Go, sit by the summer sea, 

Thou whom scorn wasteth, 
And let thy musing be 

Where the flood hasteth. 
Mark how o'er ocean's breast 
Rolls the hoar billow's crest : 
Such is his heart's unrest. 
Who of love tasteth ! 



jyOXTilOUS JSD MISCELLJXEOrS POEMS. 



535 



Griev'st tlioii that hearts sbuuUl change f 

Lo ! whcio life rcigiicth. 
Or the free sijjht iloth range, 

What long rernaineth? 
Spring with her llowers doth die ; 
Fast fades the gilded sky ; 
And the full-mouii on high 

Ceaselessly waiieth. 

Smile, then, ye sage and T>-ise ! 

And if love sever 
Bonds which thy sonl doth prize, 

Such docs it ever I 
Deep as the rolling seas, 
Soft as the twilight breeze, — 
And yet of more than these 

lioast conid it never! 



TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. 

John Qnincy Adam?, son of the second Presiileiit oftlie United 
States, nnd liimi'Clf President for one term, published, in 1S32, 
ft long composition in verse, entitled " Dermot JIacMorrogh.*' 
The following tender little lyric from hia pen will probably out- 
last all bi.i other poetical productions. Adams die(] in the Cap- 
itol at Washington, February 23d, ISIS. His last words were, 
'■ This is the last of cartti !' lie was boru in Hrnintrce, Mass., 
July nth, ITC;. 

Snre, to the mansions of the blessed 

When infant innocence ascends, 
Some angel, brighter than the rest, 

The spotless spirit's llight attends. 
On wings of ecsta.sy they rise, 

Beyond where worlds material roll. 
Till some fair sister of the skies 

Receives the nnpoUntcd sonl. 
That incxliiigtii.shablo beam. 

With dnst united at onr birth, 
Sheds ,1 more dim, discolored gleam 

The more it lingers upon earth. 

But when the Lord of mortal breath 

Decrees his bonnty to resnnie, 
And i)oints the silent shaft of death 

Which speeds an infant to the tomb. 
No passion fierce, nor low desire 

Has quenched the radiance of the flame; 
Back to its God the living fire 

Reverts, niiclondcd as it came. 
Fimcl mourner, lie that solace tliine! 

Let Hope her healing charm impart. 
And soothe, with melmlics divine. 

The anguish of a mother's heart. 



Ob, think! the darlings of thy love, 

Dive.sted of this earthly clod, 
Amid niimimbered saints, above, 

Bask in the bosom of their God. 
O'er thee, with looks of love, they beud ; 

For thee the Lord of life implore ; 
And oft from sainted bliss descend 

Thy wounded spirit to restore. 
Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear; 

Their part and thine inverted see : 
Thou wert their gaardian angel here, 

They guardian angels now to thee! 



AGAIN. 



ASONTJtODS (BnlTISH— IOth Centcbi). 

O sweet and fair! O rich and rare! 

That day so long ago ; 
The autumn sunshine everywhere. 

The heather all aglow ! 
The ferns wore cla<l in cloth of gold. 

The waves sang on the shore : 
Such suns will shine, such waves will sing, 

Forever, evermore. 

O fit and few ! O tried and true ! 

The friends who met that day ; 
Each one the other's .spirit knew ; 

And so, in earnest play. 
The hours flew past, until at last 

The twilight kissed the shore. 
We said, " Such days shall come again 

Forever, evermore." 

One day again, no dond of paiti 

A shadow o'er tis cast ; 
And yet we strove in vain, in vain. 

To conjure up the past. 
Like, but unlike, the sun that shone. 

The waves that beat the shore, 
The words we said, the songs wo sung — 

Like, — unlike, — evermore. 

For ghosts nnsecii crept in between. 

And, when our songs (lowed free, 
Sang discords in an undertone, 

And m.arred onr harmony. 
" The past is ours, not yours," they said ; 

" The waves that beat the shore, 
Though like the same, are not the same, 

O never, never more!" 



536 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISS AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



NEVER DESPAIR. 

Anonymous (Britisu — I9Tn Century). 

The opal-hiietl and niaiiy-perfumetl Mom 

From Gloom is born ; 
Fioui out tho sulleu depth of ebou Niglit 

The stars shed light ; 
Gems iu the rayless caverns of tho earth 

Have their slow birth ; 
From woudroiis alcliomy of wiuter-hours> 

Come summer flowers ; 
The bitter waters of the restless main 

Give gentle rain ; 
The fading bloom and dry seed bring onco more 

The year's fresh store ; 
.) list sefiuences of clashing tones aft'ord 

The full accord ; 
Tlirough weary ages, full of strife and rntb, 

Thought reaches Truth ; 
Tlirough efforts, long in vain, prophetic Need 

Begets the Deed : 

Nerve, then, thy soul with direst need to cope : 

Life's brightest Hope 
Lies latent iu Fate's darkest, deadliest lair — 

Never despair ! 



MY PHILOSOPHY. 
Anonymous (British— 19th Century). 

Bright things can never die, 

Even though they fade ; 
Beauty and minstrelsy 

Deathless were made. 
What though the summer day 
Passes at eve away ? 
Doth not tho moon's soft ray 

Solace the night ? 
Blight things can never die, 
Saith my philosophy : 
Phcebus, while passing by, 

Leaves us the light. 

Kind words can never die : 

Cherished and blessed, 
God knows how deep they lie 

Stored in the breast! 
Like cliildhood's simple rhymes. 
Said o'er a thousand times. 
Ay, iu all years and climes, 



Distant and near. 
Kind words can never die, 
Saith my philosopliy ; 
Deep in the soul tliey lie, 

God knows how dear. 

Childhood can never die ; 

Wrecks of the past 
Float o'er the memory. 

Even to the last. 
Many a happy thing. 
Many a daisied spring 
Float, on Time's ceaseless wing, 

Far, far away. 
Childhood can never die, 
Saith my philosophy ; 
Wrecks of our infancy 

Live on for aye. 

Sweet fancies never die ; 

They leave behind 
Some fairy legacy 

Stored in the mind — 
Some hapi>y thought or dream, 
Pure as day's earliest beam ■ 
Kissing the gentle stream 

In the lone glade. 
Yea, though these things pass by, 
Saith my philosophy, 
Bright things can never die. 

Even though they fade. 



PROGRESS. 

Anonymous (Britisr— IDtr Century). 

All victory is struggle, using chance 

And genius well ; all bloom is fruit of death ! 

All being, effort for a future germ ; 

All good, just sacrifice; and life's success 

Is ronnded-up of integers of thrift, 

From toil and self-denial. Man must strive 

If he would freely breathe or conquer : slaves 

Are amorous of ease and dalliance soft ; 

Who rules himself calls no man master, and 

Commands success even in the throat of Fate. 

Creation's soul is thrivance from decay ; 

And nature feeds on ruin; the big earth 

Summers iu rot, and harvests through tlie frost. 

To fructify the world; the mortal Now 

Is pregnant with the spring-flowers of To-come; 

And death is seed-time of Eteruitv. 



jxoxTMOus jyn miscellaneous poems. 



537 



RULIQULE. 

Anonymous (IJimtisu— 19Tn Cestdrt). 

A wild, wet iiigbt ! Tho driving sleet 
Blurs all the laiiii>s aluiig the <iiiay ; 

The windows shake; Iho busy street 

Is yet alive with hurrying feet ; 
The wiiiil raves from the sea. 

So let it rave ! My lamp burns bright ; 

My long day's work is almost done ; 
I curtain out each sound and sight — 
Of all the nights in the year, to-night 

I choose to be alone. 

Alone, with doors and windows fast, 

Before my open desk I stand. 
Alas! can twelve long months be past, 
My hidden, hidden wealth, since last 

I held theo in my hand ? 

So, there it lies! From year to year 
I see the ribbon change ; the page 

Turn yellower; and the very tear 

That blots tho writing, disappear 
And fade away with age. 

Mine eyes grow dim when they behold 
The precious trilles hoarded there — 

A ring of battered Indian gold, 

A withered harebell, and a fold 
Of sunny chestnut hair. 

N'ot all the riches of the earth. 
Not all the treasures of the sea, 

Could buy these house-gods from my hearth; 

And yet tho secret of their worth 
Must live and die with me. 



FAITH. 
AxoxTXocs (liBiTisn— 19tu CcxTrnv). 

Ye who think the truth ye sow 
Lost beneath tho winter snow, 
Doubt not. Time's unerring law- 
Yet shall bring the genial thaw ; 
(!od in nature ye can trust: 
Is the God of mind less justf 

Ke.-id we not the mighty thought 
Once by ancient sages taught 1 



Though it withered in tho blight 
Of the mediipval night. 

Now tho harvest wo behold ; 

See ! it bears a thousand-fold. 

Workers on the barren soil, 
Yours may seem a thankless toil; 
Sick at heart with hope deferred, 
Listen to tho cheering word : 

Now the faithful sower grieves ; 

Soon he'll bind his golden sheaves. 

If great Wisdom have decreed 
Man may labor, yet the seed 
Never in this life shall grow, 
Shall the sower cease to sow T 
The fairest fruit may yet be born 
On the resurrection morn! 



GENIUS. 

AsosYsioL's (British — 19th Cestcrt). 

Far out at sea— the sun was high. 

While veered tho wind, and flapped the sail- 
We saw a snow-white butterfly 

Dancing before the fitful gale, 

Far out at sea. 

Tho little stranger, who had lost 
His way, of danger nothing knew; 

Settled awhile npon tho mast. 

Then fluttered o'er tho waters blue ; 

Far out at sea. 

Above, there gleamed the boundless sky; 

Beneath, tho boundless ocean sheen ; 
Between them danced tho butterfly. 

The spirit-life in this vast scene ; 

Far out at sea. 

Away ho sped with shimmering gleo ! 

Dim, indistinct — now seen — now gone; 
Night comes, with wind and rain — and ho 

No mori^ will dance before the morn. 

Far out at sea. 

Ho dies unlike his mates, I ween ; 

Perhaps not sooner, nor worse crossed ; 
And he hath felt, and known, and seen, 

A larger life and hope— though lost. 

Far out at sea. 



538 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



DEIKDRfi'S FAREWELL TO ALBA. 

Anonymous (From the Gaelic). 

Deirdre, wife of Naiee, the sou of Usna, returning witti her 
liusband to Emaiiia iu Erie, himeuts for Alba (Scotland), her 
adopted coiuiiry. Both the original and the tranelatiou are 
anouyraons. Tlie poem is exceptionally beantiful. 

Alas ! ami alas, my sorrow ! 

The pain tbat hath uo relief, 
Alas! for the dreadful morrow 

To dawn on our day of grief! — 
Oh land in the orient glowing, 

The last of thy smiles hath shone 
On ns, for Fate's wind is blowing. 

And the wave of our doom speeds on. 
And a Might from the westward cometh, and the 
bloura of our life is gone ! 

Oh land of the morn-bright niouutains 

With the purple moors at their feet, 
Of the clear leaf-mirroring fountains 

And rivers of water sweet ; 
Of the fragrant wood-bowers twining, 

Aud the cataract's sounding roar, 
Of the lakes in their splendor shiuing. 

With the pine-woods whispering o'er, 
Ah! naught but my lord, my lover, could lure me 
from thy green shore ! 

Sweet is it in Daro's valley 

To list to the falling rill, 
To the breeze iu tlie woodland alley. 

And the goshawk's note from the hill; 
To the light-winged swallow pursuing 

His mate with a joyous cry. 
To the cuckoo's voice and the cooing 

Of doves in the pine-tops high, 
And the throstle's song in the thicket, aud the lark's 
from the morning sky. 

Under the summer arbor 

By the fresh sea-breezes fanned. 
Where the waters of Drayuo's harbor 

Sing over the silver sand, 
Happy from mora till even 

We've watched the sea-birds play, 
Aud the ocean meeting the heaven, 

In the distance far away. 
And the gleam of the white-sailed galleys, and the 
Hash of the sunlit .siH'aj'! 

In Masan the green, the blooming, 

How li.appy our days did pass ; 



Many its flowers perfuming 

And .studding like gems the grass : 
Tliere the foxglove purpled the hollow, 

And the iris flaunted its gold. 
And the flower that waits for the swallow, 

Its dainty bloom to unfold. 
With the hyacinth blue and the primrose, laughed 
in the breezy wold. 

In Eta of sunny weather, 

'Neath our happy home-porch hid. 
On venison sweet from the heather 

And flesh of the mountain kid. 
On game from the forest cover 

And fish from the crystal stream, 
We feasted till eve was over, 

And the moon with her silver gleam 
Soared o'er the dusky pine- woods out from the realm 
of dream. 

land of the East ! O Giver 

Of freedom from sore distress ! 
O land where no cloud came ever 

To darken our happiness! 
O homo of pleasure aud promise 

And peace unto mine and me. 
When I see thy shores fade from us, 

I sigh in my misery. 
And send my voice o'er the waters crying, farewell 
to thee ! 



THE MYSTERY OF LIFE. 

By John Gamdold, a Bishop among the Mokavian Bbethren, 
who died in 1771. 

So many years I've seen the sun, 

And called these eyes and hands my own, 

A thousand little acts I've done, 

Aud childhood have and manhood known ; 

Oh what is life ? — and this dull round 

To tread, why was a spirit bound ? 

So many airy draughts and lines, 
And warm excursions of the mind, 

Have filled my soul with great designs, 
While practice grovelled far behind ; 

Oh what is thought f — and where withdraw 

Tlie glories which my fancy saw ? 

So many tender joys and woes 

Have on my quivering soul had power ; 

Plain life with heightening passions rose, 
The boast or burden of their hour : 



ANOXYMOUS AXD MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



539 



OU what is nil wo feci f — why fled 
Those pains and plcasmx-s o'er my head f 

So many human souls divine, — 

Some at one interview displayed, — 

Some oft and freely mixed with mine, — 
In lasting bonds my heart have laid ; — 

Oh what is fiiendsliip? — -why impressed 

On my weak, wretched, dying breast t 

So many wondrous gleams of lij;ht. 

And gentle ardors from above. 
Have made mo sit, like serai>li bright, 

Some moments on a throne of love : 
Oh, what is virtue f — why Iiad I, 
Who am so low, a taste so high? 

Ere long, when sovereign wisdom wills, 
My soul an unknown path shall tread. 

And strangely leave, — who strangely tills 
This frame — and waft me to tho dead! 

Oh, what is death ? 'tis life's last shore, 

AAliero vanities are vain uo more; 

Where all pursuits their goal obtain, 

And life is all retouched again ; 

Where in their bright result shall rise 

Thoughts, virtues, friendships, griefs, aud joys! 



IWMK. 

PARAPDRASE from the GEtOtAN OF SCfflLLEB (1750-1805). 

What shall I do lest life in sileuce pass t 

And if it do, 
And never prompt tho bray of noisy brass, 

What need'st thou rue f 
Remember, aye tho ocean deeps are mute ; 

The shallows roar ; 
Worth is the ocean, fame is but the brnit 

Along tho shore. 

What shall I do to bo forever known f — 

Thy duty ever. — 
This did full many who j-et slept unknown. — 

Oh ! never, never ! 
Thiuk'st thou, perchance, that they remain unknown 

Whom thon know'st not f 
By angel-trumps in heaven their praise is blown, — 

Divine 'their 1st I 

What shall I do to gain eternal life ? 

Discharge aright 
Tho simple dues with which each day is rife! 

Yea, with thy might ! 



E'er perfect scheme of action thou devise, 

Will life bo lied : 
While ho who ever acts as conscience cries, 

Shall live, though dead. 



THE CLOWN'S SONG. 
Anonvmocs (British— 19tu Centcrt). 

" Here I am !" — and tho house rejoices ; 
Forth I tumble from out tho slips ; 
" Hero I am !" — and a hundred voices 
Welcome me on with laughing lips. 

The master, with easy pride, 

Treads the sawdust down ; 

Or quickens the horse's stride. 

And calls for his jesting clown. 

"What, ho, Mr. Mcrriman ! — Dick, 
Here's a lady that wants .your place." 
I throw them a somerset, quick, 
And griu in some beauty's face. 
I tumble, aud jump, and chatf, 
Aud fill them with wild delights; 
AVhatever my sorrow, I laugh, 
Through tho summer aud winter nights. 

I joke with the men, if I dare ; 

Do they strike, why I cringe and stoop ; 

Aud I ride like a bird in air, 

And I jump through tho blazing hoop. 

Whatever they say or do, 

I am ready with joke and jibe ; 

And, whenever the jests are now, 

I follow, like all my tribe. 

Rut life is not all a jest, 
Whatever the wise ones say ; 
For when I steal homo to rest 
(Aud I seek it at dawn of day), 

If winter, there is uo fire; 

If summer, there is no air: 

My welcome's a hungry choir 

Of children, and scanty fare. 

My wife is as lean a scold 

As famine can make man's wife ; 

We are both of us sour and old 

With drinkiug the dregs of life. 
Yet, why do I sigh f I wonder, 
Would the 'Tit" or tho "Boxes" sigh, 
Should I wash oil' my paint, aud, under, 
Show how a fool must diet 



540 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE SONG OF THE FORGE. 

Anonymous (British — 19th Centdrt). 

Clang, claug ! the massive anvils ring; 

Clang, claug ! a hundred hammers swing ; 

Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky, 

The mighty blows still multiply, — 

Clang, claug ! 

Say, brothers of the dusky brow. 

What are your stroug arms forging uov/ ? 

Clang, claug! — We forge the coulter now, — 
The coulter of the kiudly idough. 

Sweet Mary, mother, bless our toil ! 
May its broad furrow still unbiud 
To genial rains, to sun and wind, 

The most benignant soil ! 

Clang, clang! — onr coulter's course shall bo 
On many a sweet and slieltered lea. 

By many a streamlet's silver tide ; 
Amid the song of morning birds. 
Amid the low of sauntering herds. 
Amid soft breezes, which do stray 
Through woodbine hedges and sweet May, 

Along the green hill's side. 

When regal Autumn's bounteous baud 
With wide-spread glory clothes the laud, — 

Wheu to the valleys, from the brow 
Of each resplendent slope, is rolled 
A ruddy sea of living gold,- — 

We bless, we bless the jilough. 

Claug, clang! — again, my mates, what glows 
Beneath the hammer's potent blows? 
Cliuk, clank! — wo forgo the giant chain 
Which bears the gallaut vessel's strain 

'Mid stormy winds and adverse tides : 
Secured by this, the good ship braves 
Tlie rocky roadstead, and the waves 

Which thunder on her sides. 

Anxious no more, the merchant sees 
The mist drive dark before the breeze. 

The storm-clond on the hill ; 
Calmly he rests, — though far away, 
In boisterous climes, bis vessel lay, — 

Reliant on our skill. 

Say on what sands these liuks shall sleep. 
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep ? 



By Afric's pestilential shore ? 
By many an iceberg, lone aud hoar, — 
By many a palmy western isle. 
Basking in spring's perpetual smile ? 
By stormy Labrador? 

Say, shall they feel the vessel reel, 
Wheu to the battery's deadly peal 

The crashing broadside makes reply ; 
Or else, as at the glorious Nile, 
Hold grappling ships, that strive the while 

For death or victory ? 

Hurrah ! — cliug, claug ! — once more, what glows, 
Dark brothers of the forge, beneath 

The iron tempest of your blows, 
The furnace's red breath ? 

Claug, clang! — a burning torrent, clear 
And brilliant, of bright sparks, is poured 

Around and up in the dusky air. 
As our hammers forge the Sword. 

The Sword! — a uame of dread; yet when 
Upon the freeman's thigh 'tis bound, — 

While for bis altar and his hearth. 

While for the land that gave him birth, 
The war-drums ndl, the trumpets sound, — 

How sacred is it then ! 

Whenever for the truth and right 
It flashes in the van of fight, — 
Whether in some wild monntain pass, 
As that where fell Leonidas ; 
Or on some sterile plain and stern, 
A Marston or a Bauuockburn ; 
Or amid crags and bursting rills. 
The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills ; 
Or as, wheu sank the Armada's pride. 
It gleams above the stormy tide, — ' 

Still, still, whene'er the battle word 
Is Liberty, wheu men do stand 
For justice and their native laud, — 

Theu Heaveu bless the Sword! 



SUNRISE COMES TO-MORROW. 

Anonymous (Beitisu— 19th Century). 

True it is that clouds and mist 
Blot the clear, blue weather ; 

True that lips that once have kissed 
Come no more together : 



AXOXTMOUS JXD MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



r>4i 



Tri\e tliat wlicu wo would do good, 

Evil often follows ; 
Tnio that green leaves quit the wood, 

Summers lose tlieir swallows ; 
True that wo must live alone, 

Dwell with palo dejections; 
True that we must often moan 

Over crushed atVections; 
True that man his (|ueeu awaits — 

True that, sad and lonely, 
Woman, throngh her prison-gates. 

Sees her tyrant only : 
True, the rich despise the poor, 

And the poor desire 
Food still from the rich man's door, 

Fuel from his fire ; 
True that, in this ago of ours. 

There are none to guide us — 
Gone the grand primeval powers! 

Selfish aims divide us: 
True the plaint ; but, if more true, 

I would not deplore it ; 
If an Eden fade from view. 

Time may yet restore it. 

Evil comes, and evil goes. 

But it moves nie never ; 
For tho good, the good, it grows. 

Buds and blossoms ever. 
Winter still succeeds to Spring, 

But fresh springs -are coniiug; 
Other birds are on the wing, 

Other bees are humming. 
I have loved with right good-will, 

Monrued my hopes departed. 
Dreamed my golden dream — and still 

Am not brokeu-heartod. 
Problems are there hard to solve. 

And the weak may try them — 
May review them and revolve. 

While tho strong p.iss by them. 
Sages prove that God is not; 

But I still adore him. 
See the shadow iu each spot 

That be casts before him. 
What if cherished creeds must fade f 

Faith will never leave us; 
God pri'serves what God has made. 

Xor can Truth deceive ns. 
Let iu light— tho holy light! 

Brothers, fear it never; 
Darkness smiles, and wrong grows right : 

Let iu light forever! 



Let iu light I When this shall bo 

Safe and pleasant duty. 
Men in common things shall see 

Goodness, truth, and beauty; 
And as noble Plato sings — 

Hear it, lords and ladies! — 
Wo shall love and praise tho things 

That are down in Hades. 
Glad am I, and glad will be ; 

For my heart rejoices 
When sweet looks and lips I see. 

When I hear sweet voices. 
I will hope, and work, and love, 

.Singing to tho hours. 
While tho stars are bright above, 

And below, tho flowers : — 
Apple-blossoms on the trees, 

Gold-cups iu tho meadows. 
Branches w.aving in tho breeze, 

On the gra.ss their shadows : — 
Blackbirds whistling in tho wood, 

Cuekoos shouting o'er us; 
Clouds, with white or crimson hood. 

Pacing right before ns: 
Who, iu such a world as this. 

Could not heal his sorrow ? 
Welcome this sweet sunset bliss — 

Sunrise comes to-morrow ! 



WHKKE ARE YE? 
Anontmocs (British— IOtii Cextt:bt). 

Where are yo with whom in life I started, 
Dear companions of my golden days ? 

Yo are dead, estranged from me, or parted ; 
riown. like morning clouds, a thousand ways. 

Where art thou, iu youth my friend and brother- 
Yea, iu soul my friend and brother still f 

Heaven received thee, ;ind on earth no other 
Can the void iu my lorn bosiun lill. 

Where is she whoso looks were love and gladness- 
Love and gladness I no longer see t 

.She is gone, and since that hour of sadness 
Nature seems her sepulchre to me. 

Where am I f Life's current faintly flowing, 
Brings the welcome warning of release ; 

Struck with death! — ah! whither am I going f 
All is well — my spirit jiarts in peace! 



542 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



COME, SUNSHINE, COME ! 

From tue Fbenxh of Chahles Vincent. 

Come, Suushine, come ! thee Nature calls ! 

Give to the grape its vermeil hue, 
DisiJel the frost, the cloud, the storm, — 

Come, Sunshine, come ! the year renew ! 
The grain lies dormant In the soil. 

The bird sings from the withered tree. 
The ice-bound brook, the buried ilowers, 

Tarry, and watch, and long for thee. 

Come, Sunshine, come ! the torpid Earth 

Beneath thy ki-sses will awake ; 
Her blush, her bloom, shall truly tell — 

She loves thee, for thy own love's sake. 
Lo, at the opened sash, the Poor ! 

Waiting for thee, their being's sum ! 
Cold their abode, and scant their store — 

Come and relieve them. Sunshine, come ! 

Mountain, and vale, and desert waste, 

Prairie, and wood, and sea-bound isle. 
Herb, tree, and insect, roof and spire. 

Kindle to life beneath thy smile. 
Pleasure and love thy coming wait. 

Poets and birds thy coming sing ; 
Thy quickeuing kiss Creation needs ; — 

Come, Suushine, come : we yearn for Spring ! 



WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME. 

Anonymous (American— 19tii Century). 

When the grass shall cover me 
Head to foot where I am lying, — 
When not any wind that blows, 
Summer bloom or winter snows. 
Shall awake me to your sighing : 
Close above me as you pass, 
You will say, "How kind she was;" 
You will say, "How true she was," 
When the grass grows over me. 

When the grass shall cover me, 
HoUlen close to earth's warm bosom, 

While I laugh, or weep, or sing, 

Nevermore for anything, — 
You will find iu blade and blossom, 

Sweet small voices, odorous, 

Tender pleaders of my cause, 

That shall speak me as I was, — 
When the grass grows over me. 



When the grass shall cover me ! 

Ah ! belovdd, in my sorrow 
Very patient can I wait. 
Knowing that, or soon or late, 

There will dawn a clearer morrow, — 
When your heart will moan, " Alas, 
Now I know how true she was ; 
Now I know how dear she was," — 

When the grass grows over me. 



BATTLE HYMN AND FAREWELL TO LIFE. 

The following spirited translation is from the German of 
Theodore Korner. Boni iu the year 1791, he fell in hattle with 
the French, August 25th, 1S13, when he was scarcely twenty- 
two years old. 

Fatlier of earth and heaven, I call thy name ! 

Round me the smoke and shout of battle roll ; 
My eyes are dazzled with the rustling flame — 

Father, sustain an untried soldier's soul. 

Or life, or death, whatever be the goal 
That crowns or closes round the struggling hour, — 

Thou knowest if ever from my spirit stole 
One deeper prayer, 'twas that no cloud might lower 
Ou my young fame! Oh hear, God of eternal jjower! 

Now for the fight ! Now for the cannon-peal ! 

Forward, through blood and toil, and cloud and 
fire ! 
Glorious the shont, the shock, the crash of steel, 

The volley's roll, the rocket's blasting spire ! 

They shake! like broken waves their squares re- 
tire ! 
On them, hussars ! Now give them rein and heel ! 

Think of the orphaued child, the murdered sire : 
Earth cries for blood ! In thunder on them wheel ! 
This hour to Europe's fate shall set the triumph-seal! 



My deep wound burns ; my pale lips quake in death ; 

I feel my fainting heart resign its strife ; 

And reaching now the limit of my life, 
Lord, to thy will I yield my parting breath ! 
Yet many a dream hath cliarmed my youthful eye. 

And must life's fairy visions all depart? 

Oh, surely, no ! for all that fired my heart 
To rapture here shall live with me on high. 
And that fair form that won my earliest vow, 

Tliat my young spirit prized all else above, 

And now adored .as freedom, now as love. 
Stands in seraphic guise before me now ! 

And as my failing senses fade away. 

It beckons me ou high, to realms of endless day! 



AXOXYMOrS AM) MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



54:? 



THE GOING OF MY BRIDE. 

AXOM-MOCS (BrITISU— 19TII CENTiny). 

By tlie brink of tlio river our parting was fond, 
But I whispered tbc words soft and Ion- ; 

For a baud of bright angels were waitiug beyond, 
And my bride of a day was to go : 

Was to go from our slioro, witli its headland of years, 
On a water whoso dcptlis were untold; 

And the boat was to float on tliis River of Tears, 
Till it blent with an ocean of gold. 

Our f;irewell was brief as the fall of a tear — 
The minutes like wingeil spirits flew, 

When my brido whispered low tliat a shallop drew 
near, 
And the beck of the boatman she knew. 

Then I spoke in one kiss all the passion of years, 
For I knew that our parting was uigh ; 

Yet I saw not the eud — I was blinded by tears. 
And a, light had gone out from the sky. 

But I caught the faint gleam of an outdrifting sail, 

And the dip of a silver-tipped oar; 
And know, by the low, rustling sigh of the gale. 

That a spirit had gone from the shore. 

All alone iu my grief, I now sit on the sand. 
Where so often she sat by my side ; 

And I long for the shallop to come to the strand. 
That again I may sit by my bride. 



ERIN. 



Dr.Williom Drcnnnn (1754-1S20), nuthnr of "Glcndalloch.and 
other Pnems " (tS15), was one of tlie ablest writers among the 
United Irishmen, lie was the first to bestow on Ireland the 
title of "The Emerald Isle." It occurs iu the subjoined poem 
of "Erin," esteemed by Moore as " among the most perfect of 
modern songs, '* 

When Erin first rose from the dark swelling flood, 
(iod blessed the dear island, and saw it was good; 
The emerald of Europe, it sparkled and shone 
In the ring of the world the niosli precious stone. 
Ill her sun, in her soil, iu lier statiim thrice blessed. 
With her b.ick toward Britain, her face to the West, 
Erin stands proudly insular, on her steep shore. 
And strikes her high harp'iiiid the ocean's deep roar. 

Bnt when its soft tones seem to mourn and to weep. 
The dark chain of silence is thrown o'er the deep; 



At the thought of the past the tears gush from her 

eyes. 
And the pulse of her heart makes her white bosom 

rise. 
O sons of green Erin! lament o'er the time 
When religion was war, and our country a crime. 
When man, in God's image, inverted his ]ilan. 
And monlded his God in the image of man ; — 

When the int'rest of State wrought the general woe, 
The stranger a friend, and the native a foe ; 
While the mother rejoiced o'er her children op- 
pressed. 
And clasped the invader more close to her breast ; 
When with pale for the body, .and pale for the soul, 
Church and State joined in compact to conquer the 

whole ; 
And as Shannon was stained with Milesian blood, 
Eyed each other askance and pronounced it was 
good. 

By the groans that ascend from your forefathers' 

grave. 
For their country thus left to the brute and the slave. 
Drive the demon of Bigotry home to liis den, 
And where Britain made brutes now let Erin make 

men. 
Let my sons like the leaves of the shamrock unite, 
A partition of sects from one footstalk of right : 
Give each his full share of the earth and the sky, 
Nor fatten the slave where the serpeut would die. 

Alas for poor Erin ! that some are still seen 
Who would dye the grass red from their hatred U> 

green ; 
Yet, oh ! when you're up and they're down, let them 

live. 
Then yield them that mercy which they would not 

give. 
Arm of Erin, he strong ! but be gentle as bravo ! 
And uplifted to strike, be still ready to save! 
Let no feeling of vengeance presume to defile 
The cause of, or men of, the Emerald Isle. 

The cause it is good, and the men they are true, 
And the green shall outlive both the orange and blue ! 
And the triumiihs of Erin her daughters shall share. 
With the fuU-swolIiug chest and the fair-flowing 

hair. 
Their bosom heaves high for the worthy and brave. 
But no coward shall rest in that soft-swelling wave ; 
Men of Erin ! arise and make haste to bo blest, — 
Rise — Arch of the Ocean, and Queen of the Wcstl 



544 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISS AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE SWANS OF WILTON. 
Anontmods (British — IOth Centcrt). 

Oh liow the Swans of Wilton 

Twenty abreast did go, 
Like country brides bound for tlio chureli, 

Sails set and all aglow ! 
With jionting Ijreast iu pure white dressed, 

Soft gliding iu a row. 

Where through the weed's green fleeces, 

The iierch iu brazen coat, 
Like golden shuttles mermaids use 

Shot past my crimson flo.it ; 
Where swinish carp were snoring loud 

Around the auchored boat, — 

Adown the gentle river 

The white swans bore in sail. 
Their full soft feathers puffing out 

Like canvas iu the gale ; 
And all the kine and dappled deer 

Stood watching iu the vale. 

The .stately Swans of AViltou 

Strutted aud imil'ed along. 
Like canons iu their full white gown 

Late for the eveu-song, 
Whom up the vale the peevish bell 

In vain has chided long. 

Oh how the Swans of Wilton 
Boro down the radiant stream ; 

As calm as holy hermits' lives 
Or a play-tired infaut's dream ; — 

Like fairy beds of last year's snow, 
Did those radiant creatures seem! 



HYMN TO THE STARS. 

This remju'knble pnem appe.ared in the Boston Christian Ex- 
aminer in 1324; but whether it h:id previonsly appeared in 
some other work, British or Americ.iii, we cannot j'et e;iy. 

Ay, there ye shiue, and there have shone 

Iq one eternal hour of prime ; 
Each rolling, burningly alone, 

Thi'ough boundless space and countless time! 
Ay, there j-e shine — the golden dews 

That pave the realms by seraphs trod, 
There through yon echoing vault diftuse 

The song of choral worlds to God. 



Ye visible spirits! bright as erst 

Y'oung Eden's birthnight saw ye shiue 
On all her flowers and fountains finst, 

Y'et sparkling from the hand divine; — 
Yes, bright as then ye smiled to catch 

The music of a sphere so fair, 
Ye hold your high iiumortal watch ; 

And gird your God's pavilion there ! 

Gold frets to dust, — yet there ye are ; 

Tiiue rots the diamoud, — there ye roll, 
In primal light, as if each star 

Enshrined an everlasting soul! — ■ 
And do they not — since you bright throngs 

One all-enlightening Spirit own. 
Praised there by pure sidereal tongues, 

Eternal, glorious, blessed, and lone ? 

Could man but see wh.at ye have seen, 

Uufold awhile the shrouded ptist. 
From all that is, to what has been. 

The glance how rich, the range how vast ! 
The birth of time — the rise, the fall 

Of empires, myriads, ages flown, 
Thrones, cities, tongues, arts, worships — all 

The things who.se echoes are not gone. 

Ye saw rapt Zoroaster send 

His soul into your mystic reigu ; 
Ye saw the adoring Sabian bend — 

The living hills his mighty fiine! 
Beneath his blue aud beaming sky 

He worshipped at your lofty shrine, 
Aud deemed he saw, with gifted eye. 

The Godheail in his works divine. 

And there ye shine, as if to mock 

The children of a mortal sire ! 
The storm, the bidt, the earthquake's shock. 

The red volcano's cataract fire. 
Drought, famine, plague, and flood, aud flame, 

All Nature's ills (and Life's worst "woes), 
Are naught to you — ye smile the same. 

And scorn alike their dawn aud close. 

Ay, there ye roll — emblems sublime 

Of Him, whose spirit o'er us moves. 
Beyond the clouds of grief aiul crime, 

Still shining ou the world he loves ; — 
Nor is one scene to mortals given. 

That more divides the soul and sod. 
Than yon proud heraldry of heaven — 

Yon burning blazonrv of God ! 



.tyoWMorS .IXD MISCKLLAXKOrS rOlCMS. 



545 



SL'MMKK DAYS. 

Asosmors (Bkitisu— l^ii Centcrt). 

In siiuimer, when the days were long, 
We walked together in the wood ; 

Onr heart was light, our step was strong, 
Sweet llutterings were in our blood, 

In summer, when the days were long. 

Wo strayed from morn till evening came ; 
We gathered flowers, and wove lis crowns ; 

Wo walked 'mid poppies red as llatue. 
Or sat upon the yellow downs; 

And always wished onr life the same. 

Ill Slimmer, wlicn tho days were long, 
Wo leaped the hedge-row, crossed the brook ; 

And still her voice flowed forth in song, 
Or else she read some graceful book. 

In summer when the days were long. 

And then we sat beneath the trees, 
With shadows lessening in the noon ; 

And in the twilight and the breeze 
We feasted many a gorgeous June, 

While larks were singing o'er the leas. 

Ill summer, when the days were long. 
On dainty chicken, snow-white bre.id, 

We feasted, with no grace but song ; 
We plucked wild strawberries, ripe and red, 

III summer, when tho days were long. 

We loved, and yet wo knew it not, — 
For loving seemed like breathing then ; 

Wo found a heaven in every spot ; 
Saw angels, too, in all good men ; 

And dreamed of God in grove and grot. 

Ill summer, when tho dHvs are long. 
Alone I wander, niuso alone ; 

I SCO li'er not; but that old song 
Under the fragrant wind is blown. 

In summer, when the days are long. 

Alone I wander in the wood : 
Bnt one fair spirit hears my sighs; 

And half I see, so glad and good, 
The honest daylight of her eyes. 

That charmed me under earlier skies. 

In summer, when (lie days are long, 
I love her as we loved of old ; 
35 



My heart is light, my step is strong ; 

For love brings back those hours of gold, 

In summer, when the days aro long. 



WITH A ROSE IX HER IIAII;. 

.4N0NTM0US (BKiTisn— 19th Centiiiv). 

My own, it is time you were coming. 
For the ball-room is flooded with light, 

.\nd the leader impatiently luniiniing 
Tho valsc they begin with to-night ! 

But the music, the flowers, and the lustre 
Lack completeness when you are not there. 

So hasten to join Beauty's muster 

With a rose in your liair. 

'Twas thus I first saw you, my own one.' 
As adown the long terrace you paced. 

You had plucked the white ro.se — a full blown one 
Which amid your dark tres.ses was placed. 

Then my heart blossomed forth like the flower. 
To see yon so young and so fair. 

As you stood in the shade of the tower 

With a rose in your hair. 

And for aye, since that momont enchanted. 
My life, both in sun and its storm. 

In sorrow and joy, has been haunted 
liy an angel in feminine form. 

Yet I can't — though 'tis constantly nigh nie — 
Describe all its loveliness rare; 

Bnt I know this — it always floats by nic 
With a rose in its hair. 

And then you remember — (come nearer, 
A word in that ear — like a shell ! — ) 

When you whispered me none could be deai'er 
Than one — but his name I'll not tell — 

Ah! yonr hair — of its flower who bereft it t 
For you had none, I vow and declare. 

On regaining tho house; though you left it 
With a. rose in your hair. 

But why waste we moments of ple.isure T 

Hark ! tho music invites ns above : 
•Soon our feet shall beat time to the measure. 

As onr hearts beat the measure of love. 
Come, riueen of tho poet's rich fancies^ 

My queen, with whom none may ccmipare. 
Conic ami glide in your grace through the dances 
Willi a rose in voiir hair. 



546 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME. 
WiLLiAU Goldsmith Brown (19th CENTcny). 

Where, where ■will be the birds that siug, 

A hundred years to come? 
The flowers that now iu beauty spriug, 

A hundred years to come ? 
The rosy lips, the lofty brow, 
The heart that beats so gayly now. 
Oh, where will be love's beaming eye, 
Joy's pleasant smile, and sorrow's sigh, 

A hundred years to come ? 

Who'll press for gold this crowded street, 

A hundred years to come ? 
Who'll tread yon church with willing feet, 

A hundred years to come ? 
Pale trembling age, and fiery youth, 
And childhood with its bi'ow of truth, 
The rich, the poor ; on land and sea, — 
Where will the mighty niillious be 

A hundred years to come ? 

We all within our graves shall sleep, 

A hundred years to come ; 
No living soul for us will weep, 

A huudred years to come. 
But other men our lands shall till. 
And others then our streets will fill. 
While other birds will sing as gay, — 
As bright the sunshine as to-day, 

A hiindred years to come! 



LINES ON A SKELETON. 

Tlie MS. of the following piece was found in the Museum of 
the Royal College of Surgeons, Loudon, placed near one oftlie 
"skeletons, about the year 1S07. The secret of its authorship has 
not been divulged, though a reward was offered for it. 

Behold this ruin! 'Twas a sliull, 

Once of ethereal spirit full. 

This narrow cell was Life's retreat. 

This space was Thought's mysterious seat. 

What beauteous visions filled this spot. 

What dreams of pleasures long forgot ! 

Nor hope, nor love, nor joy, nor fear. 

Have left one trace of record here. 

Beneath this mouldering canopy 
Once shone the bright and busy eye ; 
But — start not at the dismal void — - 
If .social love that eye employed ; 



If with no lawless fire it gleamed, 

But through the dews of kindness beamed, 

That eye shall be forever bright 

When stars and suns are sunk in night. 

Within tins hollow cavern hung 

The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue. 

If Falsehood's honey it disdained, 

And where it conld not praise, was chained ; 

If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke, 

Yet gentle concord never broke, 

This silent Tongue shall plead for thee 

When time unveils Eternity. 

Say, did these fingers delve the mine? •, 
Or with its envied rubies shine t 
To hew the rock or wear the gem, 
Can little now avail to them. 
Hut if the page of truth they sought. 
Or comfort to the mourner brought, 
These hands a richer meed shall claim 
Than all that wait ou wealth or fame. 

Avails it whether bare or shod, 
These feet the jiaths of duty trod ? 
If from the bowers of Ease they tied, 
To seek Affliction's humble shed ; 
If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, 
And home to Virtue's cot returned ; 
These feet witli angel's wings shall vie, 
And tread the p.alace of the sky. 



SONNET: THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN.' 

Anontmol's (BaiTlsu— 19th Centcrt). 

It is a spectral show — this wondrous world — 

And all things iu it are a spectral show. 

In everything is something else infurled; 

And in the known lurks what we cannot know ; 

And from decay outgrowths stupendfius grow ; 

And naught coheres. The hardest iron hurled 

From catapult is not a solid ; no ! 

Its atoms teem with tinier atoms whirled 

Within ; distinct as they who walk the pave 

Of crowded cities, or the st.ars whose course 

We watch at midnight. For in tossing wave. 

In dense deposit, or pneumatic source, 

We find no substance — naught enduring — save 

The mutable results of hidden Force. 

1 From "Light Leading unto Light." 



AyuyTMOiii A.W MISCELLAXEOCS POEMS. 



TIIOU WILT NEVER GROW OLD. 

Mrs. lloWARTlI (PlDLlSIIED 18M). 

TIkiu wilt never grow old, 

Nor weary, nor sad, in tlio homo of tliy liirtU : 
My beautiful lily, tby leaves will unl'ohl 

lu a climo that is purer and brighter than earth. 
Oh, holy and fair! I ivjoico thou art there. 

In that kingdom of li^ht, with its cities of gold. 
Where the air thrills with angel hosanuas, and where 

Thou wilt never grow ohl, sweet, — 
Never grow old ! 

I am a pilgrim, with sorrow and sin 

Ilannting my footsteps wherever I go; 
Life is a warfare my title to win ; 

Well will it bo if it end not in woe. 
Pray for me, swoct; I am laden with care; 

Bark aro my garments with mildew and mould: 
Thou, my bright angel, art sinle.ss and fair. 

And wilt never grow old, sweet, — 
Never grow old ! 

Now canst thou hear from thy home in tho skies 

All tho fcnul words I am whispering to thee f 
Dost thou look down on mo with the soft eyes 

Greeting mo oft ero thy spirit was freef 
So I believe, though the shadows of time 

Hide tbo bright spirit I yet shall behold : 
Thou wilt still lovo me, and (pleasure sublime !) 

Thou wilt never grow old, sweet, — 
Never grow old ! 

Thus wilt thou bo when tho pilgrim, grown gray. 
Weeps when tho vines from the hearthstone aro 
riven ; 
Kaith shall lieholil thee as pure as the day 

Thou wert torn from the earth, and transplanted 
in heaven : 
Oh, holy aud fair ! I rejoice thou art there, 

In that kingdom of light, with its cities of gold, 
Where the air thrills with angel hosannas, and where 
Thou wilt never grow old, sweet, — 
Never grow old ! 



HAPPIEST DAYS. 
ANoNTUoi's (British— IOtii Cesttbt). 

They tell us, love, that you and I 
Our happiest days aro seeing, 

While yet is shut from cither's eye 
The change that waits on being. 



Ah ! life, they say, is a weary way. 

With less of joy than sorrow. 
For where the sunlight falls to-day 

There'll bo a shade to-morrow. 

If ours be love that will not bear 

Tho test of change aud sorrow, 
And only deeper channels wear 

In passing to each morrow ; 
Then better were it that to-day 

Wo fervently were praying 
That what wo have might pass away 

While wo the words were saying. 

Tho heart has depths of bitterness. 

As well as depths of pleasure ; 
And those who love, lovo not, unless 

They both of these can measure. 
There is a time, and it will come, 

Wheu this they must discover; 
And woe if either then be dnml» 

To power that moved the lover. 

There aro some spots where each may fall, 

And each will need sustaining ; 
And sufiering is the lot of all. 

And is of God's ordaining; 
Then wherefore do our hearts unite 

In bonds that none can sever, 
If not to bless each changing light. 

And strengthen each endeavor? 

Then, while these happy days wo bless, 

Let us no doubt bo sowing; 
God's mercy never will be less. 

Though he should change tho showing. 
Such be our faith, as on we tread, 

Eacli trusting and obeying. 
As two who by his hand are led. 

And hear what he is saying. 



I AM THE LORD; I CHANGE NOT.' 

Change not, change not to nie, my (!od, 

I would that thou shouldst bo 
To farthest worlds what thou hast been 

On this sad earth to me : 
Though thou hast baflled sore my life, 

Though thy swift-scourging rod 
Hath left mo spirit-scarred, I cry. 

Change not to nie, my God ! 

' Frnin " Tlic New Minnesinger, nud other Pocme," by Armh 
Leigli, Loiidr>u, 1ST&. 



548 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AM) AMERICAN POETRT. 



Cliange not to me for any change 

That o'er my soul may come, 
AVheu lips that dearly love thy praise 

In bitterness are dumb ; 
Yea, when I love thee not at all, 

When from thy face I flee, 
Let thy compelling love pursnc, — 

My God, change not to me ! 

Wlien Death has wrought his awfnl change, 

And left me spirit-bare, 
Thou, who didst hide nie 'neath thy wings, 

Thy mantling love prepare. 
I am no other than I was 

When most Thou didst befriend ; 
I trust thee. Lord, for what thou wcrt : 

Be changeless to the end. 

I do not ask with sudden step 

Thy purest heaven to win ; 
Be still. Most Merciful, all love. 

Relentless to ray sin ; 
Yea, Lord, make wholly beautiful 

What thou hast loved so well ; 
Burn out in me whate'er defiles, — 

Burn out in lire of hell. 

Let mc but know thy voice, its word 

I will in all obey ; 
In outer darkness still most sure 

That thou wilt find a way 
To bring thy banished to thyself. 

As thou didst bring of old. 
When thy sin-weaiied child but thought 

On the forsaken fold. 

Change not to njc in those far worlds. 

Where all is strange and new ; 
Where can my stranger spirit rest, 

If thou art changdd too f 
As turns the child from alien crowd 

To the one kindred face. 
To iiud that mother-eyes make home 

In unfamiliar place, — 

So, trembling, must I turn to thee, 

The Gcid whom I have known, 
The God who, in this lonely world, 

Hath never left mc lone. 
Do with me. Lord, whate'er tlion wilt, 

So only tliou wilt be. 
Forever and for evermore, 

What tluiu hast been to me. 



INVOCATION OF EARTH TO MORNING. 
Anonymous (British — 19th Century). 

Wake from thy azure ocean-bed, 

Oh ! beautiful sister. Day ! 
Uplift thy gem-tiaraed head, 
And, in thy vestal robes arrayed. 

Bid twilight's gloom give way ! 
Wake, dearest sister! the dark-browed night 
Delayeth too long her drowsy flight. 

Most glorious art tliou, sister Day, 

Upon thy chariot throne, 
Wliile, sitting supremo in regal sway, 
Tliou boldest thy high ciinlgent way. 

In majesty alone ; 
Till into thy cloud-pavilioned home 
In the burning west tliy footsteps come. 

When last thy parting look I caught, 
Which turned to smile good-night. 
With all a lover's fondness franglit — 
There seemed not in the universe aught 

So precious in thy sight. 
As thy own dear Earth, while to her breast 
She folded her slumbering babes to resjt. 

I hear the sparkling midnight spheres 

Rehearse the choral hymn. 
Which yet, ere Earth was stained with tears, 
Burst on tho joy-entranci^d ears 

Of lioly seraphim : 
Wliih) the lofty blue empyrean rang, 
As the morning stars together sang. 

Oil, many a joyous moiiiitaiii rill. 

And many a rustling stream, 
Calm lake and glassy fountain still, 
Tall grove and silent mist-clad hill, 

Long for thy coming beam! 
Uprouso thee, then, fairest sister, dear ! 
For all are pining thy voice to hear. 

Willi trembling and inipatiPnt wing, 

My birds on every sjiray 
Await, thy welcome, forth to sing 

With many a melting lay; 
Then wherefore, beautiful, linger so long ? 
Earth sighs to greet thee with shout and song. 

The sunflower her vigil lone hath kept. 
With love's untiring care ; 



JXOXYilOVS .l.\D MISCELLAXEOVS POEMS. 



:<vj 



Though loiiiid her piiilcs and violets slept, 
.She \v:ikefully hath wutelieil and \ve|i(, 

I'liti) (ho dewy air ; 
And, like a dcsohite bride, slio waits 
for tUo opening of her lovers gates. 

Oh, then arise, fair sister, dear! 

Awake, beloved Day ! 
For many a silent Irenilding tear 
Falls on my breast like diamond clear, 

III grief for thy delay, 
From the rosy bowers of tlio orient skies. 
Then up, sweetest sister, arise, arise ! 



ODE TO WASHINGTON. 

Mrs. Amiis Bondinot Stockton, of New Jersey, nuthor of 
"The Triumph of Mildness," and who wrote in the latter half 
of the eighteenth century, addies^seil sonic of her poetry to 
Washington, whose reply, from which the followiiij; is an ex- 
Inict, shows he was not so austere tliat he could not indulge, 
on occasion, in the playful gallantry of the old school : 

" Rocky nin, SepU-mbtr 5d, 1783. 

'* You apply to me, my dear madam, for absolution, as though 
I were your father-conl^essor. If it is a crime to write elegant 
poetry, and if you will come and dine with inc on Thursday, 
Mild go throllgli the proper course of penitence, 1 will strive 
hard lo acquit you of your poetical tresjiasses. 

"Your 111081 obedient and obliged servant, 

"Gkorgb Wasuinoton. 
'* To Mofl. Stockton." 

The following Hues, though Ihcy may lack the Ideal graces 
of the modern schmil, are superior lo much that passed as 
poetry n biiiidrcd years ago, when Darwin and Ilayley ruled 
the popular taste. 

With ill! thy country's blessings on thy Inad, 

And all the glory that encircles man, — 
Tliy dcatliless fame to distant nations spread, 

And realms iinlilessed by Freedom's genial plan ; — 
Addressed by statesmen, legislators, kings, 

Kevered by thousands as yon pass along. 
While every mnso with ardor spreads her wings. 

To greet onr hero in immortal song: — 
.Say, can .1 woiujin's voice an audience gain. 

And stop a ninment thy triumphal car? 
.\nd wilt tlion listen to a iietieefiil strain, •■ 

Unskilled to paint the horrid wrack of war? 
For what is glory f What are martial deeds, 

I'lipiirified at Virtue's nwfnl shrine f 
Full ot't remorso a glorious day succeeds — 

Tlie motive only stamps tln! deed divine. 
IJiit thy last legacy, renowiii<d chief. 

Hath decked thy brow with honors more sub- 
lime : — 
Twined in thy wreath the Christian's llrni belief, 

And nobly owned thy faith to future time I 



KKyiTF.SL'A.M. 

This remarkable little poem, said to have been found under 
the pillow of a wounded soldier near Port Royal (1804), is the 
production of an Americau lady, Mrs. Robert S. llowland. 

I lay me dnwn to sleep. 
With little tliDiiglit or care 

Whether my waking lind 
Me here or there. 

A bowing, burdened head, 

That only a.sks to rest, 
I'nquestioning, npon 

A loving breast. 

My good right hand forgets 

Its cunning now — 
To march the weary march 

I know not how. 

I am not eager, bold. 

Nor strong — all that is jitist; 

I am ready uot to do 
At last, at last. 

My half day's work is done, 

And this is all my part ; 
I give a x>atient God 

Jly patient heart, — 

And grasp his banner still. 
Though all its bine bo dim ; 

These stripes, no less than stars. 
Lead after Him. 



THE DEPARTED GOOD. 
Isaac Williams (Exclaxd— tSOS-lSCi). 

The good — they drop afonnd 11s, one liy one, 

Like stars when morning breaks; though lost to sight 

Around us are they still in Heaven's own light, 

Huilding their mansions in tlie purer zone 

Of the invisible: when round are thrown 

.Shadows of sorrow, still serenely bright 

To faith they gleam ; and blessed be sorrow's night 

That brings the o'erarehing heavens in silence down, 

A mantle set with orbs unearthly fair! 

Alas! to us they are not, though they dwell, 

Divinely dwell- in memory; while life's sun 

Declining, bids ns for the night prepare; 

That we, with urns of light, and our task done, 

May stand with them in lot nnehaugeablc. 



550 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



A SPRING SONG. 

Edward Youl {IlouiiVs London Magazine — 1847). 

Laud the fir-st spring daisies ; 

Chant aloud their praises ; 

Send the children up 

To the high bill's top ; 

Tax not the strength of their young hands 

To increase your lauds. 

Gather the jiriniroses ; 

Make haudfuls into posies ; 

Take them to the little girls who are at work in 

mills : 
Pluck the violets blue, — 
All, pluck not a few! 
Knowest thou what good thoughts from heaven the 

violet iustils ? 

Give the children holidays 

(And let these be jolly days) ; 

Grant freedom to the children in this joyous spring: 

Better men, hereafter, 

Shall we have, for laughter 

Freely shouted to the woods, till all the echoes ring. 

Seud the children up 

To the high hill's top, 

Or deep into the wood's recesses, 

To woo Spring's caresses. 

See, the birds together, 

In this splendid weather, 

Worship God (fot he is God of birds as well as men) ; 

And each .feathered neighbor 

Enters on his labor, — 

Sparrow, robin, redpole, finch, the linnet, and the 
wren. 

As the year advances, .^ 

Trees their naked brauches 

Clothe, and seek fonv pleasure in their green apparel. 

Insect and mild beast 

Keep no Lent, but feast ; 

Spring breathes upon the earth, and their joy is in- 
creased, 

And the rejoicing birds break forth in one loud carol. 

Ah, come and woo the spring ! 
List to the birds that sing ; 
Pluck the primroses ; pluck the violets ; 
Pluck the daisies, 
Sing their praises ; 

Friendship with the Howers some noble thought be- 
gets. 



Come forth and gather these sweet elves 
(More witching are they than the fays of old). 
Come forth and gather them yourselves, 
Learu of these gentle flowers, whose worth is more 
than gold. 

Come, come into the wood ; 

Pierce into the bowers 

Of these gentle tlowers. 

Which not in solitude 

Dwell, but with each other keep society ; 

AimI, with a simple piety. 

Are ready to be woven into garlands for the good. 

Or, upon summer earth. 

To die, in virgin worth, 

Or to be strewn before the bride, 

And the bridegroom, by her side. 

Come forth on Sundays ; 

Come forth on Mondays; 

Come forth ou any day ; 

Children, come forth to play : — 

Worship the God of nature in your childhood ; 

Worship him at your tasks with best endeavor; 

Wor.ship him in your sports; worshiji him ever; 

Worship him in the wild wood; 

AVorship him amid the flowers ; 

In the greenwood bowers; 

Pluck the buttercups, and raise 

Your voices in his praise. 



MY TREASURES. 

Anonymous {IJiuTrsii — 19tii Centcry). 

Let me count my treasures, all my soul holds dear, 
Given me by dark spirits whom I used to fear : — 
Through long days of anguish and sad nights did 

Pain 
Forge my shield Endurance, bright and free from 

stain. 
Doubt, in misty caverns, 'raid dark horrors sought. 
Till my peerless jewel, Faith, to me she brought. 
ScU'row (that I wearied should remain so long), 
Wreathed my starry glory, the bright Crown of 

Song ! 
Strife, that racked my spirit without hope or rest. 
Left the blooming flower. Patience, ou my breast. 
Suffering, that I dreaded, ignorant of her charms, 
Laid the fair child, Pity, smiling in my arms. 
So I count my treasures, stored in days long past; 
And I thank the givers, ■\\ hom I know at last ! 



JXONTMOVS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



551 



•I won, I) NOT LIVK ALWAY."— Job vii. lO. 

The Rev. Willinm Au?iislii9 Muhlenberg, n great -srandson 
of Henry Slelchulr Slublcuberg, who wns the founder of the 
Gerninu Lutheran Church in Americn, was born in Philiulel- 
phin iu K'JO, nnd died in 1877. The great chnrities of St. Luke's 
llntipitnl niid SL .Tohnland remain ns enduring monuments of 
his untiring energy and Christian spirit. His "Life and Works" 
were published by the Messrs. Harper iu issn. We subjoin his 
I)opnlar hymn as it appears in his latest revision. 

I would not live, al\v:iy : I ask uot to stay, 
Where stiinii after storm rises dark o'er the way : 
Where, seekin;; for n^st, I lint hover around, 
Like the patriarch's bird, .and no resting is fonnd ; 
Where Hopo, when she paints her gay bow in tho air, 
Leaves her brilliance to fade in the night of desjiair, 
.Vnd .Joy's lleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray, 
$uve the gloom of the plumage that bears him away. 

I would not live alway — thus fettered by siu, 
Tenipt.atiun withont, and corruption within ; 
In a moment of strength if 1 sever the chain. 
Scarce tho victory's mine ere I'm captive again. 
IC'iii the rapture of panlon is mingled with fears. 
And my eiip of thauksgiving with penitent tears. 
The festival trump calls for jubilant songs, 
liut my spirit her own mixrivyr prolongs. 

I would not live alway: no, welcome tho tomb; 
Immortality's lamp burns there bright 'mid tho 

gloom. 
There too is the pillow where Christ bowed his 

bead — 
Oh, soft bo my slumbers ou that holy bed ! 
And then the glad morn soon to follow tliat night, 
When the sunri.se of glory shall beam on ray sight, 
When the full niatiu-soug, as the .sleepers arise 
To shout in tho niorning, shall peal through the 

skies. 

Who, who -would live alway, away from his God, 
Away from you heaven, that blissful aboile, 
Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er tho bright 

plains, 
.Vnd tho noontide of glory eternally reigns; 
Where the saints of all ages iu hannonv meet. 
Their Saviiuir and brethren transported to greet ; 
While tho anthems of rapture uuccaaingly roll, 
.\nd the smile of tho Lord is the feast of the soul ? 

That heavenly music I what is it I hear ? 
The notes of the harpers ring sweet on my car. 
And see, soft unfolding, those portals of gold, 
Tho King all arrayed in his beauty behold I 



Oh, give me — oh, give me tho wings of a dove! 
Let me hasten my flight to those mansions above ; 
Ay, 'tis now that my soul ou swift pinions would 

soar, 
Aiul iu ecstasy bid earth allien evermore. 



THE BEAUTIFUL. 

E. H. ncRKINGTON (BniTlsn— 19tii Centcrv). 

Walk with the Jieautiful and with the (irand, 
Let nothing on the earth thy feet deter ; 

Sorrow may lead thee weeping by the liaud. 
But give not all thy bosom thoughts to her : 

Walk with the Beautiful. 

I hear thee say, " The Beautiful! what is it?" 
Oh, thou art darkly ignorant : be sure 

'"Tis no long weary road its form to visit, 

For thou canst make ifc<sjnile beside thy door: 
Tlieli love the B^>autiful. 

Ay, love it; 'tis a sister that will bless, 

And tcacU thee patience when tho heart' is lonely : 

Tho angels love it, for they wear its dross, 
And thou art made a little lower only; 

Thi'u love the Beautiful. 

Some boast its presence iu a Grecian face, 
Some, iu a, favorite warbler of the skies ; 

But bo not fooled ! whatc'er thine eye may trace. 
Seeking tho Beautiful, it will arise; 

Then seek it everywhere. 

Thy bosom is its mint; tho workmen are 

Thy thoughts, and tliej- must coin for thee: be- 
lieving 
The Beautiful exists in every star. 

Thou niak'st it so, and art thyself deceiving 
If otherwise thy faith. 

Dost thou see beaut.v in the violet's cup! 

I'll teach thee miracles: walk on this heath. 
And say to the iiri/leclid flowius, " Look up. 

And be ye beautiful!" — if thou hast faith. 

They will obey thy word. 

One thing I warn thee : bow no knee to gold : 
Le.ss innocent it makes the guileless tongue; 

It turns the feelings prematurely old. 

And they who keep their best atVectious young, 
Best love the Beautiful I 



552 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE JOY OF INCOMPLETENESS. 
ANONYMOUS (Unknown — 19th Century). 

If all oiu- life were one broad glaie 

Of siiuligbt, clear, uuclovuled ; 
If all our path were smooth and fair, 

By uo deep gloom eushroiided ; — 

If all life's llowers were folly blowu 

Without the slow uufoldiug, 
Aud happiuess mayhap were thrown 

On hands too weak for holding ; — 

Then we .should miss the twilight honr.s, 

The intermingling sadness. 
And pray, perhaps, for storms and showers 

To break the constant gladness. 

If none were sick, and none were sad. 
What service could we render? 

I think if we were always glad, 
We hardly could be tender. 

Did our belov(5d never need 

Our loving ministration. 
Life wonld grow cold, and miss, indeed. 

Its finest consolation. 

If sorrow never smote the heart, 
And every wish were granted, — 

Then faith wonld die, and hope depart, 
And life be disenchanted. 

And if in heaven is no more night, 
In heaven is no more sorrow, — 

Sneli iininuigined, pure delight 

Fresh grace from pain will borrow. 



UNCROWNED KINGS. 

Berkeley Aiken (British — about 1S54). 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings! 

Made royal by the brain and heart; 

Of all earth's wealth the noblest part, 

Yet reckoned nothing in the mart 

Where men know naught but sordid things, — 

All hail to you, mo,st kingly kings! 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings! 
Whose breath and words of living flame 
Have waked slaved nations from their shame, 
Aud bid them rise in manhood's name, — 



Swift as the curved bow backward springs, — 
To follow you, most kingly kings ! 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings! 
Whose strong right arm hath oft been bared 
Where fires of righteous battle glared, 
And where all odds of wrong ye dared ! — 
To thiuk on yon the heart upsprings, 
O ye uncrowned but kingly kings! 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings! 
Whose burning songs, like lava poured, 
Have smitten like a two-edged sword 
Sent forth by heaven's avenging Lord 
To purge the earth where serfdom clings 
To all but you, O kinglj' kings I 

O ye nncrownod but kingly kings! 
To who.so ecstatic gaze alone 
The beautiful by heaven is showu. 
And who have made it all your own ; 
Your lavish hand around ns flings 
Earth's richest wreaths, O noble kings! 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! 
The heart leaps wildly at your thought, 
Aud the brain fires as if it caught 
Shreds of your mantle ; ye have fought 
Not vainly, if your glory brings 
A lingering light to earth, kings! 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings! 
Whose souls on Marah's fruit did sup, 
And went in fiery chariots up 
When each had drained his hemlock cup, — - 
Y'e friends of God, but tyrants' stings. 
Uncrowned, but still tlie kiiigliest kings! 



WONDERLAND. 

CRADorK Newton (English— 1851). 

Mournfully listening to the waves' strange talk, 
And marking, with a sad and moistened eye. 
The summer days sink down behind the sea, — 
Sink down beneath the level brine, aud fall 
Into the Hades of forgotten things, — 
A mighty longing stcaleth o'er the soul ; 
As of a man who panteth to behold 
His idol in another l.aud — if yet 
Her heart be treasured for him, — if her eyes 
Have yet the old love in them. Even so. 
With passion strong as love and deep as death, 
Yearneth the spirit after Wonderland. 



Axoyy.uors .i.\i> mlhellamcocs poems. 



553 



All, liappy, liappy laiul ! Tlio busy soul 
Calls up ill jiictiufs of tlio lialf-sliut eye 
Thy shores of splendor : as a fair blind girl, 
Who thinks tlio roses innst bo beautiful, 
lint cannot see their beauty. Olden tones, 
Itorne on the bosom of the breeze from far, — 
Angels that came to the young heart in dreams, 
And then, like birds of passage. Hew away, — 
Ketnrn. The rugged steersman at the wheel 
Softens inio ji cloudy shape. The sails 
Move to a music of their own. liravo bark, 
Speed well, and bear us unto AVonderland .' 

Leave far behind thee the vexed earth, where men 
Spend their dark days in weaving their own 

shrouds : 
And Fraud and Wrong are crowndd kings; and Toil 
Hath chains for hire; and all creation groans, 
Crying, in its great bitterness, to God; 
And Love can never speak the thing it feels. 
Or save the thing it loves, — is snccorless. 
Kor, if one say " I love thee," what poor words 
They are ! While they are spoken, the belov<!d 
Travelleth, as a doomed lamb, the road of death ; 
And sorrow blanehes the fair hair, and pales 
The tinted cheek. Not so in Wonderland! 

There larger natures sport themselves at ease 
'Xeath kindlier suns that nurture fairer flowers, 
And richer harvests billow in the vales. 
And p.issiiHiate kisses fall on godlike brows 
As summer rain. And never know they there 
The passion that is desolation's prey ; 
The bitter tears begotten of farewells ; 
Kndle.ss renunciations, when the heart 
Loseth the all it lived for; vows forgot. 
Cold looks, estraiigc''d voices, — all the woes 
That poison earth's delight. F<n- love endnres, 
.Ncu' fades, nor changes, in the Wonderland. 

.Mas I the nigged steersman at the wheel 
Comes back again to vision. The hoarse sea 
.•^peaketh from its great heart of discontent, 
And ill the misty distance dies away, 
riio Wonderland ! — 'Tis pa.st and gone. O soul ! 
While yet unbodied thou didst suinmer there, 
fJod saw thee, led thee forth from thy green hanut.s, 
And bade thee know another world, less fair. 
Less calm! .\inbi(iou, knowledge, and de.sire 
Orove from thee thy first worship. Live and 

learn ; 
Helievo and wait ; and it may be that ho 
Will guide thee back again to Wonderland. 



MISCHIEVOUS WOMAN. 

Hy "Tiie Ettbick SllErllE&D" (SEE Pace 277). 

Could this ill warld ha'o been contrived 

To stand without mischievous woman, 
How peacefu' bodies might ha'o lived, 

Released frae a' the ills sae common ! 
liut since it is the waefii' case 

That man maun ha'o this teasing crony, 
Why sic a sweet bewitching face ? 

O had she uo been made sac bonny ! 

I might lia'e roameil wi' cheerfu' mind, 

Xao sin or sorrow to betide me. 
As careless as the wanderiug wind. 

As liappy as the lamb besido nie : 
I might ha'o screwed my tiiiiefu' pegs, 

And candled mountain-airs fu' gayly, 
Had we but wanted a' the Megs, 

Wi' glossy ecu sae dark an" wily. 

I saw the danger, feared tlii> dart, 

The smile, the air, an! a' sae taking ; 
Yet open laid my wareless heart, 

An' gat the wound that keeps mo waking. 
My harp waves on the willow green, — 

Of wild witch-notes it has nae ony 
Sin e'er I saw that pawky quean, 

Sao sweet, sae wicked, an' sae bonny ! 



THE WATEU-UKINKER. 
Kdward .Ioiinsos, M.D. {London Metropolitan Magazine— ISSIl). 

Oh, water for me! liiighl water for me! 

And wine for the tremnloiis debauchee! 

It cooleth the brow, it coolefh the biaiu, 

It maketh the faint one strong again ; 

It comes o'er the sense like ii breeze from the sea, 

All freshness, like infant purity. 

Oh, water, bright water, for me, for me ! 

Give wine, give wine to the debauchee! 

Fill to the brim! Fill, fill to the brim! 
Let (ho flowing cryst.il kiss the riin ! 
For my hand is steady, my eye is true. 
For I, like the flowers, drink naught but dew. 
Oh! water, bright water's a mine of wealth. 
And the ores it yieldeth are vigor and health. 
So water, pure water, for me, fin- me ! 
.\iid wiuo for the tremulous debauchee! 



554 



CrCLOPJSDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBICAN POETRY. 



Fill again to the brim ! again to the brim ! 
For water streugtheueth life ami limb ! 
To tlie clays of the agi?il it addetli length, 
To the might of the strong it addeth strength. 
It freshens the heart, it brightens the sight, 
'Tis like quaffing a goblet of morning light : — 
So, water 1 I will drink naught but thee, 
Tliou parent of health and energy ! 

When o'er the hills, like a gladsome bride. 
Morning walks forth in her beauty's pride. 
And, leading a band of laughing hours. 
Brushes the dew from the nodding Uowers, — 
Oh, cheerily then my voice is heard. 
Mingling with that of the soaring bird. 
Who flingetli abroad his matins loud. 
As he freshens his wing in the cold gray cloud. 

But when evening has quitted her sheltering yew. 

Drowsily flying, and weaving anew 

Her dusky meshes o'er land and sea — 

How gently, O sleep ! fiill thy poppies on me ; 

For I drink water, pnre, cold, and bright, 

And my dreams are of heaven the livelong night ; 

So, hurrah for thee, water ! hurrah, hurrah ! 

Thou art silver and gold, thou art ribbon and star! 

Hurrah for bright water! hurrah, hurrah! 



GLENLOGIE. 

Smitfi's Scottish JIinstrel (ISto Centuhy). 

Threescore o' nobles rade np the king's ha', 
But bonuie Gleulogie's the flower o' them a'; 
Wi' his milk-white steed, and his bonnie black e'e, 
" Glenlogic, dear mither, Gleulogie for me !" 

" O baud your tongue, daughter, ye'll get better than 

he;" 
" say nao sae, mither, for that canna be ; 
Though Donuilie is richer and greater than he. 
Yet if I maun tak him, I'll certainly dee. 

"Where will I get a bonnie boy, to win hose and 

shoou. 
Will gae to Glenlogie, and come again soon ?" 
" O here am I a bonnie boy, to win hose and shoon, 
Will gae to Glenlogie, and come again soon." 

When he gaed to Glenlogie, 'twas "Wash and go 

dine :" 
'Twas " Wash ye, my pretty boy, wash and go dine." 



" O 'twas ne'er my father's fashion, and it ne'er shall 

be mine, 
To gar a lady's hasty errand wait till I dine. 

" But there is, Glenlogie, a letter for thee :" 
The first line that he read, a low smile gave he ; 
The next line that he read, the tear blindit Iiis e'e : 
But the last line that he read, he gart the table flee. 

" Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle the brown ; 
Gar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade frae a t<jwn." 
But lang ere the horse was drawn and brought to 

the green, 
O bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his lane. 

When he came to Glenfeldy's door, little mirtli was 

there : 
Bonuie Jean's mither was tearing her hair ; 
" Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, ye're welcome," s.aid she ; 
" Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, yonr Jeanie to see." 

Pale and wan was she when Glenlogie gaed ben, 
But red and rosy grew she whene'er he sat down ; 
She turned awa' her head, but the smile was in her 

e'e, 
" O binna feared, mither, I'll maybe no dee." 



THE PLACE TO DIE. 

Michael Joseph Barrt {Dublin Nation, IStS). 

How little recks it where men die, 

When once the moment's past 
In which the dim and glazing eye 

Has looked on earth its last ; 
Whether beneath the sculptured nru 

The coffined form shall rest. 
Or, in its nakedness, return 

Back to its mother's breast. 



Death is a common friend or foe, 

As difterent men may hold. 
And at its summons each must go, 

The timid and the bold ; 
But when the spirit, free and warm, 

Deserts it, as it must, 
AVhat matter where the lifeless form 

Dissolves again to dust? 

The soldier falls 'mid corses piled 

Upon the battle plain, 
Where reinless war-steeds gallop wild 

Above the gory slain : 



AXOXTMOCS AXD MISCELLAXEOUS POEMS. 



But tlioiigh liis corse bo grim to see, 
Uoof-traiuiiloil on tlic soil, — 

What ri'cks it wlicii tlio spirit free 
Has soared aloft to God! 

The coward's dying cyo may close 

Upon bis downy bod, 
And softest bands bis limbs compose, 

Or garments o'er bini spread : 
But yo who shun tbo bloody fray 

■Where fall the mangled brave, 
Go strip bis coflin-lid away, 

Aud see liini in bis grave! 

'Twero sweet indeed to close our eyes 

With those we cherish near, 
And, wafted upward by their sighs, 

Soar to some calmer sphere : 
But whether on the scatlbld high, 

Or iu the battle's van. 
The Attest place where man can die 

Is where he dies for man. 



TO MV WIFE. 
WiLLiu Smitb (Enclisd— 1809-1871). 

Oh ! vex me not with needless cry 

Of what the world may think or claim : 

Let the sweet life pass sweetly by, 

The same, the same, aud every day the same. 

Thee, Nature, — thought, — that burns iu me 

A living and consuming llnme, — ■ 
These must sullice : let the life bo 

The same, the same, and cvei more tlie same. 

Here find I task-work, hero society. 

Thou art my gold, thou art my fame : 
Let the sweet life pass sweetly by, 

The same, the same, aud every day the same. 



LOVE AMD ABSENCE. 

From " Tiic Pelican Papem," bt Jaues Asnraorr Noble, Lon< 
Don, 1873. 

Let it not grieve tliec, dear, to he.ar me say 
'Tis false that absence maketh the fond heart 
More fond ; that when alone, and far apart 
From thee, I lovo theo more from day to day. 
Not .so; for then my heart would ever pray 
For longer separation, that I might 
Iu absence fiom thee gain the utmost height 



Of lovo unrealized ; nor would I stay 
Iu my swift course, but ever onward press, 
Until mine eager baud should touch the goal 
Of possible passion. Did I love thee less, l 
Then might I love thee more ; but now my soul 
Is filled throughout with perfect tenderness ; 
No part of mo thou bast, but the full whole. 



DREAMS. 
AsoNTMocs (BniTisn— IOtu Cextvbt). 

Oh, there's a dream of early youth. 

And it never comes again : 
'Tis a vision of light, of life, of truth, 

That flits across the brain : 
And love is the theme of that early dream, 

So wild, so warm, so new. 
That in all our after-life, I deem. 

That early dream we rue. 

Oh, there's a dream of maturer years, 

More turbulent by far ; 
'Tis a vision of blood and of woman's tears. 

And the theme of that dream is war: 
Aud we toil in the field of danger aud death. 

And wo shout in the battle-array. 
Till wo find that fame is a bodiless breath 

That vanishetb away. 

Oh, there's a dream of hoary age : 

'Tis a vision of gold iu store ; 
Of sums noted down on a figured page. 

To be counted o'er and o'er :— 
And we fondly trust in our glittering dust 

As a refuge from grief aud pain, — 
Till our limbs are laid on that cold bed 

Where the wealth of the world is in vaiu. 

And is it thus from man's birth to his grave, 

In the path that wo all are treading f 
Is there naught in his wild career to save 

From remorse aud self-upbraidiug ! 
Oh yes ! there's a dream so pure, so bright, 

That the being to whom it is given 
Hath bathed in a sea of living light. 

And the theme of that dream is heaven. 



EPIGR.VM liV .S. T. COLERIDHK. 

Swans slug before they die : 'twere no bad thing 
Did certain persons die before they sing. 



556 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BJUTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE FIRST SPRING DAY. 

John Todhunter, Author of " Lauoella, and other Poems," 
London, 1876. 

But one sliort week ago tlio trees were bare ; 
And wiuds were keen, ami viulets piiiclied with frost ; 
Winter was with us ; but the larclies tossed 
Lightly their crimson buds, and here and there 
Rooks cawed. To-day the Spring is in the air 
And in the lilood : sweet sun-gleams come and go 
Upon the hills ; in lanes the wild flowers blow, 
And tender leaves are bursting everywhere. 
About the hedge the small birds peer and dart, 
Each bu.sh is full of amorous flutteriugs 
And little rapturous cries. The thrush apart 
Sits throued, and loud his ripe contralto rings. 
Music is on the wind, — and, in my heart. 
Infinite love for all created things! 



UNBELIEF. 

ANON\-stors (BniTisii— Wtii Century). 

There is no unbelief: 
AVhoever plants a seed beneath the sod 
And waits to see it push away the clod, — 
He trusts in God. 

Whoever says, when clouds are in the sky, 
"Bo patient, heart ; light breaketh by-and-by," 
Trusts the Most High. 

Whoever sees, 'neath Winter's field of snow. 
The silent harvest of the future grow, — 
God's power must know. 

Whoever lies down on his couch to sleep. 
Content to lock each sense in slumber deep. 
Knows God will keep. 

Whoever says, " To-7uorrow," " The Unknown," 
"The Future," trusts that Power alone, 
Ho dares disown. 

The heart that looks on when the eyelids close, 
And dares to live when life has only woes, 
God's con\fort knows. 

There is no unbelief: 

And day by day, and night, unconsciously. 
The heart lives by that faith the lips deny— 
God kuoweth why ! 



ON A VIRTUOUS YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN 
WHO DIED SUDDENLY. 

These lines, giveu in some collectiims ns niioin'mons, were 
written by Willijim Cartwrif^lU, l>orii in England in 1011, .ind 
ednciited at Oxftn-d. He tooli orders, .ind in 1643 became jnnior 
proctor .and reader in metaphysics at tlie University, bnt died 
the same year of a malignant fever. A collected edition of his 
*' Comedies, Tragi-Comedies, and other Poems," appeared in 
1G4T, and again in 1651. He seems to have been a favorite with 
his contemporaries ; and Ben Joiison remarked of him, " My son 
Cnrtwright writes all like a man." He ninst have cultivated 
poetry in his yonth, for he was only Iwcnty-six at the time 
of the death of -Jonson, whose loss he monrned iu a eulogy of 
which the following lines are a specimen : 

"But Ihon still pntl'st true passion on; dost write 
With the same courage that tried capt.ains fight; 
Giv'st the right blush and cnhn- unto things; 
Low without creeping, high without loss of wings; 
Smooth yet not weak, and, by a thorough care, 
Big without swelling, without paintiug, fair." 

When the old tlaming Prophet climbed the sky, 
Who at one glimiise did vanish, and not die, 
He made more preface to a death than this : 
So far from sick she did not breathe amiss. 
She who to Heaven more heaven doth annex, 
Whose lowest thought was above all our sex. 
Accounted nothing death bnt t' be reprieved. 
And died as free from sickness as she lived. 
Others are dragged away, or must be driven ; 
She only saw her time, and stepped to Heaven, 
Where Seraphims view all her glories o'er 
As one returned, that had been there before. 
For while she did this lower world adorn, 
Her body seemed rather assumed than born : 
So rarefied, atlvanced, so xiure atid whole. 
That body might have been another's soul ; 
And equally a miracle it were 
That she could die, or that she could live here. 



THE WAY. 

William S. Suubtleff {Ameiiican — 1877). 

First, find tliou Truth, and theu- 

Although .she strays 
From beaten paths of men 

To uutrod ways — 
Her leading follow straight. 

And bide thy fate ; 
And whether smiles or scorn 

Thy passing greet. 
Or find'st thou flower or thorn 

Beneath thy feet, — 
Fare on ! nor fear thy fate 

At Heaven's gate. 



THOMAS H.imXGTOX MJCAULAT. 



557 



<tl)oiiia5 Cabinglon fllaraulai). 

One of tlip most l)iilli;int :iik1 estitiuilile cif Ens^lancVs 
men of lettors, Macaulny (lS00-185y), who became Loiil 
Macauluy in lSo7, was born October 5tli, at KotUley Tem- 
ple, in Lineolnsliire. His fatlier was Zacliary >facaulay, 
a Scotlisli Presbyterian. Tliomas was educated at Trin- 
ity Collo;;c, Cambridge, anti in 1S19 gained tlic Chan- 
cellor's Medal for a poem entitled " Pompeii"— liardly 
above the average of similar prize poems. He was a 
devoted student, however, and his improvement was 
rapid. He wrote the best of his poems, "The Battle of 
Ivry," in his twenty-fourth year; and was only twenty- 
five when he contributed his brilliant article on Milton 
to the Eilinbitrijh Uevieip. It was the lirst of a series of 
remarkable papers on distinguished characters. Having 
been admitted to the Bar, in 1830 he became a Member 
of Parliament. His speeches, wliicli arc very able, were 
carefully studied, and usually committed to memory, 
which was an easy task to him. 

In 1834 lie proceeded to India, as legal adviser to the 
Supreme Council of Calcutta. He returned to England 
in 18;J8; represented Edinburgh in Parliament up to the 
year 1847; held seals in the Cabinet; and in 1849 pub- 
lished the first two volumes of his great "History of 
England." It commanded a larger and more rapid sale, 
both in England and America, than any historical work 
known to the trade. His "Lays of Ancient Rome" had 
appeared in 1843; eighteen thousand copies were sold in 
ten years. It was his last attempt at poetry. " Like a 
wise gamester," he writes, " I shall leave off while I am 
a winner, and not cry ' Double or Quits.' " In the ex- 
tract which we give from the " Lay of Iloratius," tliirly- 
onc of the stanzas arc omitted. Wordsworth denied 
that the "Lays" were jioetry at all; and Leigh Hunt, 
in a letter asking Macaulay to lend him money, wrote 
him that he lamented that his "verses wanted the true 
poetical aroma which breathes from Spenser's ' Faery 
Queene.' " Upon which Macaulay says: "I am much 
pleased with him for having the si)irit to tell me, in a 
begging letter, how little he likes my poetry." 

Great as he was in literary execution, Macaulay, in one 
of his letters, remarks : " I never read again the most 
popular passages of my own works without painfully 
feeling how far ray execution has fallen short of the 
standard which is in my mind." It was as an essayist 
and a writer of history that his contemporary laurels 
were gained. His poetry is quite ovei'shadowed by his 
prose ; but had ho been unknown as a prose writer, he 
would have enjoyed no ordinary fame as a poet. His 
memory was wonderfully quick and tenacious, and his 
conversational powers were the wonder of his hearers. 
He has been accused of talking too much ; and Sydney 
.''inith once said of him : " He is certainly more agreeable 
since his return from India. His enemies might perhaps 
have said before (though I never did so) that he talked 
rather too much ; but now he has occasional Hashes of 
silence that make his conversation perfectly delightful." 

Take him for all in all, Macaulay was one of the noblest 
characters in English literature; generous to the needy, 
warm in the family alTections, self-eacrlflcing and mag- 
nanimous, irreproachable in his hulitts and Ills life. He 



was never married. His mortal remains were deposited 
in Westminster Abbey, in Poets' Corner, his favorite 
haunt. An interesting "Life" of him, by liis nephew, 
G. O. Trcvelyan, who has also edited a volume of selec- 
tions from his writings, appeared in 1877. 



FROM THE LAY OF " HOI! AXIL'S." 

Lars Porsena of Clnsinm 

I!y the Nine Gods lie swore 
That the great house of Tarquiu 

8lioiil(l suffer wrong no more. 
Hy the Nine Gods lie snore it, 

And named ii trystiiig-day ; 
And bade his nicsseugcrs ride forth, 
East and west, and south and north, 

To snninioii liis array. 

East and west, and south and iiorlli 

The messengers ride fast, 
And tower, and town, and cottage 

Have licard the trninpct's bhist. 
Shame on the fal.'se Etruscan 

Who linger.s in his lionie, 
When Porsena of Clnsinm 

Is on the march for Rome. 

The horsemen and tlie footmen 

Are ]ioiiriiig in aniaiii 
From many a stately inaiket-placc ; 

From many a fruitful plain ; 
From many -i lonely hamlet, 

Which, hid by beech and pine. 
Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the cre.st 

Of purple Apeiiniiie. 

Tlieri^ be thirty elio.seii jirophcls. 

The wisest of the land. 
Who alway by Lare Porsena 

I?(itli inorn and evening stand: 
Evening and morn the Thirty 

Have turned the verses o'er. 
Traced from the right on linen white 

By mighty seers of yore. 

And with one voice the Thirty 

Have their glad answer given : 
"Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena ; 

Go forth, beloved of lieaveii ; 
Go. and return in glory 

To Clnsinm's royal dtmie ; 
And hang round Nnrscia's altars 

The golden shields of Rome."' 



558 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BIHTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Auil uow liath every city 

Sent up her tale of men ; 
Tlie foot are fourscore thousand, 

The horse are thousands ten. 
Before the gates of Siitriuni 

Is met the great array, 
A pi'oud man was Lars Porsena 

Upon the trysting-day. 

Now, from the rock Tarpeian, 

Could the wan burghers spy 
The line of blaziug villages 

Red in the midnight sky. 
The Fathers of the city, 

They sat all night and day. 
For every hour some horseman came 

With tidings of dismay. 

To eastward and to westward 

Have spread the Tuscan hands : 
Nor house, nor fence, nor dove-cote, 

In Crnstnmeriiim stands. 
Verhcnna down to Ostia 

Hath wasted all the plain ; 
Astur hath stormed Jauicuhun, 

And the stout guards are slain. 

I wis, in all the Senate, 

There was no heart so bold, 
But sore it ached, and fast it beat, 

When that ill news was told. 
Forthwith up rose the Cousnl, 

Up rose the Fathers all ; 
In haste they girded up their gowns. 

And hied them to the wall. 

They held a council standing 

Before the Eiver Gate ; 
Short time was there, ye well may guess. 

For musing or debate. 
Out spake the Consul roundly : 

" Tlio bridge must straight go down ; 
For, since Janiculnm is lost, 

Naught else can save the town." 

Just then a scout came flying. 

All wild with haste and fear : 
" To arms ! to arms ! Sir Consul ; 

Lars Porsena is here." 
On the low hills to westward 

The Consul fixed bis eye, 
And saw the swarthy storm of dust 

Kise fest along the sky. 



And nearer fast and nearer 

Doth the red whirlwind come ; 
And louder still and still more loud, 
From underneath that rolling cloud, 
Is heard the trumpet's war-uote proud. 

The trampling and the hum. 
And plainly and more jdainly 

Now through the gloom appears, 
Far to left and far to right. 
In broken gleams of dark-blue light, 
The long array of helmets bright. 

The long array of spears. 

Fast by the royal standard, 

O'erlooking all the war, 
Lars Porsena of Clusium 

Sat in his ivory car. 
By the right wheel rode Mamilius, 

Priuco of the Latiau name ; 
And by the left false Sextus, 

That wrought the deed of shame. 

But the Consul's brow was sad. 

And the Cousul's speech was low. 
And darkly looked he at the wall, 

And darkly at the foe. 
" Their van will be upon us 

Before the bridge goes down ; 
And if they once may win the bridge. 

What hope to save the town !" 

Then out spake brave Horatius, 

The Captain of the gate : 
" To every man ui)on this earth 

Death cometh soon or late. 
And how can man die better 

Than facing fearful odds. 
For the ashes of his fathers, 

And the temples of his gods 1 

"Hew down the bridge. Sir Consul, 

With all the speed ye may; 
I, with two more to help me. 

Will hold the foe in play. 
In you strait path a thousand 

May well be stopped by three. 
Now who will stand on either baud, 

And keep the bridge with me ?" 

Then ont spake Spurius Lartius; 

A Ramnian proud was ho: 
"Lo, I will staud at thy right hand. 

And keep the bridge with thee !" 



THOMAS BABIXGTOy MAC A I LAY. 



559 



And out spnkc strong Ilcrmiuius; 

Of Titian blocxl was lie: 
"I will aliitlo on tliy Itft siJe, 

And keep the bridge with tlico." 

" Horatins," (luotli the Consul, 

" As thou gayest, so let it be.'' 
And straight against that great array 

Forth went the dauntless Three. 
For Romans in Rome's quarrel 

Spared neither land nor gold. 
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, 

lu the brave days of old. 

Then noue was for a party ; 

Then all were for the State ; 
Then the great man helped the poor. 

And the poor man loved the great; 
Then lands were fairly porliimed ; 

Then spoils were fairly sold : 
The Romans were like brothers 

In the brave days of old. 

Now, while the Three were tightening 

Their harness on their backs, 
The Consul was the foremost man 

To take in Iiand an axe ; 
And Fathers mixed with Commons 

Seized liatehet, bar, and crow. 
And smote upon the planks above, 

And loosed the props below. 

Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 

Right glorious to beh(dd. 
Came tiashlng back the noonday light. 
Hank behind rank, like surges bright 

Of a broad sea of gold. 
Four hundred trumpets sounded 

A peal of warlike glee, 
As that great host, with measured tread. 
And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, 
Rolled slowly toward the bridge's head. 

Where stood the dauntless Three. 

The Three stood calm and silent. 

And looked upon the foes. 
And a great shout of laughter 

From all the vangininl rose; 
And forth three chiefs came spurring 

Before that deep array; 
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, 
And lifted high tliiir shields, and Hew 

To win the narrow wav. 



Ilerminiiis smote down Arnus; 

Lartius laid Ocnns low : 
Right to the heart of Lausnlus 

Uoratius seut a blow. 
" Lie there," he cried, " fell pirate ! 

No more, aghast and pale, 
From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark 
The track of thy destroying bark. 
No more Campania's hinds shall fly 
To woods and caverns when they spy 

Thy thrice-accursed sail.'' 

But now no sound of laughter 

Was heard among the foes : — 
A wild and wrathful clamor. 

From all the vanguard rose ! 
Sis spears' length from the entrauce 

Halted that deep array. 
And for a space no man came forth 

To win tlic narrow way. 

Yet one man for one moment 

Strode out before the crowd; 
Well known was he to all the Three, 

And they gave liiiu greeting loud. 
"Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! 

Now welcome to thy homo ! 
Why dost thou stay, and turn away? 

Here lies the road to Rome." 

Thrice looked he at the city ; 

Thrice looked he at the dead ; 
And thrice came on in fury. 

And thrice turned back in dread ; 
And, white with fear and hatred, 

Scowled at the narrow way 
Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, 

The bravest Tuscans lay. 

But meanwhile axe and lever 

Have manfully been plied. 
And now the bridge hangs tottering 

Above the boiling tide. 
"Come back, come hack, Uoratius!" 

Lou<l cried the Fathers all. 
''Back, Lartius! back, lirrniinius! 

Back, ere the ruin fall 1 " 

Back darted Spurius Lartius; 

Henninius darted back ; 
And, as Ihc'y pass<Ml, beneath their feet 

Tlii-y felt the timbers crack. 



560 



CrCLOr^DIA OF BIllTISH AND AMERICAN POETET. 



But when they turned their faces, 

And on tlio f:irlber shore 
Saw brave Horatius stand alone, 

Tliey -nouUl liave crossed once more. 

But with a crash lil;c thunder 

Fell every hioseued beam, 
And, like a dain, the mighty ■n'rcck 

Lay right athwart the stream : 
And a long shout of triumph 

Rose from the walls of Rome 
As to the highest turret-tops 

Was splashed the yellow foam. 

And, like a horse unbroken 

When first be feels the rein, 
The furious river struggled hard, 

And tossed his tawny maue ; 
And burst the curb and bounded, 

Rejoicing to bo free ; 
And whirling down, in lierce career, 
Battlement, and jdauk, and pier. 

Rushed headlong to the sea. 

Aloni^ stood brave Horatius, 

But constant still in mind ; 
Thrice thirty thousand foes before, 

And the broad ilood behind. 
"Down with him!" cried false Sexfns, 

With a smile on his pale face. 
" Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, 

"Now yield thee to our grace." 

Round turned he, as not deigning 

Tliose craven ranks to see ; 
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, 

To Sextus naught spake he ; 
But he saw on Palatinus 

The white porch of his home; 
And he spake to the noble river 

Tliat rolls by the towers of Rome. 

" O Tiber ! Father Tiber ! 

To whom the Romans pray, 
A Roman's life, a Roman's aruis. 

Take thou in charge this day !" 
So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed 

The good sword by his side, 
And, w ith his harness on Ilia back. 

Plunged headlong in the tide. 

No sound of joy or sorrow 
Was heard from either bank ; 



But frieiuls and foes in dumb surprise. 
With parted- lips and straining eyes, 

Stood gazing where he sank: 
And when above the surges 

They saw his crest appear. 
All Rome .sent forth a rapturous cry. 
And even the ranks of Tuscany 

Could scarce forbear to cheer 

But fiercely ran the current, 

Swollen high by months of rain ; 
And fast his blood was flowing; 

Aud he was sore in pain. 
And heavy with his armor, 

And spent with changing blows ; 
And oft they thought him sinking. 

But still again he rose. 

Never, I ween, did swimmer. 

In such an evil case, 
Strngglo through such a raging flood 

Safe to the landing-place. 
But his limbs were borne up bravely 

By the brave heart within, 
And our good Father Tiber 

Bare bravely up his chin. 

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; 

"Will not the villain drown? 
But for this stay, ere clo.sc of day 

We should have sacked the town !" 
"Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, 

"Aud bring him safe to slnu'e ; 
For such a gallant feat of arms 

Was never .seen before." 

And now be feels the bottom ; 

Now on dry earth he stands ; 
Now round him throng the Fathers 

To jiress his gory hands ; 
And now with shouts and clapping, 

Aud noise of weeping loud. 
He enters through the River Gate, 

Borne by the joyous crowd. 

They gave him of the corn-land 

That was of public right 
As much as two strong oxen 

Couhl idough from morn till night; 
And they made a molten image, 

Aud set it np on high. 
And there it stands unto tliis day 

To witness if I lie. 



rUOMAS BABIXGTON MACAULAY. 



5C1 



THE BATTLE OF NASEBV. 

BY OBADIAII BIXD-TIIEIB-KISOS-IX-CHAISS-AKD-THEIR- 
NOBLES-WlTll-LIKKS-OF-IUON, SEUGEAKT IN lUETOS'S 
RElilMENT. 

01), wliereforo conic yo fortli, iii triuiiipb from tbo 
North, 
Witli your hands and your IVet and yonr raiment 
all red f 
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous 
shout ? 
And whence lie the grapes of the wine -press 
which ye tread f 
Ob, evil was the root, and bitter was tbo fruit. 
And crimson was the juice of the vintage that 
wo trod ; 
For wc trampled on the throng of the haughty and 
the strong 
Who sat in tbo high places, and slew tbo saints 
of God. 
It was about the noon of a glorious day of Juno 
That we saw their banners dance, and their cui- 
rasses shine. 
.\ud the Man of Blood was there, with his long 
esseuced hair. 
And Astley and Sir Marniadiiko and Bupert of 
the Rhine. 

Like a servant of the Lord, with bis Bible and liis 
sword, 
Tlie General rode along us to form ns to the fight. 
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled 
into a shout, [right. 

Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's 
And bark! like the roar of the billows on the shore, 
The cry of battle rises along their charging line! 
For God, for the Cause, for the Ghurcb, for the Laws ! 
For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the 
Rhine ! 
The furious German conies, with bis clarions and 
his drums. 
His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall; 
They arc bursting on our flanks: grasp your pikes, 
close your ranks ; 
For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. 

They arc here ; they rnsb on : we are broken : we are 

gone I 

Our left is borne before them like stubble on the 

blast: [right! 

O Lord, put forth thy might : O Lord, defend the 

Stand b.ick to back in God"s name, and fight it 

to the last. 

30 



Stont Skippon bath a wound ; tbo centre hath given 
ground : 
Hark, hark ! what means the trampling of borse- 
Dien on our rear? 
Whoso banner do I see, boys T 'Tis be, thank God, 
'tis be, boys ! 
Stand up another minute : bnive Oliver is here. 
Their beads all stooping low, their points all in a row. 
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on 
the dikes, 
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of tbo Ac- 
cursed, 
And at a shock have scattered the forest of bis 
pikes. 

Fast, fast the gallants ride, in some safe nook to 
bide 
Their coward beads predestined to rot on Tem- 
ple Bar ; 
And he — he turns, he flies; shame on those cruel eyes. 
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look 
on war. 
Ho I comrades, scour the plain ; and, ere ye strip the 
slain. 
First give another stab, to make yonr search 
secure, 
Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad- 
pieces and lockets, 
The tokens of the; wanton, the iilnnder of (lic! poor. 
Fools I yonr doublets shone with gold, and your 
hearts were gay and bold. 
When you kissed your lily hands to yonr lenians 
to-day ; 
And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in 
the rocks. 
Lead forth her tawny cubs to bowl above the prey. 

Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven 
and hell and fate, 
-Vnd the lingers that onee were so busy with your 
blades, 
Yonr perfnnied satin clothes, yonr catches and your 
oaths, 
Your stage-plays and yonr sonnets, your diamonds 
and yonr spades T 
Down, down, forever down with the mitre and the 
crown, 
Willi the Belial of the Court, and the Maininon 
<>[ the I'ope : 
There is woe in Oxford halls; there is wail in l>ur- 
bam's stalls ; 
The Jesuit smites his bosom ; the bishop rends 
bis copo. 



562 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



And she of tbe seven hills shall mourn her chil- 
dren's ills, 
And tremble when she thinks on the edge of 
England's sword ; 
And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when 
they hear 
What the hand of God hath wrought for the 
Houses and the Word.' 

> Sir Thomas Fairfax (1012-1071), who commanded the army 
of the Parliament during England's Civil Wars, was the true 
hero of the Battle of Naseby. His gallant charge at the head 
of the rijiht wing of his army insured the success of Cromwell's 
division. George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham (1027-1C8S), 
author of "The Rehearsal, " and other dramatic pieces, who 
married Fairfax's daughter Mary, was one of the wildest of the 
gay and dissolute courtiers of the period ; but that he appreci- 
ated the noble qualities of his father-in-law is evident from tlic 
following eulogistic li]ies : 
EriT.'\PH ON F.\1RFAX BY THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 



ITnder this stone doth lie 

One born for victory, — 
Fairfax the valiant, and the only He 
Who ere for that alone a conqueror would be. 



Both sexes' virtues were in him combined: 
He had the fierceness of the manliest mind. 
And all the meekness too of womankind. 



He never knew what envy was, nor hate: 
His soul was filled with worth and honesty, 

And with another thing besides, quite out of date. 
Called modesty. 



When all the nation he had won. 

And with expense of bh^od had bought 

Store great enough, he thought, 
Of fame and of renown, — 
He then his arms laid down. 

With full as little pride 

As if he'd been the other, conquered side. 
Or cue of them could be that wei'e undone. 



He neither wealth nor places sought: 
For others, not himself, he fought; 

He was content to know 

(For he had found it so) 
That when he pleased to conquer he was able. 
And left the spoil and plunder to the rabble. 



He might have been a king. 

But that he understood 
How much it is a meaner thing 

To be unjustly great than houor.ibly good. 



This from the world did admiration draw. 
And from his friends both love and awe, 
Eemembering what he did in fight before. 

Nay, his foes loved him too. 

As they were bound to do. 
Because be was resolved to fight uo more. 

X. 

So, blessed of nil he died, but far more blessed were we 

If we were sure to live till we could see 

A man as great in war, as just in peace as he. 



THE AKMADA. 

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's 

praise : 
I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in 

ancient days. 
When that great fleet invincible against her bore, 

in vain, [Spain. 

The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of 

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer 

day, 
There came a gallant merchant -ship full sail to 

Plymouth Bay ; — 
Her crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Au- 

rigny's isle, 
At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many 

a mile. 
At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial 

grace. 
And the tall Piuta, till the noon, had held her close 

in chase. 
Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along 

the wall ; [ty hall ; 

The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgccomb's lof- 
Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the 

coast ; 
And with loose rein aud bloody spur rode inland 

many a post. 

With his white hair nnbonueted the stout old sher- 

iif comes, 
Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound 

the drums : 
His yeomen round the market-cross make clear an 

ample space, 
For there behooves him to set up the standard of 

her Grace : 
And haughtily the trumpets peal, and g.ayly d.ance 

the bells. 
As slow upon the laboring wind the royal blazon 

swells. 
Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient 

crown, [down ! 

And underneath his deadly pa'sv treads the gay lilies 
So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that 

famed Picard field, 
Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Ctesar's 

eagle shield : 
So glared he when, at Agincourt, in wrath be tnrn- 

cd to bay, 
Aud crushed .and torn, beneath his claws, the ijriuce- 

ly hunters lay. 



TUOMAS SABIXGTOX MACAlLAi: 



563 



Ho! strike the fliigstatV dccii, sir knight! bo! scat- 
ter llowcrs, tair maiils ! 

Ho, guiiiK'i-s! lire a loiul salute I ho, gallants I ihaw 
your blades ! 

Thou sun, shine on her joyously ! yo breezes, waft 
her wide ! 

Our glorious Sempku Kadkm I the bauuer of our 
pride ! 

The freshening breeze of evo unfurled that banners 
massy fold — 

The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty 
seroll of gold : 

Xight sank upon the dusky beach, and on the pur- 
ple sea : 

Such night in England iieVr hath been, nor c"er 
again shall be. 

From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from l>ynn to 
.Millord Bay, 

That time of slumber was as bright and busy as 
the day ; 

For swift to east, and swift to west, the ghastly 
war-llami! spread ; 

High on St. Miiliael's Mount it shone: it shone on 
Beachy Head : 

Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each south- 
ern shire, 

Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling 
points of lire. 

The Ijshcr left his skitTto rock on Tamar's glitter- 
ing waves. 

The rugged miners poured to war from Jlcuidip's 
sunless caves ; 

O'er Ijongleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the 
fiery herald fli'W, 

.Vnd roused the shepherds of Stonehcnge, the rang- 
ers of Beaulieii : 

liight sharp and quick the bells all night rang out 
from Bristol town ; 

And, ere the day, three hundred hor.se had met on 
Clifton Down. 

The sentinel on Whitehall gate lookiil forth into 

the night, 
.\nd saw o'erbanging Richmond Hill the streak of 

blood-red light ; 
Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-likc! 

silence broke, [woke. 

And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city 
At ouco, on all her stately gates, arose the auswor- 

ing Cres ; 
At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling 

spires ; 



From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the 

voice of fear. 
And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a 

louder c'ueer : 
.\nil fiiim the farthest wards was heard the rush 

of hurrying feet. 
And the broad streams of pikes and Hags rushed 

down each roaring street: 
And bioader still became the bla/e, and louder still 

the din, [spurring iu ; 

As fast from every village round the horse camo 
Aiul eastward straight from wild Blackheath the 

warlike errand went, 
And rou.sed iu many an ancient hall the gallant 

squires of Kent. 
Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those 

liright couriers forth : 
High on ble:ik H.imp.stead's swarthy moor they 

started for the North; 
And on and on, without a pause, uutired they 

bounded still ; 
All night from tower to tower they sprang, they 

sprang from hill to hill ; 
Till the proud I'eak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's 

rocky dales ; [of Wales ; 

Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills 
Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's 

lonely height ; 
Till streamed in crimson on the winil the Wrekin's 

crest of light ; 
Till, broad and tierce, the star came forth on Ely's 

stately fane, 
And towu and hamlet rose in .arms o'er all the 

boundless plain ; 
Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, 
And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale 

of Trent ; 
Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Oaunt's 

embattled jiile. 
And the re<l glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers 

of Carlisle. 



Tin: BATTLE OF IVKV. 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all 

glories are ! 
And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of 

Nav.'irre ! [dance, 

Now li-t there be the merry sound of music and the 
Through thy cornlields green and sunny vines, O 

pleasaut laud of France ! 



564 



CYCLOPJiDIA OF BniriSU AXD AMERICAN POETBT. 



Ami thou, Eochelle, our own Eoclielle, proud city of 

the waters, 

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mouru- 
ing daughters. 

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our 
joy, 

For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought 
thy walls annoy. 

Hurrah! hurrah! a single fleld hath turned the 
chance of war; 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry, and King Henry of Na- 
varre ! 

Oh, how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn 

of day, 
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long 

array ; 
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, 
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egniont's Flem- 
ish spears. 
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses 

of our land ! 
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon 

in his hand ; 
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's 

empurpled flood, [blood; 

And good Coligui's hoary hair all dabbled with his 
.And we cried unto the living God, who rules the 

fate of wai', [varre. 

To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Na- 

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor 

dressed ; 
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his 

gallant crest. 
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; 
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern 

and high. 
Kight graciously he smiled on ns, as rolled from 

wing to wiug, 
Down all our line, in deafening shout, "God save 

our lord the King !" 
"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he 

may, — 
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray — 
Press where ye see my white plnme shine amid the 

ranks of war ; [varre." 

And bo your oriflamme to-day the helmet of N.a- 

Hurrah! the foes are moving! hark to the mingled 
din 

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roar- 
ing eulveriu ! 



The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's 

plain, [mayne. 

AVith all the hireling chiv.alry of Gnelders and Al- 
Now", by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of 

France, 
Charge for the golden lilies now — upon them with 

the lance! 
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand 

spears in rest ; 
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the 

snow-white crest ; 
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like 

a guiding star, [Navarro. 

Amid the thickest carnage blazed tlic helmet of 

Now, God be praised, the daj' is ours ! Mayenne hath 

turned his rein. 
D'Anmale hath cried for quarter ; the Flemish Count 

is .slain. 
Their ranks are breaking like tliin clouds before a 

Biscay gale ; 
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, 

and cloven mail. 
And then we thought on vengeance, and all along 

our van, 
"Remember St. Bartholomew !" was passed from 

man to man ; 
But out spake gentle Henry then, "No Frenchman 

is my fo(! ; 
Down, down with ever3' foreigner; but let your 

brethren go !" 
Oh! was there ever such a knight in friendship or 

in war, [Navarre! 

As our sovereign lord. King Henry, the soldier of 

Ho ! maidens of Vienna ; ho ! nnitrons of Lucerne ! 
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never 

shall return. 
Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, 
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor 

spearmen's souls ! 
Ho! gallant nobles of tlie League, look that your 

arms be bright ! 
Ho ! burghers of St. Geiidvitivc, keep watch and 

ward to-night ! 
For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath 

raised the slave. 
And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor 

of the brave. 
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories 

are ; 
And glory to our sovereign lord. King Henry of 

Navarre ! 



sill niCSRY TAYI.OIi. 



505 



Sir Cjcurn (Tanlor. 

Taylor (1800-18..) was a native ol the County of Dur- 
1mm, Eni^lanil. In 1827 apiiearcd his play of " Isaac Com- 
ncnus," wliicli, says Soutlioy, " met willi few readers, and 
wa.s liardly heard of." In 1S54 liis great dramatic poem 
of " Philip Van Artevelde " ;;ave him at once an assured 
i-.ink in English literature. It has gone through eiglit 
editions. Some of his otherworks are " Edwin the Fair," 
a historical drama, 1S4'J; "Tlie Eve of the Conquest, 
and other Poems," 1847; "Notes from Life," 1847; "A 
Sicilian Summer, and Minor Poems," 180S. A baronetcy 
was bestowed on him, and he was known as Sir Henry 
Taylor. Crabb Robinson says of him : " His manners are 
shy, and he is more a man of lettei-s than of the world." 



IX REMEMBR.VNCE OF THE HOX. EDWARD 
ERNEST VIl.l.lEK.S. 

A grace tliongU nielancLoly, manly too, 
Moulded bis being: iiensiVc, grave, serene, 
O'er liis habitual bearing and bin niieu 
Unceasing jiain, by patience tempered, threw 
A sbado of sweet austerity. But seen 
III happier hours aud by tbo friendly few, 
That curtain of the spirit was withdrawn, 
And fauey light aud jilayfiil as a fawn, 
-Viid reasou imped with inquisition keen. 
Knowledge long sought with ardor ever new, 
.\ihI wit love-kindled, showed in colors true 
What gcuial joys with sutl'eriags can consist. 
Tbeu did all sternness melt as melts a mist 
Tonelied by the brightness of the golden dawn, 
.\erial heights disclosing, valleys green, 
.\nd Biinliglits thrown the woodland tufts between. 
And llowers and spangles of the dewy lawu. 



And even the straugcr, though ho saw not these. 

Saw what would not be willingly passed by. 

In his deportment, even when cold and shy, 

Was seen a clear collectednegg and case, 

A simple grace aud gentle dignity, 

That failed not at the first accost to please ; 

Aud as reserve relented by degrees. 

So winning was his aspect and address. 

His sniilu so rich in sail felicities, 

.Accordant to a voice which charmed uo less. 

That who but .saw him once ronicnibercd long, 

.\nd .some in whom such images are strong 

Have hoarded the impression iu their heart 

Fancy's fond dreams and Memory's joys among. 

Like some loved relic of romantic song, 

Or cherished masterpiece of aucicut art. 



His life was private ; safely led, aloof 

From the loud world, which yet ho understood 

Largely and wisely, as no worldling eonld. 

For he by privilege of his n:itnro proof 

Against false glitter, from beneath the roof 

Of privacy, as from a cave, surveyed 

With steadfast eye its fJickering light and .shade. 

And gently judged for evil and for good. 

But while he mixed not for his own behoof 

In public strife, bis spirit glowed with zeal. 

Not shorn of action for the public weal, — 

For truth and justice as its warp aud woof. 

For freedom as its signature and seal. 

His life thus sacred from the world, discharged 

From vain ambition and inordinate care, 

Iu virtue exercised, by revereuce rare 

Lifted, and by humility enlarged, 

Became a temple and a place of prayer. 

In latter years bo walked not singly there; 

For one was with him, ready at all hours 

His griefs, his joys, his inmost thoughts to share, 

Who buoyantly his burdens helped to bear. 

And decked his altars daily with fresh flowers. 



But farther may we pass not ; for the ground 

Is holier than the Muse herself may tread ; 

Nor wonld I it should echo to a sound 

Less solemn than the service for the dead. 

Mine is inferior matter, — my own loss, — 

The loss of dear delights forever fled. 

Of reason's converse by affection fed, 

Of wisdom, connsel, solace, that across 

Life's dreariest tracts a tender radiance shed. 

Frietid of my youth ! though younger, yet my guide; 

How much by thy unerring insight clear 

I shajied my way of life for many a year, 

What thoughtful friendship on thy death-bed died ! 

Friend of my youth, while thou wast by my side 

Autumnal days still breathed a vernal breath ; 

How like a charm thy life to uw supplied 

All waste and injury of time anil tide. 

How like a disenchautment was thy death ! 



WHAT MAKES A HERO f 

What uiakcs a hero t — not success, not fame, 
Inidiriate merchants, aud the loud acclaim 
Of glutted avarice — caiis tossed np in air, 
Or pen of journalist, with flourish fair, 



566 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRT. 



Bells jiealed, stars, ribbons, and a titular name — 

These, though his rightful tribute, ho cau spare ; 
His rightful tribute, not his end or aim, 

Or true reward ; for never yet did these 
Refresh the soul, or set the heart at ease. 
What makes a hero ? — au heroic miud. 
Expressed iu action, in eudurauce proved ; 
And if there be pre-eminence of right, 
Derived through pain, well suffered, to the height 
Of rank heroic, 'tis to bear unmoved. 
Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or wind. 
Not the brute fury of barbarians blind, — 
But worse — ingi-atitude and poisonous darts. 
Launched by the country he had served and loved ; 
This, with a free, unclouded spirit pure. 
This in the strength of silence to endure, 
A dignity to noble deeds imparts. 
Beyond the gauds and trappings of renown ; 
This is the hero's complement and crown ; 
This missed, one struggle had been wanting still — 
One glorious triumph of the heroic will. 
One self-approval iu his heart of hearts. 



EXTRACT FROM " PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE." 

Adriana. Oh, Artevelde ; 
What can have made you so mysterious t [soon 
What change hath come since morning ? Oh ! how 
The words and looks which seemed all confidence. 
To me at least — how soon are they recalled ! 
But let them be — it matters not ; I, too, 
Will cast no look behind — Oh, if I should, 
My heart would never hold its wretchedness. 

Aricrehle. My gentle Adriana, you run wild 
Iu false coujectui'es ; hear me to the end. 
If hitherto we have not said we loved, 
Yet hath the heart of each declared its love 
By all the tokeus wherein love delights. 
We heretofore have trusted iu each other. 
Too wholly have we trusted to have need 
Of words or vows, pledges or protestations. 
Let not such trust be hastily dissolved. 

Adn. I trusted not. I hoped that I was loved. 
Hoped and despaired, doubted and hoped again. 
Till this day, when I iirst breathed freelier. 
Daring to trust — and now — O God, my heart ! 
It was not made to bear this agony — 
Tell me you love me, or you love me not. 

Artev. I love thee, dearest, with as large a love 
As e'er was compassed iu the breast of m.au. 
Hide then those tears, beloved, where thou wilt, 
Aud find a resting-place for that so wild 



And troubled heart of thine ; sustain it here. 
And be its flood of passion wept away. 

Adri. What was it that you said then ? If you 
love. 
Why have you thus tormented me ? 

Artrr. Be calm ; 
And let me warn thee, ere thy choice be iixed, 
What fate thou may'st be wedded to with me. 
Thou hast beheld me living heretofore 
As one retired in staid tranquillity : 
The dweller in the mountains, on whose ear 
The accustomed cataract thunders unobserved ; 
The seaman who sleeps sound upon the deck. 
Nor hears the loud lamenting of the blast, 
Nor heeds the weltering of the plangent wave, — 
These have not lived more undisturbed than I : 
But build not upon this; the swollen stream 
May shake the cottage of the mountaineer. 
And drive him forth; the seaman roused, at length 
Leaps from his slumber on the wave-washed deck ; — 
And now the time comes fast when here in Ghent 
He who would live exempt from injuries 
Of armiJd men, must be himself iu arms. 
This time is near for all, — nearer for me : 
I will not wait upon necessity, 
And leave myself no choice of vantage grouud, 
But rather meet the times where best I may. 
And mould and fashiou tliem as best I cau. 
Reflect, then, that I soon may bo embarked 
In all the hazards of these troublesome times, 
And iu your own free choice take or resign me. 

Adri. Oh, Artevelde, my choice is free no more. 
Be mine, all raiue, let good or ill betide. 
In war or peace, in sickness or in health. 
In trouble and in danger aud distress. 
Through time aud through eternity I'll love thee ; 
In youth and age, in life and death I'll love thee, 
Here aud hereafter, with all my soul and strength. 
So God accept me as I never cease 
From loving and adoring thee next him : 
And oh, may ho pardon me if so betrayed 
By mortal frailty as to love thee more. 

Aftcv. I fear, my Adriana, 'tis a rash 
And passionate resolve that thou hast made; 
But how should I admonish thee, my.self 
So great a winner by thy desperate play ? 
Heaven is o'er all, and uuto Heaven I leave it. 
That which hath made me weak shall make me 

strong. 
Weak to resist, strong to requite t!]y love; 
And if some tax thou payest for that love. 
Thou shalt receive it back from Love's exchequer. 
Now must I go ; I'm waited for ere this. 



SIR BEXKT TAYLOR. 



567 



Adr\. Upou this fiugcr bo the first tax raised. 

[Drmcft off a rinii, ichkh elie (jWes him. 
Now what shall I recrive? 

JW<T. The like from iniuc. 
1 bad forgot — I have it not to-day : 
But in its stead wear this aroiiud thy neck. 
Aud on thy lips this impioss. Now, good-night. 



GREATNESS AND SUCCESS. 
From '* riiiLip Van Artevelde." 
lie was one 
Of many thousand such that die betimes, 
Wluise story is a fragment known to few. 
Tlieu comes the man who has tlio luck to live. 
And he's a prodigy. Compnto the chances, 
And deem there's ne'er a, one iu dangerous times 
Who wins the race of glory, but than him 
A thousand men more gloriously endowed 
Have fallen upon the course; a thousand others 
Have had their fortunes foundered by a chance, 
While lighter barks pushed i)ast them ; to whom add 
A smaller tally of the singular few, 
Who, gifted with predominating powers, 
ISear yet a temperate will aud keep tbo peace, — 
The world knows nothing of its greatest men ! 



ARTEVELDE'S SOLILOQUY. 

FnoM " PiiiLir Van Artevelde." 
To bring a cloud upon the summer day 
Of one so happy and so beautiful, — 
It is a hard condition. For myself, 
I know not that the circumstance of life 
In all its changes can so far afflict me. 
As makes anticipation much worth while. 
But she is younger, — of a se.^c beside 
Whose spirits are to ours as llamo to fire, 
More sudden and more perishable too ; 
So that the gust wherewith the one is kindled 
Extinguishes the other. Oh, she is fair! 
As fair as hciivcn to look upon ! as fair 
As ever vision of the Virgin blessed 
That weary pilgrim, resting at the fount 
Beneath the palm, and dreaming to the tunc 
Of dowing waters, duped his soul withal. 
It was permitted in my pilgrimage, 
To rest beside the fount beneath the tree, 
Beholding there no vision, but a maid 
Whose form was light aud graceful as the palm, 
Whoso heart was pure and jocund as the fount. 
And spread a freshness and a verdure rouud. 
This was pennittcd iu my pilgrimage, 



And loth I am to take my stafl' again. 

Say that I fall not in this enterprise — 

Still must my life be full of hazardous turns, 

And they that house with mo must ever live 

In imminent peril of some evil fate. 

— Make fast the doors ; heap wood upon the fire ; 

Draw in your stools, aud pass the goblet round, 

Aud be the prattling voice of children heard. 

Now let us make good cheer; but what is this? 

Do I not sec, or do I dream I see, 

.\ form that midmost iu the circle sits 

Half visible, his face deformed with scars. 

And foul with blood !— Oh yes, I know it— there 

Sits DaxgkI!, with his feet upon the hearth. 



ARTEVELDE AND ELENA. 

From ** Puilip Van .Artevelde." 

Elena. I cannot — no— 
I cannot give you what you've had so long; 
N(U' need I tell you what you know so well. 
I must be gone. 

After. Nay, sweetest, why these tears ? 

Elena. No, let me go — I cannot tell — no — no ; 
I want to bo alone. 
Oh, .\rtcvelde, for God's love let me go! [Exit. 

AiUt. (after a pause). The night is fiir advanced 
upon the morrow. 

— Yes, I have wasted half a summer's night. 
Was it well spent ? Successfully it was. 
How little tlatteriug is a woman's love! 
Worth to the heart, come how it may, a worUl ; 
Worth to men's measures of their own deserts. 
If weighed in wisdom's balance, merely nothing. 
The few hours left are precious — who is there ? 
IIo! Nieuverkerchen ! — when wo think upon it, 
How litllo Ualtering is a woman's love! 
Given commonly to whosoe'er is nearest. 
And propped with most advantage; outward grace 
Nor inward light is needful ; day by day 
Men wanting both are mated with the best 
And loftiest of God's feminine creation. 
Whose love takes no distinction but of gender. 
And ridicules the very name of choice. 
Ho ! Nieuverkerchen !— what, then, do wo sleep ? 
Are none of yon awake f — and as for me, 
The world s.ays Philip is a famous man — 
What is there woman will not love, so taught f 
IIo! EUcrt ! by your leave though, you must wake. 

[Enter an officer. 
Have mo a gallows built upon the mount, 
Aud let Van Kortz be hnng at break of day. 



568 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBIC AX POETUY. 



i\\ax\<x ianc (Jcwsbuvi)) Jlctcljcr. 

Miss Jewsbui'}' (1KOO-I8o3) was a native of Warwifl;- 
sliire, England. Slie was married (1833) to tlie Rev. Wil- 
liam Fletcher, missionary to India, and died soon after 
arriving in Bombay. Sbe wrote " Lays of Leisure Hours " 
and " Letters to tlie Young." Her poetical vein was del- 
icate and genuine. She was an amiable, aceomplished 
woman. 



BIETH-DAY BALLAD. 

Thou art iilnckiug spring roses, Geuie, 

Anil a little red rose art thou I 
Thou hast uufoldeil to-day, Genie, 

Another bright leaf, I trow : 
But the roses ■will live and die, Genie, 

Many and many a time. 
Ere thou hast unfolded (|uite, Genie — 

Grown into maiden prime. 

Thou art looking now at the birds, Genie; 

But, oh! do not wish their wing! 
That would only tempt the fowler, Geuie : 

Stay thou on earth and sing; 
Stay in the nursing nest, Genie ; 

Be not soon thence beguiled. 
Thou wilt ne'er find a second. Genie, 

Never he twice a child. 

Thou art building towers of pebbles. Genie, 

Pile tlieni np brave and high. 
And leave them to follow a bee, Geuie, 

As he waudereth singing by ; 
But if thy towers fall down, Geuie, 

And if the browu bee is lost. 
Never weep, for thou must learp, Genie, 

How soou life's schemes are crossed. 

Thy hand is in a bright boy's, Genie, 

And he calls thee liis sweet wee wife, 
But let not thy little heart think, Geuie, 

Childhood the prophet of life ; 
It may be life's minstrel. Genie, 

And sing sweet songs and clear. 
But minstrel and prophet now. Genie, 

Are not united here. 

What will thy future fate be, Genie, 

Alas! shall I live to see? 
For thou art scarcely a sapling, Geuie, 

And I am a moss-grown tree: 
I am shedding life's leaves fast. Genie, 

Thou art in blossom sweet ; 
But think of the grave betimes. Genie, 

Where young and old oft meet. 



5itmcs ^oriiou 33i-ooks. 



Brooks (1801-1841), the son of a Revolutionary officer, 
was a native of Claveraek, N. Y., on the Hudson. He 
was graduated at Union College in 1810, studied law, and 
began to write poetry under tlie signature of "Florio." 
He removed in 1833 to the city of New York, where he 
became connected as editor with various journals. In 
1828 he married Mary Elizabeth Akin, of Poughkeepsie, 
N. Y.,who wrote under the signature of "Noma," and 
shared the poetical gift, as the following lines from her 
pen attest: 

PS.\LM CXXXVII. 

"Come, sweep the harp! one Ihiillin^ rush 

Of all Lliat warmed its chords to song, 
And then the str.iins forever luish 

That oft have breathed its wires along ! 
The ray is quenched that lit our mirth. 

The shrine is f.'ouc that claimed the prayer, 
And exiles o'er the distant earlh,— 

How can we wake the carol there? 

" One sigh, my hnrp, and then to sleep ! 

For all that loved thy son;^ have flown: 
"Why shouldst thou lonely vigils keep, 

Forsaken, broken, and alone? 
Let this sad murmur be thy last, 

Nor e'er again in music swell ; 
Tbiiic hours of joyousncss are past, 

Aud thaa we sever: — fare thee well 1" 

Tn 1829 the Messrs. Harper published "The Rivals of 
Este, and other Poems," by Mr. and Mrs. Brooks. In 
1830 husband antl wife removed to Winchester, Va., to 
take charge of a newspaper; but in 1839 they took up 
their residence in Albany, N. Y., where Mr. Brooks died. 
He was esteemed for bis many good qualities, and held 
a high social position, though hardly favored by fortune 
iu bis various editorial enterprises. 



GREECE :— 1822. 

Land of the brave ! where lie iuurued 

The shrouded forms of mortal clay, 
In whom the hre of valor burned 

And blazed upon the battle's fray ; — 
Laud where the gallant Spartan few 

Bled at Thermopylai of yore, 
Wlieu death his purple garment threw 

Ou Hello's consecrated shore ; — 

Land of the Mnse! within thy bowers 

Her soul-entrancing echoes rang. 
While on their course the rapid hours 

Paused at the melody she sang, — 
Till every grove and every hill, 

And every stream that flowed along. 
From morn to night repeated still 

The winning harmony of song ! 



JAMES GORDOX BUOOKS.—MHS. ARCHER {WIGLEY) CLIVE. 



5fii» 



Liiiul of dead heroes! living slaves! 

Shall gloiy gild thy elimc no more f 
Her banner tloat above tliy waves, 

Where proudly it hath swept before 1 
Hath not rcniembraneo then a charm 

To break the fetters and the chain, 
To bill thy ehililn'n nerve the arm. 

And strike for freed(mi once again < 

No! coward souls! the light which shone 

On Leuctra's war-empnrpled day, 
Tiie light which beamed on Marathon, 

Ilath lost its splendor, ceased to play: 
And thou art but a shadow now, 

With helmet shattered, spear in rust: 
Thy honor but a dream — and thou 

Despised, degraded — in the dnst! 

Where sleeps the spirit, that of old 

Dashed down to earth the Persian plume, 
When the loud chant of triumph told 

How fatal was the despot's doom T — 
The bold tlireo hundred — where are they, 

Who died ou battle's gory breast* 
Tyrants have trampled ou the clay 

Where death has hushed them into rest. 

Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill 

A glory shines of ages lied ; 
Anil fame her liglit is pouring still, 

Not ou the living, but the dead! 
But 'lis the dim sepulchral light 

Which sheds a faint and feeble ray, 
As moonbeams ou the brow of niglit. 

When tempests sweep upon their way. 

Greece! yet awaUo thco from thy trance! 

Behold, thy banner waves afar ; 
Bi'hold, the glittering weapons glance 

Along the gleaming front of war! 
A gallant chief, of high emprise, 

Is urging forenuist in the (ield, 
Who calls upon thee, Greece, to rise 

lu might, ill majesty revealed. 

In vain, iu vain the hero calls — 

In vain he sounds the trum]iet loud ! 
His banner totters — see! it falls 

In niin, freedom's battle-shroud! 
Thy children have no soul to dare 

Siu'h deeds as glorified their sires; 
Their valor's but a meteor's glare 

Which llamcs a moment, and expires. 



Lost land ! where genius made his reign. 

And reared his golden arch ou high, — 
Where science raised her sacred fane, 

Its summits peering to the sky, — 
Upon thy clime the midnight deep 

Of ignorance hath brooded long. 
And iu the tomb, forgotten, sleep 

The sons of science and of song. 

Thy suu hath set — the evening storm 

Hath passed iu giant fury by. 
To blast the beauty of thy form. 

And spread its pall upon the sky ! 
Goue is thy glory's diadem, 

And Freedom never more shall cease 
To pour her mournful requiem 

O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece ! 



iUvs. ^vcljcr I lUiijlcii] Clinc. 

Miss Wigley (lSOl-1873), author of the novel of "Paul 
FerroU" (185.5), was a native of England. She became 
Mrs. Clive, and published, under the signature of V, 
poems which were collected iu a volume in 187:2. While 
sitting before the fire at WUitlield her dress caught, and, 
before help could be rendered, she was so burnt that 
she (lied of her injuries in a few hours. Her poems were 
highly praised by Loekhart. But he could not accord 
liii approval to the "spirit which animates" the follow- 
ing Hues. Is not the spirit, however, that of one confi- 
dent of the future ? The lines are remarkable as fore- 
shadowing the actual manner of her death. 



THE WI.SH. 

Forbid, O Fate ! forbid that I 

Should liuger long before I die ! 

Ah ! let mo not, sad day by day. 

Upon a dying bed decay ; — • 

And lose my love, my hope, my strength. 

All save the ba.ser part of man ; 
Concentring every wish, at length, — 

To die a.s slowly as I can ! 
• *#»#• 

I'd die iu battle, love, or glee, 
With spirit wild and body free: 
With all my wit, my soul, my licart. 
Burning away iu every part ; — 
That so more meetly I might fly 
Into mine Ininiortalily : 
Like comets, when their race is run, 
That cud bv rushing ou the sun I 



570 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



lUilliam lllilson. 



Wilson (1801 -ISCO) w;is a native of CriefT, Scotland. 
While yet a child, he lost his ft\tlier, a respectable mer- 
chant, and thenceforward was obliged to rely chiefly on 
his own elTiirts for education and advancement. He be- 
came an editor at twenty-two; moved to Edinburgh, and 
wrote for the leading periodicals. In 1833 he emigrated 
to the United States, settled at Poughkeepsie, and estab- 
lislied himself in the bookselling and publishing busi- 
ness. It was not till after his death that his poems were 
collected and published. General James Grant Wilson, 
of New York, born (1832) in Edinburgli, author of a 
" Life of Halleck" and other works, also editor of "The 
Poets and Poetry of Scotland" (Harper & Brothers), in 
two elegant volumes, was his son. 



SABBATH MORNING IN THE WOODS. 

O ble.ssdd mora ! whose ruddy beam 
Of gladness mantl&s fount and stream, 
And over all created things 
A golden robe of glory flings ! 

On every tendril, leaf, and spray, 

A diamond glistens iu the ray, 

And from a thousand throats a shout 

Of adoration gushes out ; 

A glad but sweet prelusive psahn 

Which breaks the hallowed morning's calm. 

Each wimpling brook, each winding rill 
That sings and murmurs on at will. 
Seems vocal with the blessed refrain, 
" The Lord has come to life again !" 

And from each wild flower on the wold. 
In purple, sapphire, snow, or gold, 
Pink, amethyst, or azure hue, 
Beauteous of tint and bright with dew. 
There breathes an incense oflering, borue 
Upon the wakening breath of morn 
To the Creator, all divine, — 
Meet sacrifice for such a shrine ! 

Far down those lofty forest aisles, 
Where twilight's solemn hush prevails, 
The wind its balmy censer swings, — 
Like odors from an angel's wings, 
W^ho, passing swift to earth, had riven 
Their fragrance from the bowers of heaven ! 

And through each sylvan tangled hall. 
Where slanting bars of suidight fall. 



Faint sounds of hallelujahs sweet 
Tlie traucfid ear would seem to greet, 
As if the holy seraphim 
Were choiring here their matin hymn. 

God of all nature ! here I feel 

Thy awful yiresence, as I kneel. 

In humble heart-abasement meet. 

Thus lowly at thy mercy -seat ! — 

And while I tremble, I adore, 

Like him by Bethel's stone of yore ; — 

For thus thy vouchsafed presence given 

Hath made this place the Gate of Heaven ! 



£orii linlocl). 



William Penney (1801-1872) was a native of Glasgow, 
the son of a respectable merchant. Educated at the 
University he studied law, and in 1858 was appointed a 
judge of the Court of Session, taking the title of Lord 
Kinloch. In publishing his " Devout Thoughts " (1863), 
he remarks : " I offer this volume as a collection of 
thoughts rather than poems. The object is not an ex- 
hibition of poetic fancy, but an expression of Christian 
life." 



THE STAR IN THE EAST. 

I sought for wisdom in the morning time, 
When the snu cleared the hills; and strove to climb 
Where I could farther see ; but all iu vain 
The eftbrts made! 'twas but unwearying strain 
At truth, nor had of knowledge save the paiu. 

There rose a star in the East before 'twas night. 
And spoke of Gotl; but only spoke of :night 
And height and distance; iu a gathering mist 
I lost the star: I could not but persist 
To seek, but how to find it, nothing wist. 

I journeyed long and darkly ; but at last 
The star appeared ; and now its beams were cast 
On a poor stable, where, in swaddling bands. 
An infant lay in virgin mother's bands; 
Fixed there it stood, and lixed for mo still stands. 

I found where wisdom dwelt ; and in my joy 
Brought forth my gifts: gold, though it held alloy, 
Which dimmed its worth ; incense from forth a 

breast 
Warm with new love; myrrh, through all life 

possessed, 
Fragi-ant to make the couch of earth's last rest. 



SAMUEL CAETEU /I.II./..--JOHX HENRY XEWMAN. 



571 



Samuel Carter f)all. 

A native of Knslaiul, Ilall (ISOI-IS..) was editor ofthc 
London Art Juitrnal, and of several illustrated works of 
a hi^li character: "The Book of Gems," "The Book of 
British Ballads," etc. He has also written, both in prose 
and verse, in behalf of the temperance and other great 
reforms. The poem we quote is from "Hereafter," pro- 
duced in his eightieth year, and prefaced with the fol- 
lowin; passage from the "Life of the Prince Consort" 
by Theodore JIartin : 

" Death in his view was bnt the portal to a farther life, in 
which he mi;;ht hope for a couliiiiiancc, under happier condi- 
lioiis, of all that was best in himself and in those he loved, iiu- 
clofiged by the weaknesses, and inisaddened by the failures, the 
misuuderstandiugs, and the Borrows of earthly existence." 

Hall was married in 1S24 to Jliss Fielding, a native of 
■\Vexford, Ireland (1.S04), who, as Mrs. S. C. Hall, won 
reput;ition by her "Lights and Shadows of Irish Life," 
and other successful works. 



NATURE'S CREED. 

Science m.iy sneer at Faith ; and Reason frown ; 

May j>rovc tlioro are no souls — to live or die ! 
ILiy scorn and scout tho creed they argue down, 

And give the Great Omnipotent the lie: — 

Tlioy limit Ilim — who made all worlds — to acts 
That Science calls "tho iiossible ;"' and thus, 

Bounding tho Inliiiito by rules and facts, 
Explain the "fable of the soul" to us. 

Ten thousand thousand things exist, wo know, 
By Science tested and by Reason tried, 

AVith no conclusive issue : save to .show 

How much we need a better light and guide ! 

Can Science gauge tho infliienco that draws 
Tho needle to tho magnet ? Can it see 

The perfume of tho ro.so f or measure laws 
By which the flower gives houey to tho bee ? 

In spite of Science and its five poor tests, 
It may bo but a part of "Nature's" plan 

To people other spheres with other guests, 
Ascending (as descending) up from man. 

And beings not of earth, or mortal birth. 
The first-born of Creation, may have been, — 

And may be — ministers of love to earth — 
"A cloud of witnesses," though yet unseen: 

.\nd tlio.so wo call "the dead" (who are not dead — 
Death was their herald to Celestial Life !) 



May soothe the aching heart, and weary head, 
In paiu, in toil, in sorrow, and in strife. 

That is the jiith of every natural creed, — 
(Instinctive teachings of an after-stato 

When from earth-nianacles tho soul is freed !) — 
Poor sceptics strive in vain to dissipate ! 

And there are many ways to Heaven that lead : 
Woe to the "prophets," foul and false, who teach 

The narrow, cruel, cold, and selfish creed. 

That there are souls His voice can never reach. 

In tortuons, tangled paths wc tread ; but trust 
One Guide to lead us forth and set us free ; 

Give us, Lord God All Mighty and All Just ! 
Tho Faith that is but Confidence in thee! 



3o\)n (jcnnj 2Ccuiinaii. 

The son of a banker, Newman (1801-18..) was a native 
of London. He graduated at Trinity College, Oxford, in 
1820. Seceding from the Established Church, he became 
a priest of the Oratory of St. Philip Neri, and in 1878 was 
made a Cardinal. His collected works form twenty- two 
volumes. His poems appeared in 18GS, under the title of 
" Verses on various Occasions." They are mostly on 
religious topics, though some are playful in tone. His 
brother, Francis William Newman, born in 180.i, resigned 
an Oxford fellowship because he could not subscribe the 
Thirty-nine Articles for his Master's degree. His ethi- 
cal and theological writings have been very numerous, 
and his religious faith would seem to be that of a pure 
theism, free from the adnltcration of any historical creed. 
The two brothers appear to have been diametrically op- 
posed in their religious notions. 



FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT. 

Pruuo thou thy words, the thoughts control 
That o'er theo swell and throng; 

They will condense within thy soul, 
And change to purpose strong. 

Bnt ho who lets his feelings run 

In soft luxurious flow. 
Shrinks when hard service must be done, 

And faints at every woe. 

Faith's meanest deed more favor bears, 
Where hearts and wills aro weighed. 

Than brightest transports, choicest prayers. 
Which bloom their hour and fade. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN FOETRY. 



A VOICE FROM AFAR. 

Weep not for me; — 
Be blithe as \vout, uor tinge with gloom 
The stream of love that circles home, 

Light hearts ami free ! 
Joy in the gifts Heaven's houuty leuds; 
Nor miss my face, dear friends ! 

I still am near; — 
Watching the smiles I prized on earth, 
Yonr converse mild, yonr blameless mirth ; 

Now too I hear 
Of whispered sounds the tale complete, 
Low prayers, and musings sweet. 

A sea before 
The Throne is spread; — its iiure still glass 
Pictures all earth-scenes as they pass. 

We, on its shore. 
Share, in the bosom of our rest, 
God's kuowlcdge, aud are blessed. 



GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

My oldest friend, mine from the hour 
When first I drew my breath ; 

My faithful friend, that shall be mine, 
Unfailing, till my death ; — 

Thou hast been ever at my side: 

My Maker to thy trust 
Consigned my soul, what time he framed 

The infant child of dust. 

No beating heart in holy prayer. 

No faith, informed aright, 
Gave me to Joseph's tutelage, 

Or Michael's conquering might. 

Nor patron saiut, nor Mary's love, 

The dearest and the best, 
Has known my being, as thou hast known, 

Aud blessed as thou hast blessed. 

Thou wast my sponsor at the font; 

Aud thou, each budding year, 
Didst whisper elements of truth 

Into my childish ear. 

And when, ere boyhood yet was gone, 
My rebel spirit fell, 



Ah ! thou didst see, and shudder too, 
Yet bear each deed of hell. 

And then in turn, when judgments came, 

And scared mo back agaiu. 
Thy quick soft breath was near to soothe, 

Aud hallow every pain. 

Oh ! who of all thy toils and cares 

Can tell the tale complete, 
To place mo under Mary's smile. 

And Peter's royal feet. 

And thou wilt hang about my bed 

Wheu life is ebbing low; 
Of doubt, imp.atiencc, and of gloom, 

The jealous sleepless foe. 

Mine, when I stand before the Judge; 

And mine, if spared to stay 
Within the golden furnace, till 

My sin is burned away. 

Aud mine, oh brother of my soul, 
Wheu my release shall come ; 

Thy gentle arms shall lift me then, 
Thy wings shall waft mo home. 



CrLiiuarii Cotitc piuK'ncij. 

AMERICAN. 

Phikney (1S03-182S) was born in London while liis 
father was American Commissioner at the Court of St. 
James. He entered the navy as a midshipman, but al- 
terward became a lawyer. A volume of his poems was 
published in Baltimore in 1825, and a second edition in 
183S. 



A HEALTH. 

I fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone ; 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon ; 
To whom the better elements 

Aud kiudly stars have given 
A form so fair that, like the air, 

'Tis less of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own. 
Like those of morning birds. 

And something more than melody 
Dwells ever in her words; 



EDWARD COATE PINKNEY.— ROBERT MACNISH. 



573 



Tlio coinage of Ler heart are tliey, 

And fniin licr lips each flows 
As one may see the hiinlencd bco 

Forth issue I'idiu the rose. 

Affections are as tlioughts to her, 

Tlie measures of her hours ; 
Her feelings have the fragrancy, 

The freshness of young (lowers ; 
And lovely passions, changing oft, 

So fill her, she appears 
The imago of themselves by turns, — 

Tlie idol of past years. 

Of her bright face one glance will trace 

A picture on the brain. 
And of her voice in echoing hearts 

A sound must long remain: 
But memoi-j- such .is mine of her 

So very nincli endears. 
When death is nigh, my latest sigh 

Will not be life's, but hers. 

I lill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone ; 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon. 
Her health ! and would on earth there stood 

Some more of such .1 frame. 
That life might be all poetry, 

Aud weariness a name. 



SONO: AYE BREAK THE (JLASS. 

AVe break the glass, whose sacred wine 

To some belovdd health we drain. 
Lest future pledges, less divine. 

Should e"er the hallowed toy profane ; 
.\nd tlius I broke a heart that poured 

lis tide of feeling out for thee. 
In draughts, by after-times deplored, 

Yet dear to memory. 

But still the old imp.issioned ways 

And habits of my mind remain. 
And still unhappy light displays 

Thine image chambered in my brain. 
Aud still it looks as when the hours 

Went liy like flights of singing birds, 
On that .-ioft chain of spoken flowers, 

And airy gems, thy words. 



llobtrt illacnisi). 



Macnish (1S03-1.S37) w.is a native of Glasgow, Scotland. 
He studied medicine, and when eighteen received the de- 
glee of Master of Surgery. He manifested marked tal- 
ents for literary pursuits ; contributing some graceful 
poems to JJlackwooU's Jlagmine, also the striking story 
of "The Metempsychosis" (IS'JS). He was the author 
of "The Anatomy of Drunkenness," "The Philosophy 
of Sleep," and other approved works. After eighteen 
months of country practice in Caithness, wliere his health 
failed, he went abroad and spent a year in Paris ; attended 
the lectures of Broussais and Dupuytrcn, met Cuvier, and 
became aciiuainled with Gait, the phrenologist. On his 
return to Scotland lie settled in Glasgow, but died young, 
beloved and lamented. His literary writings were collect- 
ed, and published in a volume by his friend, D. M. Moir. 



MY LITTLE SISTER. 

Thy memory as a spell 

or love comes o"er my mind ; 
As dew upon the purple bell. 

As perfume on the wind ; 
As music on the sea. 

As sunshine on the river. 
So hath it always been to nie, 

So shall it he forever. 

I hear thy voice in dreams 

I'pon me softly call. 
Like echo of the mountain streams 

III sportive water-fall. 
I see thy form as when 

Thou wert a living thing. 
And blo8.somed in the eyes of men 

Like .any liower of spring. 

Thy soul to heaven hath fled. 

From earthly thraldom free ; 
Yet 'tis not as the dead 

That thou appear'st to me. 
In slumber I beholil 

Thy form, as when on earth ; 
Thy locks of waving gold, 

Tliy sajiphire <'ye of mirth. 

I hear, in solitude, 

The prattle, kind and free, 
Thou ntteredst in joyful mood 

While seated on my knee. 
So strong each vision seems, 

My spirit that doth fill, 
I tliink not they arc dreams, 

But that thou livest SI ill. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Inintljrop llTafkioortl) ^raeb. 

The son of a sei-geaut-at-law, Praed (180^-1839), a na- 
tive of London, was educated at Eton and at Trinity 
College, Cambi-idge. He studied for tlie Bar, but enter- 
ed political life, and became a member of the House of 
Commons. While at Eton, in conjunction with Moul- 
trie, William Sidney Walker, Chauncey HareTownshend, 
and others, he edited that remarkably clever college 
magazine, The Elonian, of which Praed was the life. His 
poems are what have been styled vers de societe ; but they 
are sprightly, original, and witty, and have had hosts of 
imitators. His cliarades, too, are the best of their kind. 
On the maternal side Praed was related to the well- 
known Winthrop family of Boston, U. S. A. 



MY LITTLE COUSINS. 
*'E voi ridote?— Certe Ridiamo." — CoBi fan tutte. 

Laugli on, fair cousins, for to you 

All life is joyous yet ; 
Your hearts liave all tbiugs to pursue, 

Ami nothing to regret ; 
And every' llower to you is fair. 

And every month is May : 
You've not been introduced to Care — 

Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! 

Old Time will fling his clouds ere long 

Upon those sunny eyes ; 
The voice, whose every word is song, 

Will set itself to sighs ; 
Y'our quiet slumbers, — hopes and fears 

Will chase their rest away : 
To-morrow you'll be shedding tears — 

Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! 

Oh yes ; if any truth is found 

In the dull schoolman's theme. 
If friendship is an empty sound. 

And love an idle dream, — 
If mirth, youth's playmate, feels fatigue 

Too soon on life's long way, 
At least he'll run with you a league ; — 

Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! 

Perhaps your eyes may grow more bright 

As childhood's hues depart ; 
Y'ou may be lovelier to the sight, 

And dearer to the heart ; 
You may be sinless still, and see 

This earth still green and gay : 
But what you are you will not be — 

Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! 



O'er me have many winters crept, 

W^ith less of grief than joy ! 
But I have learned, and toiled, and wept ; 

I am 110 more a boy! 
I've never had the gout, 'tis true. 

My hair is hardly gray ; 
But now I cannot laugh like you — • 

Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! 

I used to have as glad a face. 

As shadowless a brow : 
I once could run as blithe a race 

As you are running now ; 
But never mind how I behave ! 

Don't interrupt your play ; 
And though I look so very grave, 

Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! 



WHERE IS MISS MYRTLE? 

Air : " Sweet Kitty Cloveb." 

Where is Miss Myrtle ? can auy one tell ? 

Where is she gone, where is she gone ? 
She flirts with another, I know very well ; 

And I — am left all alone ! 
She flies to the window when Arundel rings, — 
She's all over smiles when Lord Archibald sings, — 
It's plain that her Cupid has two pair of wings : 

W'here is she gone, where is she gone ? 
Her love and my love are different things ; 

And I — am left all alone ! 

I brought her, one morning, a rose for her brow ; 

Where is she gone, where is she gone ? 
She told me such horrors were never worn now : 

And I — am left all alone ! 
But I saw her at night with a rose in her hair, 
And I guess who it came from — of course I don't 

care. 
W^e all know that girls are as false as they're fair; 

Where is she gone, where is she gone ? 
I'm sure the lieutenant's a horrible bear: 

And I — am left all alone ! 

Whenever we go on the Downs for a ride, — 

Whore is she gone, where is .she gone ? 
She looks for another to trot by her side : 

And I — am left all alone ! 
And whenever I take her down-stairs from a liall. 
She nods to some puppy to put on her shawl : 
I'm a peaceable man, and I don't like a brawl ; — 
Where is she gone, where is she gone ? 



mXTHIlOP MACKWORTU PRAED. 



575 



Hut I'd give a trifle to horsewhip them all ; 

Aud I — am left all aUmo ! 

She tells me her mother belongs to the sect 

Where is she gone, where is she gone t 
Which holds that all waltzing is quite iueorrect : 

And I — am left all aloue ! 
litit .1 fire's ill my heart, aud a lire's in my brain, 
When she waltzes away with Sir Phelim O'Shane ; 
1 don't think I ever can ask her again ; 

Whore is she gone, where is she gone t 
And, liord ! since the SHmmer she's grown verj- 
plain ; 

And I — am left all alone ! 

She said that she liked me a twelvemonth ago ; 

Where is she gone, where is she gone f 
And how should I guess that she'd torture me so? 

And I — am left all alone ! 
Some day she'll find ont it was not very wise 
To laugh at the breath of a true lover's sighs ; 
After all, Fanny Myrtle is not such a prize: 

Where is she gone, where is she gone f 
Louisa Dalrvmplo has exquisite eyes; 

And I'll — be no longer alone ! 



TKLL IIIM I LU\£ IIIM YET. 

Tell liini I love him yet, as in that joyous time; 
Tell him I ne'er forget, though memory now bo 

crime ; 
Tell him, when sad moonlight is over earth and sea, 
I dream of him by night, — ho must not dream of me ! 

Tell him to go -where Fame looks proudly on the 

brave ; 
Tell him to win a name by deeds on land and wave ; 
Green, green upon bis brow the laurel-wrealli shall 

be; 
Although the laurel now may not be shared with nie. 

Tell him to smile again in pleasure's dazzling throng. 
To wear another's chain, to praise another's song: 
Kefore the loveliest there, I'd have him bend the 

knee, 
And breathe to her the prayer he used to breathe 

to me. 

And tell him, day by day life looks to me moro dim ; 
I falter when I pray, although I pray for him. 
And bid him, when I die, come to our favorite tree; 
I shall not hear him sigh, — then let him sigh for mo ! 



APKIL-FOOL.S. 

This day, beyond all contradiction. 

This day is all thine own. Queen Fiction ! 

And thou art building castles boundless 

Of groundless joys, and griefs as groundless; 

Assuring beauties that the border 

Of their now dress is out of order. 

And school-boys that their shoes want tying, 

Aud babies that their dolls are dying. 

Lend me — lend me some disguise ; 

I will tell prodigious lies; 

All who care for what I say, 

Shall be April-fools to-day ! 

First I relate how all tlii' nation 
Is ruiued by Emancipation ; 
How honest men are sadly thwarted, 
How beads and fagots arc imported, 
How every parish church looks thiiiuer. 
How Peel has asked the Pope to dinner; 
And how the Duke, who fought the duel. 
Keeps good King George on watcr-gruel. 
Then I waken doubts and fears 
In the Commons and the Peers ; 
If they care for what I say. 
They are April-fools to-day ! 

N^ext I announce to hall aud hovel 
I-ord Asterisk's unwritten novel ; 
It's full of wit, aud full of fashion. 
And full of taste, and full of passion ; 
It tells some very curious histories. 
Elucidates some charming mysteries, 
And mingles sketches of societj' 
With precepts of the soundest piety. 
Thus I babble to the host 
Who adore the Morning Post; 
If they care for what I s.ay. 
They are April-fools to-day ! 

Then to the artist of my raiment 

I hint his bankers have- stopped payment; 

And jnst suggest to Lady Locket 

That somebody has picked her pocket; 

And scare Sir Thomas from the City 

Ity murmuring, in a tone of pity, 

That I am sure I saw my Lady 

Drive through the Park with Captain Grady. 

Oft' my troubled victims go. 

Very pale and very low ; 

If they care for what I say. 

They arc April-fools to-day ! 



576 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



I've sent the learned Doctor Trepan 
To feel Sir Hubert's broken knee-pan : 
'Twill rout tUe Doctor's seven senses 
To find Sir Hubert chargiug fences ! 
I've sent a sallow jiarchmeut-scraper 
To put Miss Trim's last will ou paper ; 
He'll see lier, silent as a nnimmy, 
At wbist, witb ber two maids and dummy. 

Man of brief, and man of pill, 

Thcj' will take it very ill ; 

If tbey care for what I say, 

Tbey are April-fools to-daj-! 

And to tbe -world I publish gayly 
That all things are improving daily; 
That suns grow warmer, streamlets clearer. 
And faith more warm, and love sincerer ; 
Tliat children grow extremely clever. 
That sin is seldom known, or never; 
That gaSj and steam, and education, 
Are killing sorrow and starvation ! 
Pleasant visions ! — but alas. 
How those pleasant visions pass ! 
If you care for what I say. 
You're an April-fool to-day ! 

Last, to myself, when night comes round me. 
And the soft chain of thought has bound me, 
I whisper, " Sir, your eyes are killing ; 
You owe no mortal man a shilling ; 
You never cringe for Star or Garter; 
Y'ou're much too wise to be a martyr; 
And, since yon must be food for vermin, 
You don't feel much desire for ermine!"' 

Wisdom is a mine, no doubt. 

If one can but find it out ; 

But, whate'er I think or say, 

I'm an April-fool to-day ! 



GOOD-NIGHT. 

Good-night to thee, lady !— though many 

Have joined in the dance to-night. 
Thy form was the fairest of any, 

Where all was .seducing and bright ; 
Thy smile was the softest and dearest, 

Thy form tlic most sylph-like of all. 
And thy voice the most gladsome and clearest 

That e'er held a partner in thrall. 

Good-night to thee, lady! — 'tis over — 

The waltz — the quadrille, and the song — 



The whispered farewell of the lover. 

The heartless adieu of the throng ; 
The heart that was throbbing with pleasure, 

The eyelid that longed for rejiose — 
The beaux that were dreaming of treasure, 

The girls that were dreaming of beaux. 

'Tis over — the lights are all dying, 

The coaches all driving away ; 
And many a fair one is sighing, 

And many a false one is gay ; 
And beauty counts over her numbers 

Of conquests, as homeward she drives — 
And some are gone home to their slumbers, 

And some are gone home to their wives. 

And I, while my cab in the shower 

Is waiting, the last at the door. 
Am looking all round for the flower 

That fell from your wreath on the floor. 
I'll keep it — if but to remind me. 

Though withered and faded its hue — 
Wherever next season may find me — 

Of England — of Almack's — and you ! 

There are tones that will haunt us, though lonely 

Our path be o'er mountain or sea; 
There are looks that will part from us only 

When memory ceases to be ; 
There are hopes which our burden can lighten. 

Though toilsome and steep be the way ; 
And dreams that, like moonlight, can brighten, 

With a light that is clearer than day. 

There are names that we cherish, though nameless 

For aye on the lip they may be ; 
There are hearts that, though fettered, are tameless. 

And thoughts unexpressed, but still free ! 
And some are too grave for a rover. 

And some for a husband too light. 
— The ball and ray dream are all over — 

Good-night to thee, lady! good-night! 



CHARADE. 

CAMP-BELL. 

Come from my First, ay, come ; 

The battle dawn is nigh ; 
And the screaming trump and the thundering drum 

Are calling thee to die ; 
Fight, as thy father fought ; 

Fall, as thy father fell ; 



WIXTHROP MACKWOKTU PRAED.—LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDOS. 



Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought — 
So, foiwarcl ! ami I'arowi'll I 

Toll ye my Secojul, toll ; 

Flin^ hi;!h tlio liambeau's light ; 
AikI sing the hymn for a iiarteil soul 

Beneath tho sileut night ; 
The helm upon his head, 

The cross upon his breast, 
Let tho prayer be saiil, ami tho tear be shed : 

Now take him to his rest I 

Call yc my Whole, go, call — 

The Lord of lute and lay. 
And let him greet tho sable pall 

With a noble song to-day : 
Ay, tall him by his name; 

No fitter hand may crave 
To light the tlamo of a. 8oldici''s fame, 

On the turf of .a soldier's grave. 



I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 

I remember, I remember 

How my childhood fleeted by,— 
The mirth of its December, 

And the warmth of its July ; 
On my brow, love, on my brow, love. 

There are no signs of care ; 
But my pleasures are not now, love, 

What childhood's pleasures were. 

Then the bowers, (hen the bowers. 

Were blitlur as blithe could be; 
And all their r.-tdinut flowers 

Were coronals for me : 
Gems to-night, love — gems to-night, love, 

Are gleaming in my hair; 
But they are not half so bright, love, 

As chililhood's roses were. 

I was singing — I was singing, 

And my songs were idle words; 
But from my heart was springing 

Wild music like a bird's: 
Now I sing, lovo — now I sing, love, 

A fine Italian air ; 
But it's not so glad a thing, love, 

As childhood's ballads wore! 

I was merry — I was merry. 
When my little lovers came, 
37 



With a lily, or a cherry, 

Or a new Invented game ; 
Now I've you, love — now I've you, love, 

To kneel before mo there ; 
But you know you're not so true, love. 

As childhood's lovers were.' 



£ctitia (!:li?abctl) Caubon. 

Jliss Landon, tlic clau;;liltr of an army aucnt.was born 
in Chelsea, Englaiul, in 1803, and died in IS;JS. She l>egau 
to write verses at an early age, and, under tlie signature 
of L. E. L., contributed largely to the London Literary 
Gazette. Ilcr fatlicr died, and she supported herself and 
sonic of her relatives by her pen. In 1S38 slie was mar- 
ried to George Maclean, Goveriuu' of Cape Coast Castle, 
and sailed for her new houie. There, in October of the 
same year, she died from an over-dose of prussic acid, 
whieli filic was in the liabit of taking for an liysterieal 
alfection. Iter poems, popular in their d.ay, sliow, with 
some flashes of genius, tlie "fatal facility" winch rests 
in mediocrity. Perhaps she rould not afford to blot, so 
long as her most trilling productions brought the nnicli- 
needed money. Iler "Poetical Sketches" appeared in 
IS'il ; "The Improvisalrice, and other Poems," in K'H. 
Her "Life and Literary Kcniains" were published by 
Laman Blancliard in 1841. Iler collected poems, edited 
by W. B. Scott, appeared in 1873. She wrote several 
novels, the reputation of wliieh was ephemeral. 



SUCCESS ALONE SEEN. 

Few know of life's beginnings — men behold 

Tiie goal achieved; — the warrior, when his sword 

Flashes red triumph in the noonday sun ; 

Tho poet, when his lyre hangs on the palm ; 

Tho statesmau, when the crowd proclaim his voice, 

And mould opinion, on his gifted tongue: 

Tliey count not life's iirst steps, and never think 

I'pon the many miserable hours 

When hope deferred was sieknes.s to the heart. 

They reckon not tho battle and the march. 

The long privations of a wasted youth ; 

They never sec tho banner till unfurled. 

What are to them the solitary nights 

P:i.ssed, pale and anxious, by the sickly l;imp. 

Till the young poet wins tho world at last 

To listen to the music long his own f 

The crowd atteiul tho statesman's fiery mind 

That makes their destiny: but they do not trace 

Its struggle, or its huig expertaney. 

Hard are life's early steps; and, but that youth 

Is buoyant, confident, and strong in hope. 

Men would behold its threshold, and despair. 



578 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



DEATH AND THE YOUTH. 

" Not yet, — the flowers are in my path, 

The suu is ia the sky ; 
Not yet, — my heart is full of hope, 

I cauiiot bear to die. 

" Not yet, — I never knew till now 
How precioiis life could he ; 

My heart is full of love, O Death ! 
I cannot come with thee!" 

But Love and Hope, eueliauted twain, 
Passed in their falsehood hy; 

Death came again, and then he said, 
" I'm ready now to die !" 



Albert (Norton ©rccnc. 



Greene (180^18fi8^,was a native of Providence, R. I., 
and graduated at Brown University. He became a law- 
yer, and filled various rauuieipal offices. He was the au- 
thor of" The Baron's Last Banquet," quite a spuited bal- 
lad, and of several fugitive poems, not yet collected iu a 
volume. 



OLD GRIMES. 

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man 

We never shall see more ; 
He used to wear a long black coat. 

All buttoned down before. 

His heart was open as the day. 

His feelings all were true; 
His hair was some inclined to gray, 

He wore it iu a (pieue. 

Whene'er ho beard the voice of pain. 
His breast with pity burned ; 

The large round head upon his cane 
From ivory was turned. 

Kind words he ever had for all ; 

He knew no base design ; 
His eyes were dark, and rather small ; 

His nose was aquiliue. 

He lived at peace with all mankind. 

In friendcship he was true ; 
His coat had pocket-holes behind, 

His pantaloons were blue. 



Unharmed, the sin ■which earth pollutes, 

He passed securely o'er. 
And never wore a pair of boots 

For thirty years or more. 

But good old Grimes is now at rest, 
Nor fears misfortune's frown ; 

He wore a double-breasted vest, 
The stripes ran up and down. 

He modest merit sought to find, 

And pay it its desert ; 
He had no malice in his miud, 

No ruffles on his shirt. 

His neighbors he did not abuse, 

Was sociable and gay; 
He wore large buckles on his shoes, 

And changed them every day. 

His knowledge, hid from public gaze, 
He did not bring to view, — 

Nor make a noise town-meeting days. 
As many jieoplc do. 

His worldly goods he never threw 
In trust to fortune's chances ; 

But lived (as all his brothers do) 
In easy circumstances. 

Thus undisturbed hy anxious cares. 

His peaceful moments ran ; 
And everybody said he was 

A fine old gentleman. 



(Peorgc Pmison prentice. 

AMERICAN. 

Prentice (1803-1870) was a native of Preston, Conn., 
and i;nuluated at Brown University in 1833. From 1838 
to 1830 he was editor of the New England Wtekbj Review. 
In 1831 he became editor of the Louisville (Ky .) Juurnal, 
and retained that position until his death. He was quite 
celebrated for his editorial witticisms. 



TO AN ABSENT WIFE. 

'Tis morn ; the sea-breeze seems to bring 
Joy, health, and freshness on its wing ; 
Bright flowers, to me all strange and new, 
Are glittering in the early dew ; 



GEORGE DEXISOX PEEXTICE. 



579 



Ami perfumes rise from many a grovo 
As iuccuse to the clouds that move 
Like spirits o'er you wclkiu clear; 
But I am sad — tliou art uot here. 

Tis noon ; a calm, unbroken sleep 
Is ou the blue waves of the deep; 
A soft haze, like a fairy dream, 
Is floating over hill and stream ; 
And many a broad magnolia flower 
Within its shadowy woodland bower 
Is gleaming like a lovely star; 
lint I am sad — thou art afar. 

'Tis eve ; on earth the sunset skies 
Are painting their own Kden dyes; 
The stars como down, and trembling glow 
Like blossoms in the waves below ; 
Aud, like some unseen sprite, the breeze 
Seems lingering 'mid the orange-trees, 
Breathing in music round the spot; 
But I am sad — I see theo not. 

'Tis midnight: with a soothing spell 
The far tones of the ocean swell, 
Soft as a mother's cadence mild, 
Low bending o'er her sleeping child; 
And on each wandering lireeze arc heard 
The rich notes of the nmcking-bird 
III many a wild aud wondrous lay; 
But I am sad — thou art aw-ay. 

I sink in dreams, low, sweet, and clear; 
Tliy own dear voice is in my ear; 
Around my cheek thy tresses twine. 
Thy own loved hand is clasped in mini'. 
Thy own soft lip to mine is pressed. 
Thy head is jiillowed on my breast. 
Oh! I have! jiU my heart holds dear; 
.\iid I am hapjiy, — thou art here. 



LOOKOIT MOINTAIX. 

Historic mount ! baptized in flame and blood, 

Tliy name is as immortal .is the rocks 

That crown thy thunder-scarred but royal brow. 

Thou liftest np thy agdd lie.id in pride 

In the cool atmosphere, but higher still 

Within the ralm aud solemn atnu>spliero 

Of an iniiMortal fame. From thy sublime 

.\nd awful sunimil I can gaze afar 

I'pon iiinumerous lesser pinnacles, 



Aud oh! my wingdd spirit loves to fly, 

Like a strong eagle, 'mid their np-piled crags. 

But most on theo, imperial mount, my soul 

Is chained as by a spell of power. — I gaze 

Where Death held erst high carnival. Tiie waves 

Of the mysterious deatli-viver nu>aned ; 

The tramp, the shout, the fearful thunder-roar 

Of red-breathed cannon, aud the wailing cry 

Of myriad victims, filled the air. The smoke 

Of battle closed above the charging hosts, 

Aud, when it passed, the grand old Hag no more 

Waved in the light of heaven. The soil was wet 

And miry with the life-blood of the brave. 

As with a dreuching raiu ; and you broad stream. 

The noble and majestic Teuuessge, 

Ran reddened toward the deep. 

But thon, O bleak 
Aud rocky mountain, wast the theatre 
Of a yet fiercer struggle. On thy height. 
Where now^ I sit, — a proud and gallant host, 
The chivalry and glory of the South, 
Stood up awaiting battle. .Sombre clouds. 
Floating afar beneath them, shut from view 
The stern and silent foe, whose storied Hag 
Bore on its folds our country's monarch-bird. 
Whose talons grasp the thunder-bolt. L'p, up 
Thy rugged sides they came with measured tramp, 
Unheralded by bngle, drum, or shout ; 
Aud though the clouds closed round them with the 

gloom 
Of double night, they paused not in their march 
Till sword aud plumo and bayonet emerged 
Above the spectral shades that circled round 
Thy awful breast. Then suddenly .a storm 
Of Hamo aud lead aud iron downward burst 
From this tall pinnacle, like winter hail. 
Long, fierce, aud bloody w.-vs the strife, — alas! 
The noble flag, our country's hope and pride, 
Sauk down beneath the surface of the clouds, 
As sinks the pennon of ,v shipwri-cked bark 
Beneath a stormy sea, and naught was heard 
Save the wild cries aud moans of stricken men. 
Aud the swift rush of fleeing warriors down 
Thy rugged 8teei>s. 

But .soon (ho trumpet-voice 
Of the bold chieftain of the routed host 
Hesoundcd through the atmosphere, and pierced 
The clouds that hung aronud theo. With high words 
He quickly summoned his brave soldiery back 
To the renewal of the deadly light: 
Again their stern and mciisured (ramp was heard 
By the flushed Southrons, as it echoed nj) 
Thy bald, majestic cliffs. Again they burst, 



580 



CYCLOPJSDIA OF BRITISH: AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Like sjiirits of tlestructiou, through the clouds, 
And 'mid a thoiisaud hurtling missiles swept 
Their foes before them as the whirlwind sweeps 
The strong oaks of the forest. Victory 
Perched with her sister-eagle on the scorched 
And torn and blackened banner. 

Awfnl mount! 
The stains of blood have faded from th}' rocks ; 
The cries of mortal agouy have ceased 
To echo from thy hollow cliifs, the smoke 
Of battle long since melted into air, 
And yet thou art nnclianged. Ay, thou wilt lift 
In majesty thy walls above the storm, 
Mocking the generations as they pass; 
And pilgrims of tjie far-off centuries 
Will .sometimes linger in their wanderings. 
To ponder, with a deep and sacred awe. 
The legend of the fight above the clouds. 



JUrs. Couisa 3auc fuall. 

AMERICAN, 

Mrs. Hall was born in Newburyport, Mass., in 1S03. 
Slic was the daughter of Dr. James Park, wlio estab- 
lished a tlourisliing school for young ladies in Boston. 
She married tlie Rev. Dr. Edward B. Hall, of Providence, 
R. I. Slic was tlie author of "Miriam," a dramatic 
poem, illustrative of the early conflicts of the Christian 
Church; "Joanna of Naples," a histoiical tale; and 
other works. But her " Waking Dreams" will probably 
outlive her longer productions. 



GROW NOT OLD. 

Never, my heart, wilt thon grow old ! 
My hair is white, my blood runs cold, 
And one by one my powers depart ; 
But youth sits smiling in my heart. 

Downhill the path of age? Oh no! 
Up, up, with patient steps I go; 
I watch the skies fast brightening there, 
I breathe a sweeter, purer air. 

Beside my ro.nd small tasks spring np, 
Though but to band the cooling cnp. 
Speak the true word of hearty cheer, 
Tell the lone soul that God is near. 

Beat on, my heart, and grow not old ! 
And when thy pulses all are told. 
Let me, though working, loving still, 
Kneel as I meet my Father's will. 



WAKING DREAMS. 

Of idle hopes and fancies wild, 
O Father, dispossess thy child ; 
Teach me that wasted thought is sin, 
Teach me to rule tliis world within. 

While waking dreams the mind control, 
There is no growth in this jioor soul ; 
And visions hold me back from deeds, 
And earth is dear, and heaven recedes. 

Oil, with one tla.sh of heavenly liglit 
Rouse me, although with pain and fright ! 
Show me the siu of wasted powers, 
Scourge me from useless, dreaming hours. 



iHljomas ^xx"^. 



Aird (1S03-1876) was a native of the village of Bowdcn, 
Scotland. He went through a course of study at the 
University of Edinburgh, where be made the acquaint- 
ance of Wilson, Moir, and other literary men. He wrote 
for Blackwood's Magazine, and became editor of the Dum- 
fries Herald. In 18-48 he colloctcd and published bis 
poems ; of which a new edition appeared in 185C!, and a 
fifth edition in 1878. 



THE SWALLOW. 

The little comer's coming, the comer o'er the sea, 
The comer of the summer, all the sunny days to he ; 
How pleasant, through the pleasant sleep, thy early 

twitter heard — 
O swallow by the lattice ! glad days be thy reward ! 

Thine be sweet morning, with the bee that's out for 
honey-dew. 

And glowing be the noontide, for the grasshopper 
and you ; 

And mellow shine, o'er day's decline, the suu to light 
tliee home — 

What can molest thy airy nest ? Sleep till the mor- 
row come. 

The river blue that lapses through the valley, hears 
thee sing. 

And murmurs much beneath the touch of thy light, 
dipping wing; 

The thunder-clond, over us bowed, in deeper gloom 
is seen. 

When quick relieved it glances to thy bosom's sil- 
very sheen. 



RICHAED HEXGIST HOSXL'.—LAMJX BLJXCHAKD. 



581 



Tlio Bileiit Power tliat briugs tlieo back, witli lend- 

iiig-stiiiigs of love, 
To haunts wlieio first the suiiiiiiur sun IcU on thio 

fiom abovo, 
Shall bind theo nioio to come ayo to thr music of 

ouv loaves ; 
Kor hero thy young, wlieio thou hast spruug, shall 

"lad thee in our caves. 



Uitljavb fjcngiist fjornc. 

Ilornc, l)orn in London in 180;!, was cducaleil nt Sand- 
huist College. He entered the Mexican navy as a mid- 
sliipnian in the war agiiinst Spain, and when peace came 
returned to England, and devoted liinisclf to literature. 
He is the aullior of tlirec tragedies, of wliich he regarded 
"Gregory tlic Seventli" as liis Ijest; has written stories 
for children, disquisitions, ballads and romances, biog- 
rapliies and essays. His most successful worli, " Orion, 
nn Epic I'ocm" (ISIS), liad reached a nintli edition in 
1S74. The price of tlic first edition was phiccd at a far- 
tliing, " as a sarcasm upon tlie low estimation into wliich 
epic poetry has fallen." Three large editions were sold 
at a farthin;; a eojiy ; the fourth was raised to a sliilling, 
and the lifth to half a crown. In his "Litcniti" Poc 
gives an elaborate and eulogistic review of "Orion." 
The poem contains some beautiful passages, hut lacks 
tlie liunian, normal interest which a successful epic must 
have. 



SI O I£ X I X G . 



From "Osion." 



O'er nie.idow.s green or solitary lawn, 
When birds appear earth's solo inliabitants, 
The long, clear shadows of tlio morning diller 
From tho.su of eve, Avhicli arc mmo soft and vague, 
Suggestive of po-st 'days and mellowed grief. 
The lights of moruiug, even as Iier shades, 
Arc architectural, and pre-eminent 
In quiet freshnesH, 'mill the pause that lioMs 
Prelusive energies. All life awakes: 
Morn conies at first with while, uncertain light; 
Then takes a faint red, like an opening bud 
Seen tlirinigli gray mist ; the mist clears oft"; the sky 
Unfolds; grows ruddy ; tnljes a erinisoii tliisli ; 
Puts forlli bright sprigs of gohl, — which soon ex- 
panding 
In satl'ion, thence pure g(ddcn shines the morn ; 
I'ldifts it.s clear, bright fabric of white clouds, 
All tinted, like a shell of polished pearl, 
With varii'd glaiieiiigs, violet gleam and blnsli : 
Knihraces nalure; ami then pa.H.ses on. 
Leaving the mhi lo perfect liis great work. 



SUMMER NOON. 

FnoM "Orion." 
Tliere was a slumbrous silence in the air, 
Hy noontide's sultry inuriiuirs from without 
Made more oblivious. Not a pipe was hiard 
From lield or wood ; but the grave beetle's drone 
Pa.ssed near the entrance : oueo the cuckoo called 
O'er distant meads, and once a horn began 
Melodious plaint, then died away. A sound 
Of raurmnrons music yet was in the breeze, 
For silver gnats that harp on gla.s.sy strings. 
And rise and fall in sparkling clouds, sustained 
Their dizzv dances o'er the scetliing meads. 



Caman 5laiul)nrii. 



Samuel Lauian Blaiifliard (1S0:'.-1S4.')) was a native of 
Great Yarmouth, Eni;laud. His father, a painter and gla- 
zier, gave him a good classical education, but could not 
afford to send hiin to college. Lauian liad a weeli's ex- 
perience on the stage, and was disenchanted of liis theat- 
rical aspirations. He then tliou!;ht of joininj; Lord By- 
ron in Greece, in company with .Jcrrold. This plan was 
abandoned, and at the age of twenty he married. He 
engaged editorially in literature and ])olitics; was con- 
nected successively with the MwitliUj Magazine, La Belle 
AxsenMic, i\\a True &'«», the Conrl Journal, Aiiismorth't 
Magazine, and the Examiner. In 1828 he published " Lyr- 
ic Offerings," a volume cordially praised by Lord Lytton, 
then Sir Edward Buhver Lytton, and editing the Xew 
Monthly Magazine ; who called attention to "the follow- 
ing exquisite lines " in a sonuet on Noon : 
"This is sweet, 
To see the heavens all opeu, and the bond 
0/ crytital Soon fluntf hack! the eailll meanwhile 
Fillin-; her veins with sunshine— vital blo<)d 
Of nil that now from her full bren.st doth smile 
(Casting im shadow) on that pleasant flood 
Of light, where every mote is some small minstrers isle." 

Laman Blanehard died by his own hand, while he was in 
a state of great nervous excitement, boiderin;; on insan- 
ity. Six months before, he had expressed his horror of 
suicide. " How dreadful," he said, " it would be for the 
children! If nothing else would deter me, that would." 
In 1H40 appeared "Sketches from Life, by the late La- 
man Blaneliaid: with a Memoir of the Author by Sir 
Edward Bulwcr Lytton, Bart.;" who says of Blanehard : 
"He was thoroughly honest, true, and genuine; ever 
ready to confer a kindness; and of a Kratcful disposi- 
tion, which exaggerated into oldigatiou the most com- 
monplace returns to his own atfeetionatc feelings auU 
ready friendship." 

TIIK KLOQUEXT PASTOK DEAD. 

He taught the cheerfulness that still is ours. 
The sweetness that still lurks in human powers: 
If heaven be full of stars, tlie earth has flowers! 



582 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



His was tlie searching thought, the glowing mind; 
The gentlo will to others' soon resigned ; 
But, more than all, the feeling just and kind. 

His pleasnres were as melodies from reeds — 
Sueet books, deep music, and unselfish deeds, 
Finding immortal flowers in human weeds. 

Trno to his kind, nor of himself afraid. 

He deemed that love of God was best arrayed 

In love of all the things that God has made. 

He deemed man's life no feverish dream of care, 

But a high pathway into freer air, 

Lit up with golden hopes and duties fair. 

He showed liow wisdom turns its hours to years. 
Feeding the heart on joys instead of fears. 
And worships God in smiles, and uot iu tears. 

His thoughts were as a pyramid iip-piled. 

On whose far top an angel stood and smiled — 

Yet in his heart was he a simple child. 



THE BIRD-CATCHER. 

Gently, gently yet, young stranger. 
Light of heart and light of heel ! 
Ere the bird peixcives its danger. 

On it slyly steal. 
Silence! Ah! your scheme is failing! 

No; pursue your pretty prey; 
See, your shadow on the paling 
Startles it away. 

Caution! now you're nearer creeping; 

Nearer yet — how still it seems ! 
Sure, the winged creature's sleeping 

Wrapped iu forest-dreams ! 
Golden sights that bird is seeing — 

Nest of green or mossy bough ; 
Not a thought it has of fleeing ; 
Yes, you'll catch it now. 

How your eyes begin to twinkle ! 
Silence, and you'll scarcely fail ; 
Now stoop down and softly sprinkle 

Salt upon its tail. 
Yes, you have it in your tether. 

Never more to skim the skies ; 
Lodge the salt on that long feather : 
Ha! it flies! it flies! 



Hear it, hark ! among the bushes, 

Laughing at your idle lures! 
Boy, the self-same feeling gushes 

Through my heart and yours. 
Baffled sportsman, childish Mentor, 

How have I been — hapless fault ! — 
Led, like you, my hopes to centre 
On a grain of salt! 

On what captures I've been conntiug, 

Stooping here and creeping there. 
All to see my bright hopes mounting 

High into the air! 
Thus have children of all ages. 
Seeing bliss before them fly, 
Found their hearts but empty cages, 
And their hopes — on high ! 



SONNET: HIDDEN JOYS. 

Pleasures lie thickest where no pleasures seem: 
There's not a leaf that falls upon the ground 
But holds some joy, of silence or of sound. 
Some sprite begotten of a summer dream. 
The very meanest things are made supreme 
With innate ecstasy. No grain of sand 
But moves a bright and million-peopled land. 
And hath its Edeu, and its Eves, I deem. 
For Love, though blind himself, a curious eye 
Hath lent me, to behold the hearts of things. 
And touched mine ear with power. Thus far or nigh, 
Minute or mighty, fixed, or free with wings. 
Delight from many a nameless covert sly 
Peeps sparkling, and iu tones familiar sings. 



SONNET: WISHES OF YOUTH. 

Gayly and greenly let my seasons run : 

And should the war-winds of the world uproot 

The sanctities of life, and its sweet fruit 

Cast forth as fuel for the fiery sun, — 

The dews be turned to ice, — fair days begun 

In peace wear out iu pain, and sounds that suit 

Despair and discord keep Hope's harp-string mute. 

Still let me live as Love and Life were one: 

Still let mo turn on earth a childlike gaze, 

And trust the whispered charities that bring 

Tidings of himiau truth; with inward praise 

Watch the weak motion of each common thing, 

And find it glorious — still let me raise 

Ou wintry wrecks au altar to the Spring. 



SAliAH HELEN WHITilAX.— DOUGLAS JERROLD. 



5«J 



Saral) ficlcn ll1l)itman. 



The mnidcn name of Mrs. Wliitman (1808-1878) was 
Power, niid she was a native of Providence, R. I. In 
ISJS slie married John Winslow Wliitman, a Boston law- 
yer, who died in 18:53, after wliieh slic resided in Provi- 
dence. For a sliort period during her widowhood she 
was betrothed (1848) to Poe, the poet, and one of liis 
most impassioned poems is addressed to her. In 18.53 
she pul)lishcd " Hours of Life, and other Poems ;" and in 
18.59, "Edirar Poe and His Critics." Among the many 
obvious allusions to Poe in her poems is the following: 

** Oh 1 when tliy faults arc all forgiven, 

When all my eins are parsed nwny, 
M:iy our freed »pirits meet in heaveu. 

Where darkness melts to perfect day ! 
There may Ihy wondrous harp awake. 

And Ihere my rniisomed eoul with thee 
Behold the eternal moruinj break 

In glory o'er the jasper sea." 

" Botli the verse and prose of Mrs. Wliitman," says Mr. 
George W. Curtis, "have a distinctive attraction from 
the same pure and fresh earnestness, combined with 
sweet and grave restraint, which was the basis of her 
character." A complete edition of her poems, revised 
in the last year of her life, was published iu Boston in 
1879. The pieces which wc quote have an obvious ref- 
erence to Poe. 



THE LAST FLOWERS. 

Dost thon renicinber (hat antniniial day 

When by the .Seekoiik's lonely wave wo stood, 

Ami marked the langnor of repose that lay, 
Softer than sleep, on valley, wave, and wood? 

.\ trance of holy .sadness seemed to lull 
The cliami^^d earth and circnmanibient air, 

And the low iiiiirmiir of tho leaves seemed I'nll 
Of a resigned and passionless despair. 

Tliongh tbo warm breath of Snmmcr lingered still 
In the lone paths where late lier footsteps p.asscd, 

The pallid star-llowers on the pnr|ile hill 

Sighed dreamily, '-We are the last — tho last!" 

I stood besido tlice, and a dream of heaven 

Around mo liko a golden balo fell I 
Then tho bright veil of fantasy was riven, 

And my lips mtirmured, " Faro tbee well! fare- 
well!" 

I dared not Iist«n to thy words, nor turn 
To meet flie mystic langnage of thiiio eyes; 

I only felt (heir power, and in the nni 
Of memory treasured their sweet rhapsodies. 



We parted then, forever — and tho honrs 

Of that bright day were gathered to tho past — 

Bnt, through long, wintry nights, I heard the llowers 
Sigh dreamily, "Wc are tho last! — tho last!" 



SONNETS : TO E. A. P.' 
I. 
When first I looked into thy glorious eyes. 
And saw, with their unearthly beauty pained, 
Heaven deepening withiu heaveu, like the skies 
Of antnmu nights without a shadow stained, — 
I stood as ouc whom some strange dream iiitliralls; 
For, far away, iu some lost life divine, 
Some land which every glorious dream recalls, 
A spirit looked on nic with eyes liko thine. 
E'en now, though death has veiled their starry light, 
And closed their lids in his relentless night — 
As some strange dream, remembered iu a dream. 
Again I see in sleep their tender beam ; 
Unfading hojics their cloudless azure fill. 
Heaven dcei>ening withiu heaven, serene and still. 



If thy sad heart, pining for human love. 
In its earth-solitude grew dark with fear, 
Lest tho high Sun of Heaven itself should prove 
Powerless to save from that phantasmal sphere 
Wherein thy spirit wandered — if tho llowers 
That pressed around thy feet seemed bnt to bloom 
In lone Gethsemanes, through starless hours, 
When all who loved had left thee to thy doom : — 
Oh, yet believe that iu that hollow vale 
Where thy soul lingers, waiting to attain 
8() niiioh of Heaven's sweet grace as shall avail 
To lift its burden of rcnmrscfnl pain, — 
My^ soul shall meet thee, and its heaven forego 
Till God's great love on both one hope, ono Heaven, 
bestow. 



Dottglas i?errolb. 

Jerrold (1803-1857) was a native of London. His early 
days were pa.ssed in Sheerness, where his father, an actor, 
was lessee of the theatre. Before he had completed his 
tenth year, Douglas served two years at sea as a midship- 
man. Then lie removed with his parents to London, be- 
came apprentice to a printer, and gave every spare mo- 
ment to solitary self-instruction. He took early to dra- 
matic writing. His nautical drama, " Blark-cycd Susan," 
was brought out at the Surrey Theatre in 18'J9, and had 
a run of three hundred nights, though Jerrold got from 

' Edgar A. Poe. 



584 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



it only about £70. Other dramas followed, abounding 
in pointed and witty sayings. He contributed lai-gely to 
rum-h, and in 1853 became editor oX Lloyd's Weekly Xews- 
pnper at a salary of £1000 per annum. He died in ISS", 
after a sliort illness, and a fund of £3000 was raised by 
his friends for the benefit of his family. Jerrold's wit 
was neat and brilliant. Here are specimens: "Dogma- 
tism is the maturity of puppyism." "A friend of an un- 
fortunate lawyer met Jerrold, and said : ' Have you heard 

about poor R ? His business is going to the devil.' 

Jerrold: ' That's all right; then he is sure to get it back 
again.'" "Some member of a club, hearing a certain 
melody mentioned, said : 'That always carries me away 
when I hear it.' 'Can nobody whistle it?' exclaimed 
Jerrold." Though his poetical effusions are few in num- 
ber, they are always sensible and pithy. 



THE DRl'M. 

Yonder is :i little drnm, hanging on the wall; 
Dusty wreaths and tattered flags round about it fall. 
A sUepUevd youth on Cheviot's hills watched the 

sheep whose skin 
A cunning workman wrought, and gave the little 

drum its din ; 
And happy was the shepherd-boy -while tending of 

his told, 
Nor thought ho there was in the world a spot like 

Cheviot's wold. 

Ami so it was for many a day; but change with 

time will come. 
And he (alas for him the day !) — he heard the little 

drum. 
" Follow," said the drummer-boy, " would yon live 

in story ! 
For he who strikes a foeuian down wins a wreath 

of glory." 
"Ruh-a-duh ! and ruh-n-diih !'' the drnmmer beats 

away — 
The shepherd lets his bleating flock ou Cheviot 

wildly stray. 

Ou Egypt's arid wastes of sand the shepherd now 

is lying; 
Aronud him many a parching tongue for "water" 

faintly crying. 
Oh that he were on Cheviot's hills, with velvet 

■verdure spread. 
Or lying 'mid the blooming heath where oft he 

made his bed ; 
Or could he drink of those sweet rills that trickle 

to its vales. 
Or breathe once more the balniincss of Cheviot'.s 

mountain gales ! 



At length upon his wearied eyes the mists of slum- 
ber come, 

And ho is in his home again, till wakeued by the 
drum. 

"To arms! to arms!" his leader cries; "the foe — 
the foe is nigh !" 

Guns loudly roar, steel clanks ou steel, and thou- 
sands fall to die. 

The shepherd's blood makes red the sand : '• Oh 
water — give me some! 

My voice might meet a frieudly ear but for that 
little drum!" 

'Mid moaning men and dyiug men, the drnmmer 

kept his waj', 
And many a one by "glory" lured abhorred the 

drum that day. 
'' Riih-ei-diih .' iiiid riih-a-diib .'" the drummer beat 

aloud — 
The shepherd died; and, ere the morn, the hot sand 

was his shroud. 
And this is"glory f" Yes; and still will man the 

tempter follow. 
Nor learn that glory, like its drum, is but a sound, 

and hollow. 



Hobcrt Stcpljcn Cjitnikcr. 

Hawker (1803-1875), a native of Plymouth, England, 
was for more than forty years Vicar of Morwcnstow, Corn- 
wall. He was educated at O.xford, and as early as 18"31 
published a collection of poems anonymously, under the 
title of "Tendrils, by Reuben." He was twice married. 
The evening before his death he was received into the 
Roman Catholic Clmrch. A collection of his poems was 
published by Kegan, Paul & Co., London, 1879. There 
is much in it that is commonplace ; but the "Song of 
the Cornish Men " is one of the most spirited little lyrics 
in the language. 



SONG OF THE CORNISH MEN. 

AVitli the exception of the clionil hues, 

"And .shall Trelawny die? 
Here's twenty thfinsaiid Corinsh men 

Will kuow the reasou why" — 
and which have been, ever since the imprisonment by James II. 
of llie seven bishops, a popniar proverb hi Cornwall, the whole 
of this sons was composed by Hawker in 1825. It was praised 
by Scott, Macaulay, and Dickens nnder the persuasion that it 
was tlie ancient song. Dickens afterward admitted its pater- 
nity in Ins " Household Words." 

A good sword and a trusty hand ! 

A merry heart and true! 
King James's men shall understand 

What Cornish lads can do. 



nOBERT STEPIIEX I[AllhEi;. — riIAI!LKS SUAIX. 



585 



And have they fixed the wheio aud when f 

And shall Trehiwny die ? 
Here's twi-nfy thousand Cornish men 

Will know the reason why! 

Ontspako their eaptain, lirave and liolil, 

A merry wi-^ht was he : 
" If London Tower were Michael's hold, 

We'll set Tielawny free ! 

'• We'll cross the Taniar land to land, 

Thl^ Severn is no stay, — 
With one and all, and liand-in-liand, 

And who shall hid us nay ? 

"And when we come to London Wall, — 

A pleasant sij;ht to view, — 
Come forth! eonie forth, ye eowaids all, 

To better men than yon! 

"Trelawny lie's in keep and hold, 

Trehiwny he may die ; 
Hnt here's twenty thousand Cornish bold, 

Will know the reason why !'' 



"ARE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING SPIRITS f ' 

Wo see them not — we cannot hear 

The music of their winj; — 
Yet know wo that they sojourn near, — 

The Angels of the Spring! 

They glide along this lovely ground, 
When the lirst violet grows; — 

Their graceful hands Lave just unbound 
The zone of yonder rose. 

I gather it for thy dear breast, 

KroiH stain and shadow free; 
That which an Angel's touch hath blessed 

Is meet, my love, for thee! 



Cl)avlcs Smain. 

A native of Miuuliester, Eiiijland, inul carrying on 
business there as an engraver, Swain (1S0:5-1874) wrote 
verses for the IJkrary (luzelli' and other Journals. If his 
lyric.ll niglils were not high, they were short and grace- 
hil. He published "Metrical Essays" (bS27); "The 
Mind, and other Poems" (I8:il); "Dramatic Chapters, 
I'ocms, aud Songs" (1847); "English Melodies" (18411); 
•Songs aud Ballads" (1808). 



Lov( 



WHAT IT IS TO LOVE. 



I will tell thee what il is to love! 



It is to build with human thoughts a shrine, 
Where hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove; 
Where time .seems young — aud life a thing divine. 
All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine 
To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss. 
Above, the stais in shroudless beauty shine ; 
Around, the streams their tlowery nnirgins kiss : 
And if there's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely 
this. 

Yes, this is love — the steadfast ami the true; 
The iinnmrtal glory which hath never set ; 
The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew ; 
Of all life's sweets the. very sweetest yet! 
Oh, who can but recall the eve they met, 
To breathe in some green walk their lirst young 

vow. 
While summer llowcrs with evening dews were 

wet, 
Aud winds sighed soft around the mountain's 

brow, 
Aud all was rapture then, which is but memory now ! 



THE BEAI'TirCL DAY. 

Day on the mountain, the beautiful day! 
And the torrents leap forth in the pride of his ray. 
The chamois awakes from his wild forest dream. 
And bounds in the gladness and life of his beam; 
And the horn of the hunter is sounding, — awaj' ! 
Light, light on the hills, 'tis the beautiful d.ay ! 

Day in the valley, — the rivulet rolls 
Cloudless ami calm as the homo of our souls; 
The harvest is waving, and fountain and Ihiwcr 
Are sparkling and sweet as the radiant Imnr: 
And the song of the reapers, the lark's sunny lay. 
Proclaim through the valli'y, d.iy, bi-aulifnl day! 

Oh, sfdenin and sad his far setting appears. 
When the l.ast ray declines, and the (lowers are in 

tears ; 
When the shadows of evening like death-banners 

wave. 
And d.arkncss en< loses the world like a grave: 
Yet the sun, like the .soul, shall arise frcnn decay. 
And again light the wiuld with day, beautiful day! 



586 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



(gcralb ©riffin. 

Griffin (1803-1840), author of tlie remarkable novel of 
"Tlic Collegians," was a native of Limerick, Ireland. 
He emiKratud to London in liis twentieth year, heeanio 
a reporter, and tlien an author. In 1838 he joined the 
Christian Brotlierliood, a Roman Catholic institution, 
and two years later died of fever. He gave proof of rai-e 
literary abilities. " The book that above all others," says 
Miss Mary Russell Mitford, "speaks to me of the trials, 
the sufferings, the broken lieart of a man of genius, is 
that Life of Gerald Griffin, written by a brother worthy 
of liim, wliicli precedes tlie oniy edition of his collected 
works." 



SOXG. 



A jilaeo in tliy memory, ilearest, 

I.S all tliat I claim, 
To pause ami look back \vbeu tbou hearest 

The sound of my name. 
Anothei' may woo tUee nearer, 
Anotber may ^vln aud wear ; 
I caro not, though be be dearer, 
If I am remembered there. 

Conld I be tby true lover, dearest, 

Couldst tbou smile on me, 
I would be the fondest aud nearest 

That ever loved tbee. 
But a cloud o'er my pathway is glooming 
Wbicb never nmst break upon tbinc, 
Aud Heaven, which made thee all blooming, 
Ne'er made thee to wither on mine. 

Eemember mo not as a lover 

Whose fond hopes are crossed. 
Whoso bosom can never recover 

The light it has lost : — 
As the young bride remembers the mother 
She loves, yet never may see, 
As a sister remembers a brother. 
Oh, dearest, remember lue. 



ADARE." 

Oh, sweet Adare ! oh, lovely vale ! 

Oh, soft retreat of sylvan splendor! 
Nor summer sun, nor morning gale 

E'er hailed a scene more softly tender. 



' Tliis be.Tutifiil and interesting locality is about eight miles 
from Limerick. 



How sliall I tell the thousand charms 
Within thy verdant bosom dwelling, 

Wliere, lulled in Nature's fostering arms, 
Soft peace abides aud joy excelling ? 

Ye morning airs, how sweet at dawn 

Tlie slnmbering boughs your song awaken, 
While lingering o'er the silent lawn, 

With odor of the harebell taken ! 
Thou rising sun, how richly gleams 

Thy smile from far Kuockfierna's mountain, 
O'er waving woods and bounding streams, 

Aud many a grove aud glancing fountain ! 

Ill sweet Adare, the jocund spring 

His notes of odorous joy is breathing ; 
The wild birds iu the woodland sing, 

The wild flowers iu the valo are wreathing. 
There winds the Mague, .as silver clear, 

Among the elms so sweetly flowing. 
There fragrant in the early year, 

Wild roses on the banks are blowing. 

The wild duck seeks the sedgy bank. 

Or dives beneath the glistening billow, 
Where graceful droop and duster dank 

The osier bright and rustling willow. 
The hawthorn scents the leafy dale. 

In thicket lone the stag is belling. 
And sweet .along the echoing vale 

The sound of verual joy is swelling. 



THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE. 

The joy-bells are ringing in g.ay M.alahide ; 
The fresh wiud is singing along the sea-side; 
The maids are assembling with garlands of flowers. 
And the harp-strings are trembling in all the glad 
bowers. 

Swell, swell the g,ay measure! roll trnmpet aud drum ! 
'Mid greetings of pleasure in splendor they come ! 
The chancel is ready, the jiortal stands wide. 
For the lord and the lady, the bridegroom and bride. 

Before the high altar yonng JIaud stauds arr.ayed ; 
With accents that falter her pi'omi.se is made : 
From father and mother forever to part, — 
For Mm and no other to treasure her heart. 

The words are repeated, the bridal is done. 
The rite is completed, the two, they are one; 



GERALD GRIFFIX.^CnAUXCY BARE TOWKSnEXD. 



587 



Tlio vow, it is spoken all piiro from tho heart, 
Tliat must uot bo broken till lifo shall depart. 

Il:iik ! 'mid the gay clangor that compassed their car, 
Loud accents in anf;cr come niin<;HnK iifar ! 
Tho foe's on tlio border! his weapons resound 
Where the lines in disorder unguarded are found! 

As wakes tho good shepherd, tho watchful and bold. 
When the ounce or the leopard is seen near the fold, 
So rises already the chief in his mail. 
While tlio new-married lady looks fainting and [lale. 

" Son, husband, and brother! arise to the strife! 
For sister and mother, for children and wife! 
O'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain an<l ])lain, 
Up, true men, and follow! let dastards remain !'' 

Farrah ! to tho battle! — they form into line; — 
The shields, how they rattle! the spears, how tlicy 

shine! 
Soon, soon shall tlie foeniau his treaeliery rue: — 
On, burgher and yeoman I to die or to do ! 



The eve is declining in lone Malahidc ; 
The maidens are twining fresh wreaths for tho bride; 
She marks them unheeding ; her heart is afar. 
Where the clansmen are bleeding for her iu tho war. 

Hark! loud from the mountain — 'tis victory's cry! 
O'er woodland and fountain it rings to tho sky! 
The foe has retreated! ho flees to tho shore; 
The spoiler's defeated — tho combat is o'er! 

With foreheads unniffled tho conquerors come; — 
lint why have they muftled the lance and tho drum ? 
What form do they carry aloft on his shield? 
And where does he tarry, the lord of tho lield ? 

Ye saw him at morning — how gallant and gay! 
In briilal adorning, tho star of tho day : 
Now weep for tho lover — his triumph is sped; 
His hope, it is over — the chieftain is dead! 

Hut, oh ! for the maiden who mourns for lliat chief, 
With heart overladen anil broken with grief! 
She sinks on the meadow — in one morning tide 
A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride! 

Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole! 
Your comfort is rending the depths of her soul. 
True — true, 'twas a story for ages of pride, — 
He died iu his glory — but, oh I he /((i« died! 



CljauiKji i)axt iLoumsljcnb. 

A graduate of Cambridge University, England, Towns- 
Iieud (1SO3-1S00) wrote verses early in life. He studied 
for tlie Cliureli, and his convictions took the form of Unl- 
vei-salism. In 1839 he published " Facts In Mesmerism," 
one of the best and most philosophical works on the 
subject. In his Preface he says: "I have scarcely con- 
versed with one person of education in Germany who 
was not able to detail to me some interesting fact relat- 
ing to mesmerism which had been personally witnessed 
and authenticated." In lS.il appeared his "Sermons iu 
Sonnets, and other Poems." He made Charles Dickens 
his literary executor. 



"JUDGE NOT."— Matt. vii. 1. 
From " Sermons in Sonnets." 

Judge not, because thou canst not judge aright. 
Not much thou know'st thyself; yet better f:ir 
Thau thou know'st others! — Language is at w;ir 
With purposes; appearances must fight 
'Gainst real inward feelings. All is slight 
To give a picture of tho things that are. 
Feel'st thou uot friends who blame thee over jar 
With truth, nor on thy soul's true ulcer bito f 
Feel'st thou not utterly that nothing can 
Convey thy being to another's breast f 
Then how shalt thou explore thy fellow-man f 
R;ither let Christ's great wisdom bo confessed, 
Who taxed rash judgment as this world's worst 

leaven. 
And the worst temper for tho courts of heaven. 



" WHAT GOD HATH CLEANSED, THAT CALL 
NOT THOU COMMON."— Acts x. 15. 

From " Sekmons in Sonnets." 

lielndd men's judgments! Common and unclean 
Wo call whatever with our pride doth jar. 
Though from one God and Father all things are. 
Behohl men's judgments ! The deep truth unseen, 
K.ash we decide what mere externals mean. 
Know'st thou, while thy ]iroud eye is closed afar. 
In what mean worm God nniy illume a star? 
Know'st thou where his great Spirit dwells sei-cnc ? 
Thou dost not. What thy pride may worthless deem, 
Ay, tainted with pollution, may become. 
Raised from the dust, tho fairest, loveliest home. 
Where r.adiant Deity can shrine its beam ; 
May be redeemed from Nature's eonnnon blot, 
Ay, though perhaps thy very self be uot! 



588 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH JXI) AMERICAN POETRY. 



"HIS BANNER OVER ME WAS LOVE." 
Cant. ii. 4. 

Frosi " Sermons in Sonnets." 

He wlio loves best knows most. Then why should I 
Let uiy tired thoiijj;hts so far, so restless, rim, 
III quest of kuowledge underneath the suu. 
Or round about the wide-encircliug sky? 
Nor earth nor heaven is read by scrutiny ! 
But touch me with a Saviour's love divine, 
I pierce at once to wisdom's inner shrine, 
And my .soul seetli all things like au eye. 
Tlieu have I treasures, wliich to fence and heed 
Makes weakness bold, and folly wisdom-strung, 
As doves are valorous to guard their young. 
And larks are wary from their nests to lead. 
Is there a riddle, and resolved you need it? 
Love — only love — and you are sure to read it .' 



"IN MY FATHER'S HOUSE ARE MANY MAN- 
SIONS." -St. John xiv. 2. 

From '* Sekslons in Sonnets." 

Ye orbs that tremble througli infinity. 

And are ye, then, linked only with our eyes. 

Dissevered from our thoughts, our smiles, our 

sighs, — 
Our hopes and dreams of being yet to be ? 
Oh, if all nature be a harmony 
(As sure it is), why in those solemn skies 
Should ye our vision mock, like glittering lies 
To niau ail nnrelated ? Must I see 
Your glories only as a tinselled waste ? 
If so, I half despise your spectacle! 
But if I deem that ye form eras vast, 
And do, by mighty revolutions, tell 
Time to intelligent existences, 
Awe-strnck, I do assist at your solemnities! 



AN EVENING THOUGHT. 

Reflected in tlio lake, I love 

To mark the star of evening glow ; 

So tranquil in the heaven above. 
So restless on the wave below ! 

Thus heavenly hope is all serene ; 

But earthly hope — how bright soe'er — 
Still tliictuates o'er this changing scene, 

As fal.se and fleeting as 'lis fair! 



ON POETRY. 

With thine compared, O sovereign Poesy, 
Thy sister Arts' divided powers how faint! 

For each combines her attributes in thee, 

Who.se voice is music, ami whose words can paiut. 



MAY. 

From " The Months." 

Oh, darling of the year, — delicious May! 
If poet-love have painted thee too bright, 
'Tis that men gaze on thee with dazzled sight. 
Brimful of ecstasy! Thy true array 
Lies beyond language ! Who would wisli away 
Tlie few soft tears that in thine eyes of light 
Tremble; or waving shades iiulefinite 
Which o'er thy green and lustrous mantle play ? 
Who, that e'er wandered in tliy hawthorn glades, 
Or stood beneath thy orchard's bloomy shades. 
But felt how blessed the bosom w hich thou greetest ? 
For tliou art Spring indeed ! to thee belong 
The earliest rose, the nightingale's first song. 
All first-fruits of sweet things ; — and first are sweet- 
est. 



CONCLUDING SONNET. 

Man — the external world — the changeful year^ 

Together make a perfect harmony. 

To all the soul's groat wards a mighty key 

The Seasons are, and apt in their career 

To stir and modulate our Hope and Fear, 

And ever lift our dim humanity 

Nearer to Heaven ! At seed-time anxiously 

Dull lips are moved iu prayer, and harvest cheer 

Breeds oven iu chni'ls thanksgiving! Winter bare 

That .shuts the earth, doth open wide the hand 

And heart of man ! The tempests of the air 

Have spiritual missions, over sea and land 

Moulding events! Beneath the meanest clod 

Stirs Will and Wisdom : — evervwhere is God ! 



Hiifus Daiwcs. 

AMERICAN. 

Dawes (1803-1856) was a native of Boston, one of a 
family of si.\tecn. His fatlicr, Thomas Dawes, was a 
judge or the Supreme Court of Massaelnisctts, and au- 
thor of a poem entitled " Tlie Law given on Mount Si- 
nai." Rufus entered Harvard College in 1820, but left in 



SUFCS DAWES.—JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



sail 



consequence of sonic boyish irreifularity. He studied 
law, but never pnielised liis profession. In l(v50 lie 
published u volume of poems, and subsequently "Nix's 
Mate," a novel. He was connected for some years with 
tlic newspaper press in New York. He married a sister 
of C. P. t'rancli, the poet-artist. 



TO GENEVliiVE. 

I'll rob tile liyacinth ami rose, 

I'll search the cowslip'.s fragrant cell, 

Nor spare tho breath that daily blows 
Her inccn.se from the asphodel. 

And these shall breathe thy gentle nanic,- 
Swcet Naiad of tho sacred stream. 

Where, miisiii':, first I caught the llanie 
That I'a.ssion kimlles in his iln-ani. 

Thy soul of JInsic broke the siiell 

That bound my lyre's neglected strings ; 

Attnnod its silent echo's shell, 
And loosed asain his airy wings. 

All ! long had beauty's eyes in vain 
Diffused their radiant light divine ; 

Alas! it never woke a strain. 

Till inspiration breathed from thine. 

Thn.s vainly did the stars at night 

O'er Mem lion's lyre their watch prolong. 

When naught but bright Aurora's light 
Could wako its silence into song. 



LOVE UNCHANGEABLE. 

Yes, still I love thee! Time,wbo sots 

Ills signet (HI my brow. 
Ami dims my Hiinkeii eye, forgets 

The heart lie coiilil not bow ; — 
Where love that cannot peri.sh grows 
For one, alas ! that little know.s 

How love may sometimeH last: 
Liki' sunshine wnsting in the skies 

When clouds are overcast. 

The dew-drop hanging o'er the rose 

Within its robe of light, 
Can never touch a leaf that blows 

Though Kiiminij to the sight; 
And yet it still will linger there 
Like lioiielesa love witliniit despair. 



A snow-drop in the sun ! 
A moment finely exquisite, 
Alas ! but only one. 

I would not have thy married heart 

Think momently of me ; 
Nor would I tear the chords apart 

That bind mo so to thee. 
No! while my thoughts seem pure and mild. 
As dew upon tho roses wihl, 

I would not have thee know 
The stream that .seems to thee so still 

Has such a tide below ! 

Enough, that iu delicious dreams 

I see thee and forget : 
Enough, that when tho morning bennis 

I feel my eyelids wet! 
Y'et could I hope, when Time shall fall 
TIio darkness for creation's pall, 

To meet thee and to love, — 
I would not shrink from aught below. 

Nor ask for more above I 



iJaiiu's iClitrcntc iHaiigaii. 

Mangan was born iu Dublin in 1803, and died tiicrc in 
1S49. He had to struggle with poverty, and at fifteen got 
a situation in a scrivener's office, where he icmaiued sev- 
en years, and then became a solicitor's clerk for three 
ycai-s. His situation was distasteful, and he says: "In 
seeking to escape from this misery, I had laid the foun- 
dation of that evil habit wliich has proved to be my 
ruin." He became an opium-eater. In spite of his wild 
habits, he attained great proficiency in a knowledge of 
languages. He died in a state of destitution in a public 
hospital. His translations from the German were pub- 
llslicd in ISW, under the title of " Aiitbologia Germani- 
ea." An edition of his poems, with a biograpliical intro- 
duction by John Mitchcl, was published iu ISTO, in New 
York. 



Tin: MARINER'S BRIDE. 

Look, mother! the luariuer's rowing 

His galley adown the tide; 
I'll go where the mariner's going. 

And be the mariner's bride! 

I saw him one day through the wicket. 
I opened the gate, and we met — 
As a bird in tho fowler's net, 

Was I caught in my own green thicket. 

Oil. mother, my tears are flowing, 
I've lost my maidenly pridu — 



590 



CYCLOPMDIA OF BBITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



I'll go, if the mariner's going, 
And be the mariner's bride ! 

This Love, the tj'raut evinceB, 
Alas ! an omnipotent might. 
He darkens the mind like Night; 

He treads on the necks of Princes! 

Oh, mother, my bosom is glowing, 
I'll go, whatever betide, 

I'll go where the mariner's going, 
I'll be the mariner's bride ! 

Yes, mother! the spoiler has reft me 

Of reason and self-control ; 

Gone, gone is my wretched soul, 
And only my body is left me ! 
The winds, oh, mother, are blowing. 

The ocean is bright and wide ; 
I'll go where the mariner's going, 

And be the mariner's bride! 



THE NAMELESS ONE. 

The following remarkable lines are evidently aut<>ljio£rrnp>i'- 
cal in their references. "Of Rlangan," writes John Mitchel, "it 
may be said that he lived solely in his poetry— all the rest was 
but a ghastly death-in-life." 

Roll forth, my song, like the rnshing river 

That sweeps along to the mighty sea; 
God will inspire me while I deliver 
My soul of thee ! 

Tell tlioii the world, when my bones lie whitening 

Amid the Last homes of youth and eld, 
That there was once one whose veins ran lightning 
No eye beheld. 

Tell how his boyhood w,as one drear night-hoiir, 

How shone for Aim, through his griefs and gloom, 
No star of all heaven sends to light our 
Path to the tomb. 

Roll on, my song, and to after ages 

Tell how, disdaining all earth can give, 
He would have taught men, from wisdom's pages, 
The way to live. 

And tell liow, trampled, derided, hated, 

Ami worn by weakness, disease, and wrong, 
He fled for shelter to God, who mated 
His soul with song — 



With song which alway, sublime or vapid, 
Flowed like a rill in the morning-beam. 
Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid — 
A mountain stream. 

Tell how this Nameless, condemned for years long 

To herd with demons from hell beneath, 
Saw things that made him, with groans aud tears, 
long 

For even death. 

Go on to tell how, with genius wasted. 

Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love, 
With spirit shipwrecked, and young hopes blasted, 
He still, still strove. 

Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others. 
And some whose hands should have wronght for 
him, 
(If children live not for sires and mothers), 
Hjg. mind grew dim. 

And ho fell far through that pit abysmal, 

The gulf and grave of Maginu and Burns, 
And pawned his soul for the devil's dismal 
Stock of returns ; — 

But yet redeemed it iu days of darkness, 

Aud shapes and signs of the final wrath. 
When death, iu hideous aud ghastly starkness, 
Stood on his path. 

And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow. 

And want and sickness, and houseless nights. 
He bides iu calmness the silent morrow. 
That no ray lights. 

Aud lives he still, then ? Yes ! old and hoary 

At thirty-nine, from despair and woe, 
lie lives, enduring what future story 
Will never know. 

Him grant a grave to, ye jiityiug nohle, ^ 

Deej) iu your bosoms ! There let him dwell ! 
He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble, 
Here and iu hell. 



FROM " SOUL AND COUNTRY." 

To leave the world a name is naught ; 

To leave a name for glorious deeds 

Ami works of love — ■ 



G. U. CAtrEET.—T. L. ISEDDOES.—K. W. EMERSOX. 



591 



A name to wiikeii lightning tlionglit, 
And fire the sonl of liini who rciiils, 
Thia tells above. 
Napoleon sinks to-diiy before 

The nngildod shrine, the single soul 
Of Washington ; 
Truth's name alono shall man adore. 
Long as the waves of time shall roll 
Henceforward on ! 



(f^corge tjciirn (JJahunt. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of Prince George's County, Md., Calvert, born 
1803, was a jireat-grandson of Lord Baltimore, and also 
a descendant on the mother's side from the painter Ru- 
bens. He was educated jiartlv at Harvard, and partly at 
Giittingen, where he acquired his taste for German liter- 
ature. He edited at one time the Baltimore American, 
but in 1M5 removed to Newport, R. I. He has published 
" Count Julian, a Tragedy," " Ellen, a Poem," and is the 
author of numerous prose works, criticisms, essays, and 
transhitions, showing extensive literary and philosophi- 
cal culture. 



ON THE FIFTY -FIFTH SONNET OF SHAK- 
SPEARE.' 

The soul leaps np to hear this mighty sound 

Of Shakspcaro triumphing. With glistening eye 

Forward be sent his spirit to espy 

Time's gratitude, and catch the far rebound 

Of fame from worlds unpeopled yet; and, crowned 

With brightening light through all futurity. 

His imago to behold up-reaching high, 

'Mong the world's benefactors most renowned. 

Like to the ecstasy, by man unnamed, 

The spher.al music doth to gods impart. 

Was the deep joy that tliou hast hero proclaimed 

Tliy song's eternal echo gave thy heart. 

Oh, the world tlianks thee that thou'st let us see 

Thou kuew'st bow great thou wiist, how prized to bo ! 



CljOllUIS Coucll BcLlLlOCS. 

Beddocs (180:5-1849), son of an eminent physician, and 
nephew of .Maria Edgeworth, was educated at Oxford, 
and in his nineteenth year putjiished "The Bride's Trag- 
edy," of which JilaekicaoiJ'K Mnijaziite says : " With all its 
extravagances, and even sillinesses and follies, it shows 
far more than glimpses of a true poetical genius." Bed- 
docs devoted himself to scientiflc study and foreign trav- 

■ See page 30. 



el. A collection of his poems, with a memoir, appeared 
in 1851. He died in his forty-seventh year, at Frankfort, 
from an accidental prick on his finger, got while dissect- 
ing. 



TO SEA! 

To sea! to sea! the calm is o'er, 

The wanton water leaps in sport, 
An<l rattles down the pebbly shore: 

The dolpliin wheels, the sea-cows snort, 
And unseen mermaids' pearly song 
Comes bnlibling np, tlie weeds among. 
Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar: 
To sea ! to sea ! The calm is o'er. 

To .sea ! to sea ! our white-winged bark 
Shall billowing cleave its watery way. 

And with its shadow, lleet and dark. 
Break the caved Triton's azure day. 

Like mountain eagle soaring light 

O'er antelopes ou Aljiine height! 

The anchor heaves! The ship swings free! 

Our sails swell full! To sea! to sea! 



Uixlpl) lUaliio (finci-Goii. 

AMERICAN. 

More generally known as a free and subtle thinker and 
an essayist, somewhat after the niaiwier of .Montaigne, 
than as a writer of verse, Emei-son has shown that the 
poetical gift is his in abounding measure. He is a true 
artist in words, at the same time that lie disdains all the 
arts that would make style compensate for the absence 
of earnest, profound thought, presented with no particle 
of tinsel or of superfluous drapery. He impresses us 
with his absolute sincerity in aiming less at perfect con- 
sistency than at lidclitj' to his own mood ; his own up- 
permost convictions. His forte is rather introspective 
than dramatic. In a letter to Henry Ware (18:18) ho 
wrote : " I could not possibly give you one of the ' argu- 
ments ' ou which any doctrine of mine stands; for I do 
not know what arguments mean in reference to any ex- 
pression of a thought. I delight in telling what I think; 
but if you ask me how I dare say so, or why it is so, I 
am the most helpless of mort;»ls." 

Born in Boston in 1803, the son of an excellent clergy- 
man, F.merson graduated at Harvard, became a minister 
of a Unitarian church, withdrew from it in IStt, and, 
after passing a year or two in Europe, devoted himself 
thenceforward almost exclusively to literature and lect- 
uring, residing most of the time at Concord, Mass. It is 
dillicult to deduce from his writings his exact opinions 
as to the destiny of man after this life ; but according to 
the declaration of his friend and townsman, .\. B. .\lcott, 
his views as late as l.STO inclined to theism and belief in 
a conscious Ordcrcr of the Universe. His career has 
been that of a purc-hcarted, independent thinker, wed- 



592 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTISH AND AMERICAN POETBT. 



ded to no system, modifying his opinions as new light 
streamed in, Ijut carrying into pvacliual life the high and 
nohle lessons given in his speculative utterances. His 
fame is unsurpassed in American literature, and is likely 
to go on increasing. 



THE SNOW-STORM. 

Aunonuced by all the trumpets of the sky, 
Arrives the suow, autl, driving o'er the ticlds, 
Seems nowhere to alight ; the ■nbited air 
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, 
And veils the farui-honso ;it the garden's end. 
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet 
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit 
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed 
In a tumultuous xirivacy of storm. 

Come see the north wind's masonry. 
Ont of an un.seen (jnarry evermore 
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 
Curves liis white bastions with projected roof 
Eouud every windward stake, or tree, or door. 
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work 
So fancifnl, so savage, naught cares he 
For number or proportion. Mockingly, 
Ou coop or kennel he bangs Parian wreaths ; 
A swan-like form invests the Llddeu thorn : 
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, 
Maugre the farmer's sighs ; and, at the gate, 
A tapering turret overtops the work. 
And wheu his hours are numbered, and the world 
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not. 
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art 
To mimic in slow structures, stoiie by stone. 
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, 
The frolic architecture of the suow. 



GOOD-BVE, PROUD WORLD! 

Good-bye, prond world ! I'm going home ; 

Thou art not my friend; I am not thine: 
Too loug through weary crowds I roam : — 

A liver ai'k on the ocean brine, 
Too loug I am tossed like the driven foam ; 
Hut now, prond world, I'm going home. 

Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face ; 
To Grandeur with his wise grimace : 
To npstart Wealth's averted eye ; 
To supple office, low and high ; 
To crowded balls, to court and street, 
To frozen hearts, and hasting feet, 



To those who go, aud those who come, 

Good-bye, prond world, I'm going home. 

I go to seek my own hearth-stone. 
Bosomed iu you greeu hills alone ; 
A secret lodge in a pleasant land, 
Wliose groves the frolic fairies planned, 
Wliere arches greeu the livelong day 
Echo the blackbird's roundelay, 
Aud evil men have never trod 
A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 

Oh, when I am safe iu my sylvan home, 
I mock at the pride of Greece aud Rome; 
And wheu I am stretched beneath the pines 
Where the evening-star so holy shines, 
I laugh at the lore and pride of man. 
At the sophist schools, and the learndd clan ; 
For what arc they all iu their high conceit, 
When mau iu the bush with God may meet ? 



SURSUM CORDA. 

Seek not the spirit if it hide 

Inexorable to thy zeal : 

Baby, do not whine and chide : 

Art thou not also real ? 

Wliy shouldst thou stoop to poor excuse f 

Turn on the accuser roundly ; say, 

" Here am I, here will I remain 

Forever to niy.self soothfast ; 

Go thou, sweet Heaveu, or at thy pleasure stay! 

Already Heaven with thee its lot has cast, 

For only it can absolutely deal." 



TO THE HUMBLEBEE. 

Fine bumblebee ! fine bumblebee ! 
Where thou art is clime for me : 
Let theui sail fiu' Porto Rique, 
Far-ofl" heats through seas to seek, 
I will follow thee alone. 
Thou animated torrid zone ! 
Zigzag steerer, desert checrer. 
Let me chase thy waving lines, 
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer. 
Singing over shrubs and vines. 

Flower-bells, 
Honeyed cells, — 
These the tents 
Which be frequents. 



HALPH WALDO EMERSOX. 



593 



Iiixect lover of the sun, 
Joy of tliy (loiiiinion ! 
Sailor of tbe ntiiio.spliere, 
Swimmer tlirongh the waves of iiir, 
Voyager of light and noon, 
Epicurean of Juno, 
Wait, I inillice, till I icmic 
Within ear.sliot of thy huni,-- 
AU witliiiut is iiiartyiilotM. 

Whi'u the siiiilli wind in Slay days, 
Witli a net of shining haze. 
Silvers the burizon wall, 
And with softness touching all, 
Tints the human countenance 
With a color of romance. 
And. infusing subtle heats. 
Turns the sod to violets, — 
Tliou in sunny solitudes, 
Kover of the underwoods, 
The greeu silence dost displace 
With thy uu'Uow breezy bass. 

Hot niidsunimers potted crone. 
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone, 
Telling of countless sunny bours, 
Long days, and solid bauks of flowers. 
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
In Indian wildernesses found. 
Of Syrian peace, intniortal leisure, 
Firmest cheer, and binllike pleasure. 

Aught unsavory or unclean 
Ilatli my insect never soon. 
But violets and bilberry-bells, 
Maple sap, aud datUidils, 
Clover, catchlly, adders-tongue, 
And brier-roses dwelt among. 
All beside was unknown waste, 
All was picture as he i)assed. 

Wiser far than human seer. 
Yellow-breeched philosopher, 
Seeing tnily what is fair. 

Sipping only what is sweet, 
Thou dost mock at fate aud care. 

Leave the clialf and take the wheat. 
When tbe fierce north-western blast 
Cools sea and land so fur and fast, — 
Thou already slumberest deep, 
Woo and want tliou canst out-sleep; 
Want and woo. which torture us. 
Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 
:18 



THE SOUL'S PKOPHECY. 

All before us lies the way ; 

Give the past unto the wind ; 
All before us is the day. 

Night aud darkness are behind. 

Edou with its angels bold, 

Love and flowers and coolest sea, 
Is less an ancient story told 

Thau a glowing prophecy. 

In the spirit's perfect air, 

lu the passions tamo and kind. 

Innocence from selfish care. 
The real Eden we shall find. 

When tho soul to sin hath died. 

True and beautiful aud sound. 
Then all earth is sanctified. 

Up springs iiaradise around. 

From the spiiit-land afar 

All disturbing force shall lloo ; 

Stir, nor toil, nor hope shall mar 
Its immortal unity. 



THE APOLOGY. 

Think me not uukind aud rude. 

That I walk alone in grovo and glen ; 

I go to tho god of tho wood 
To fetch his word to men. 

Tax not my sloth that I 

Fold my arms beside the brook; 
Each cloud that floated iu the sky 

Writes a letter in my book. 

Chide mo not, laborious band, 
For tho idle flowers I brought ; 

Every aster in ray hand 

Goes home loaded with a thought. 

There w,is never mystery 

But 'tis figured in tho flowers; 

Was never secret history 

But birds tell it iu the bowers. 

One harvest from thy field 

Homeward brought the oxen strong; 
A second crop thy acres yield, 

Which I gather in a song. 



594 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



HYMN SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE 
CONCORD MONUMENT, APRIL 19, 1836. 

By the riulo bridge tbat arched the flood. 
Their flag to April's breeze nufurled. 

Here once the embattled farmers stood. 
And tired the shot beard rouud the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept; 

Alike tho conqneror silent sleeps ; 
And Time the rniued bridge has swept 

Down tho dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 

We set to-day a votive stone. 
That memory may their deed redeem. 

When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
To die, or leave their children free, 

Bid Time aud Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 



iUanj (joiuitt. 

Mary Howitt, whose mnidcn name was Botliam, was 
of Quaker descent, and born in Uttoxeter, England, in 
1804. In 1823 she was married to William Howitt, and 
the same year tliey published in coninnction "The For- 
est Minstrel," a series of poems. But William, though 
the author of some clever verses, is known chiefly for his 
prose writings. Mary lias shown genuine poetical feel- 
ing and ability, especially in her verses for children. Her 
observation of luiture is accurate and intense ; and a true 
enthusiasm gives vitality to her descriptions. Her bal- 
lads are among the best. That of "New-year's-eve" is 
founded on a prose stoi'y by the Danish author, Hans 
Christian Andersen. 



NEW-YEAR'S-EVE. 

Little Gretchen, little Gretchen, 

Wanders up and down the street, 
The snow is on her yellow hair, 

The frost is at her feet. 
The rows of long dark houses 

Without look cold and damp. 
By tho struggling of the m.oonbeam, 

By the flicker of the lamp. 
The cloiids ride fast as horses, 

The wind is from the north. 
But no one cares for Gretchen, 

Aud no one looketh forth. 



Within those dark, damp houses 

Are merry faces bright, 
And happy hearts are watching out 

The old year's latest night. 
The board is spread with plenty, 

Where the smiling kindred meet, 
But the frost is on the pavement, 



With the little box of matches 

She could not sell all day. 
And the thin, thin tattered mantle, 

The wind blows every way, 
She clingeth to tho railing. 

She shivers in the gloom : 
There are parents sitting snugly 

By fire-light iu the rooin,^ 
And groups of busy children — 

Withdrawing just the tips 
Of rosy fingers pressed in vain 

Against their burning lips, — • 
With grave aud earnest faces, 

Are whispering each other, 
Of presents for the new year, made 

For father or for mother. 

But no one talks to Gretchen, 

Aud no one bears her speak ; 
No breath of little whisperers 

Comes warmly to her cheek ; 
No little arms are round her. 

Ah me ! that there should be 
With so much happiness on earth, 

So much of misery ! 
Sure they of many blessings, 

Should scatter blessings round, 
As laden houghs iu Autumn fling 

Their ripe fruits to the ground. 
' And the best love man can oft'er 

To the God of love, be sure, 
Is kindness to his little ones, ' 

And bounty to his poor. 

Little Gretchen, little Gretchen, 

Goes coldly on her way ; 
There's no one looketh out at her. 

There's no one bids her stay. 
Her home is cold and desolate. 

No smile, no food, no fire, 
But children clamorous for bread, 

Aud an impatient sire. 
So she sits down iu an angle, 

Where two great houses meet, 



M.tuY noniTr. 



And she curletli up lieneath lier, 

I'm- wariiitli, her little feet. 
Ami .slic looketU on the cold wall, 

Ami on tlio colder sky, 
And wondi'rs if the little stars 

Are brif^ht- tires np on hij;h. 

She liearil a clock strike slowly, 

Up ill a far church tower, 
With sneh a sad and solcnin touc, 

Telling tlu' iniihilsht hour. 
Then all the bells together 

Their merry nnisic poured ; 
They wore ringing in tho feast, 

The eircumeisiou of the Lord. 
And .she thoii<;ht as she sat lonely, 

And listened to the chime. 
Of wondrous things that she had loveil 

To hear in the ohh'u time. 
.\nd she remenibered her of tah'.s 

III r niiillii'r used to tell, 
And of the cradle .songs she sang 

AVlien summer's twilight fell, — 
Of good men and of angels. 

And of the Holy Child, 
Who was cradled iu a nmuger. 

When winter was most wild, — 
Who was i>oor, and cold, and hungry 

And desolate and lone ; — 
And she thought the song had told 

He was ever with his own, 
And all tho poor and hungry, 

And forsaken ones are his: 
"IIow good of him to look on nie, 

In such a place as this!' 

Colder it grows and colder. 

Hut she does not feel it now, 
For tho i>ressuro at her heart, 

.\ud tho weight upon her brow. 
Hut she struck one little match 

On tho wall so cold and bare. 
That she might look around her. 

Ami see if Ho were there. 
The single match has kindled; 

Ami by the light it threw, 
It seemed to little Gretehen, 

The wall was rent iu two. 
And she could see tho room within, 

The room nil warm and bright. 
With tho lire-glow red and dusky, 

Ami the tapers all alight. 



Ami there were kimlrcd gathered, 

Round tho table richly spread, 
With heaps of goodly viands, 

Ued wine, and pleasant bread. 
She could smell the fragrant savor. 

She could hear what they did say. 
Then all was darkness ouco again. 

The match had burnetl away. 
She struck another hastily. 

And now she seemed to se<;, 
Within the same warm chamber, 

A glorious Christmas-tree: 
The branches were all laden 

With such things as childrtni prize. 
Bright gift for boy and maiden, 

She saw them with her eyes. 
And she almost seemed to touch them. 

And to join the welcome shout ; 
When darkness fell around her, 

l-'or tho little match was out. 

Another, yet another, she 

Has tried, — they will not light, — 
Till all her little store she took, 

And struck with all her might; 
And tho whole miserable place 

Was lighted with the glare. 
And lo, there hung a little child 

Before her in the air! 
There were blood-drops on hi.s forehead. 

And a spear-wound iu his side. 
And cruel nail-priuts in Iiis feet. 

And in his hands spread wide: — 
And he looked upon her gently, 

Ami she felt that he lia<l known 
Pain, hunger, cold, and son-ow, 

Ay, ecpial to her own. 
Ami he pointed to the laden board, 

And to the Christmas-tree, 
Then up to the cold sky, and said, 

"Will Gretehen conio with met" 
The poor child felt her pulses Ciil, 

She felt her eyeballs swim, 
And .a ringing sound was in her ears, 

I,iko her dead mother's hynni. 
And she folded both her thin white haud.s, 

And turned from that bright board, 
And from the golden gifts, and said, 

"With thee, with thee. () Lord!" 

The chilly winter morning 
Breaks up iu the dull skies, 



596 



CYCLOF^DIA OF BRITISH AXD AMESWAX POETRY. 



On the city wrapped in vapor, 

Oil the spot -wliere Gretcheu lies. 
The iiiglit was wild and stormy, 

The mora is cold and gray, 
And good clmrch bells are ringing 

Christ's eircuiucisiou day ; 
And holy men are praying 

In many a holy place ; 
And little children's angels 

Sing songs before his face. 

In her scant and tattered garment, 

With her back against the -wall, 
She sitteth cold and rigid. 

She answers not their call. 
They have lifted her up fearfully, 

They shuddered as they said, 
" It was a bitter, bitter uight; 

The child is frozen dead." 
The angels saug their greeting. 

For one more redeemed from siu ; 
Men said, " It was a bitter night, — 

Would no one let her in ?" 
And they shuddered as they spoke of her, 

And sighed ; they could not see 
How much of happiness there was, 

With so much misery ! 



THE FAIRIES OF CALDON-LOW. 

"And where have you been, my Mary. 

And where have you been from me ?" 
"I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low, 

The midsummer uight to see." 

"And what did yon see, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldou-Low f" 
" I saw the glad sunshine come down, 

Aud I saw the merry winds blow." 

"And what did you hear, my Mary, 

All up ou the Caldon-Hill ?" 
"I heard the drops of the ■water form, 

And the ears of the greeu corn fill." 

" Oh, tell me all, my Mary, 

All, all that ever you know ; 
For you must have seen the fairies 

Last night ou the Caldou-Low." 

" Then take me on your knee, mother, 
Aud listen mother of mine : 



A hundred fairies danced last uight, 
Aud the harpers they were nine. 

"And the harp-strings rang right merrily, 

To their daucing feet so small; 
But oh, the sound of their talking 

Was merrier far tliau all !" 

"Aud what were the words, my Mary, 

That you heard the fairies say ?" 
" I'll tell you all, my mother. 

But let me have my way. 

"Aud some they played with the water. 

And rolled it down the hill: 
'And this,' they said, 'shall speedily turu 

The poor old miller's mill ; 

" ' For there has been no water 

Ever since the first of May, 
And a busy man shall the miller be 

By the dawning of the day. 

" ' O, the miller, how he will laugh 

When he sees the mill-dam rise! 
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh, 

Till the tears 1111 both of his eyes !' 

"And some, they seized the little winds 

That sounded over the hill, 
Aud each put a horn unto bis mouth 

Aud blew it sharp aud shrill : 

"'And there,' they said, ' the merry winds go. 

Away from every horn. 
And they sh.all clear the mildew dank 

From the blind old widow's corn. 

"'O, the poor blind old widow! 

Though she has been poor so long. 
She'll be blithe enough when the mildew's gone, 

Aud the corn stands tall aud strong!' 

"And some they brought the brown linseed, 
And flnng it down from the Low : 

' And this,' said they, ' by the sunrise, 
lu the weaver's croft shall grow. 

" ' O, the jioor lame weaver ! 

How he will laugh outright 
When he sees his dwindling ilax-field 

All full of flowers by uight !' 



.i/.i;.'i- nowiTT. 



"Auil tbiMi up spoko ;i browniis 
Willi a loii-^ liearil on his cliiii : 

' I liavo spun up all the tow,' saitl be, 
'And I waut some moro to spin. 

" ' I'vo spun a piece of heuipeu cloth, 

And I waut to spin another — 
A little sheet for XIary's he<l, 

Anil an apron for lur mother.' 

••Anil with that I conlil not heli) l)iil laugh, 
Anil I lauglieil out louil anil free ; 

Ami then on the top of the I'aUloii-Low 
There was no one left but ine. 

"Ami all on the to|) of the C'alilon-l.ow 

The mists were cold and gray, 
Ami nothing I saw Imt tlie niossj- stones 

That round about mr lay. 

'• I?ut coining down from tlie Iiill-top, 

I heard afar below 
How busy the jolly miller was, 

.\nd how the wheel did go. 

'■ And I peeped into tbo widow's Held, 

And sure enough were seen 
The yellow cat's of the mildewed corn 

All stuiiding stout and green. 

••And down by the weaver's croft I stole 
To 800 if tbo flax were sprung; 

And I met the weaver at his gate 
With the good news on his timgue. 

"Now this is all I heard, mother, 

And all that I did sec ; 
So, prithee make my bed, mother, 

l"or I'm tired as I can be!" 



THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. 

•• Will yon walk into my parlor?"' said a spider to 

a tly; 
" 'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy. 
The way into my parlor is np a winding stair, 
.\ud I have many pretty things to show yon when 

yon are there." 
"Oh no, no!" said the little fly, "to ask me is in 

vain, 
For who goes np ycmr wimliiig stair can ne'er coiiir 

down again.'' 



" I'm sure yon must bo weary with soaring np so 
high. 

Will you rest upon my jiretty bed ''' said the spi- 
der to the fly. 

"There are pretty curtains drawn around, and the 
sheets arc line and thin. 

And if you'd like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck 
you ill.'' 

"Oh no, no!" said the little fly; "for I've heard it 
often said. 

They never, never wake again who sleep upon your 
bed." 

Said the cnnning spider to the fly, " Dear friend, 
what shall I do. 

To prove the warm aflfectiou I have always felt for 
yon? 

I have within my pantry good store of all that's nice ; 

I'm sure yon are very welcome, will you jilease to 
take a slice ?" 

'•Oh no, no!" said the little fly, "kind sir, that can- 
not be ; 

I've heard Avhat's in your pantry, and I do not wish 
to see." 

"Sweet creature," said the spider, "yon are witty 
and you're wise ; 

How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant 
are your eyes ! 

I've a pretty little looking-glass nimri my parlor 
shelf, 

If you'll just step in a moment, dear, you shall be- 
hold yourself.'' 

" I thank you, gentle sir," she said, " for what you're 
pleased to say, 

And bidding you good-morning now, I'll call another 
day." 

The spider turned him roniul about, and went into 

his den. 
For well he knew the silly lly would .soon come 

back again ; 
So ho wove a strong and subtle web, in a little 

corner sly, 
And set his little table ready to dine upon the fly. 
Then he went out the door again, and merrily did 

sing, 
" Coine hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl ami 

silver wing ; 
Vonr robes are green .mil purple, there's a crest upon 

your head ; 
Vonr eyes are like the diamond bright, while mine 

are dull as lead.'' 



598 



CTCLOPJIDIA OF BIUTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Alas, alas! liow very soou this silly little fly, 

Hearing his \vily, tiattcring words, came slowly flit- 
ting by; 

With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and 
nearer drew, 

Thinking only of her brilliaut eyes, and green and 
jiurplo hue ; 

Tliiuking only of her crested head; poor foolish 
thing! At last 

V\> jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held 
her fast. 

lie dragged her uji his winding stair unto his dis- 
mal den. 

Within his little parlor, and she ne'er came out again! 

And now, dear little children, who may this story 

read, 
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give 

heed ; — 
I'nto every evil connsellor close heart, and ear, and 

eye, 
And take a lesson from this tale of the spider and 

the fly I 



CORNFIELDS. 

When on the breath of autumn breeze 
From pastures dry aud brown, 

Goes floating like an idle thought 
The fair white thistle-down, 

Oh then what Joy to walk at will 

Upon the golden harvest hill! 

What Joy in dreamy ease to lie 

Auiid a field new shorn. 
And see all round on sunlit slopes 

The piled-np stacks of corn ; 
And send the fancy wandering o'er 
All plca.sant harvest-fields of yore ! 

I feel the day — I see the field, 
The (luivering of the leaves, 

Aud good old Jacob and his house 
Binding the yellow sheaves; 

Aud at this very hour I seem 

To be with Joseph in his dream. 

I see the fields of Bethlehem, 

And reapers many a one. 
Bending unto their sickles' stroke, — 

And Boaz looking on ; 
And Ilnt.h, the Moabitess fair. 
Among the gleaners stooping there. 



Again I see a little child, 
His mother's sole delight, — 

God's living gift of love unto 
The kind good Shunamite, — 

To mortal paings I see him yield. 

And the lad bear him from the field. 

The sun-bathed quiet of the hills, 

The fields of Galilee, 
That eighteen hundred years ago 

Were full of corn, I see, — 
And the dear Saviour take his way 
'Jlid ripe ears on the Sabbath-day. 

O golden fields of bending corn. 
How beautiful they seem ! 

The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves. 
To me are like a dream : 

The sunshine and the very air 

Seem of old time, and take nio there. 



Jraiuis illixljonji (Jatljcr |Jrout). 

Maliouy {180t-18B6) better known by his nom de plume 
of Fiitlici- Prout, came of a respectable middle-class Cork 
family, and wiis educated at St. Aclieul, tlic college of the 
Jesuits at Anneus. Here he was taught to write and con- 
verse fluently iu Latin. He studied also at Rome, and 
took priest's orders. About 1834 he became one of tlic 
writers for Frasef s Ma(jazba\ to which he contributed the 
"Prout Papers," reniarknble fur their drollery and for 
tiie evidences of great facility in Latin and Greek compo- 
sition. Amidst all his convivialities he preserved a revei-- 
euce for religion, and manifested great goodness of heart. 
One of his biographers describes him as "a scholar, a 
wit, a madcap priest, a skilled theologian, a gossiping 
old man, a companion of wild roisterers, and a rollick- 
ing, hard-drinking Irishman." For tlie last eight years 
of his life he resided chiefly in Paris as a correspondent 
of London papers. 

POETICAL EPISTLE FROM FATHER PROUT 
TO BOZ (CHARLES DICKENS). 

A rhyme, a rhyme 

From a distant clime — 
From the Gulf of the Genoese : 

O'er the rugged scalps 

Of the Julian Alps, 
Dear Boz, I send you these, 

To light the wick 

Your candlestick 
Holds up, or should you list. 

To usher iu 

The yaru you spin 
Concerning Oliver Twist. 



FJIAXCIS MAHOXr (FATHER PROUT). 



599 



• Iiunieuse iijiplause 

You've gained, O lioz ! 
Tluiiiigli Ciiiitinental Euroiie ; 

You've uiado Pickwick 

(Kciiiiienick : 
Of fame you bavo a sure liope ; 

For here your books 

Are thought, gadzooks ! 
A greater luxe than any 

That have issued yet, 

Ilot-prcsseil or wet. 
From the press of Galignaiii. 
• • » » ■ 

Write on, young sage I 

Still o'er the page 
l'(Uir forth the Hood of fancy ; 

Divinely droll 

Wave o'er the soul 
Wit's wand of ueeromaucy. 

Behold ! e'en now 

Around your brow 
The undying laurel thickens! 

For Swift or Sterne 

Might live — and learn 
A thing or two from Dickens. 
Oeiio.i, December Mth, 1S3T. 



THE BELLS OF SUAXDOX. 

" S:il)batn pnn^o, 
Fiuicra pliiiign, 
Salemina cli»iip>." 

Inncription on an Ofd Belt. 

With deep affection and recollection 

I often think of those Shandon bells. 

Whose sounds so wild would, in the days of eliild- 

hood, 
riing roUMil my cradle their, magic spells. 

Oil Ibis I ponder where'er I wander, 
.\miI thus grow fondiT, sweet Cork, of thee; 
Willi thy bells of Sbaudon that sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 

I've beard bells chiming full many a clime in. 
Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine; 
Wliile at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate; 
Itut all their music spoke naught like thine. 

For memory dwelling on each proud swelling 
Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free, 
Made the bells of Sbaudon sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 



I've beard bells tolling old Adrian's Molo in, 
Their thunder rolling from the Vatican ; 
And cymbals glorious swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets of Xotre Dame. 

But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly : 
Oh, the bells of Shandon sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 

There's a bell in Moscow; while on tower and 

kiosk O 
In Saint Sophia the Turkman gets. 
And loud in air calls men to prayer 
From the tapering summits of tall minarets. 

Such empty phantom 1 freely grant tbeui ; 
But there's au anthem more dear to nie : 
'Tis the bells of Shand(Ui that sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 



POPl'LAK RECOLLECTIOXS OF BOXAl'AUTE. 

AFTER BER.^SGER. 

They'll talk of him for years to come 

In cottage chronicle and tale ; 
When for aught else renown is dumb, 

Hi» legend shall prevail I 
Then in the hamlet's honored chair 

Shall sit some aged dame, 
Teaching to lowly clown and villager 

That narrative of fame. 
'Tis true, they'll say, his gorgeous throne 
France bled to raise ; 

But he was all our own! 
Mother, say something iu his praise — 

Oh speak of him always ! 

"I saw him pass: his was a host: 

Countless beyond your young imaginings — 
My children, he could boast 

A train of conquered kings! 
And whcu he came this road, 

'Twas on my bridal day, 
Ho wore — for near to him I stood^ 

Cocked hat aTid surroat gray. 
I blushed ; he said, ' Be of good cheer ! 
Courage, my dear !' 

That was his very word." — 
Mother! oh then this really occurred, 

And you bis voice could hear! 



600 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBICAK POETRY. 



" A year rolled ou ; wlien next at Paris I, 
Loue ■\vomau that I am, 
Saw him pass hy, 
Girt with his peers, to kueel at Notre Dame, 
I knew by merry chime and sigual guu, 
God granted him a sou, 
And oh ! I wept for joy ! 
For why not weep when warrior-men did. 
Who gazed upon that sight so splendid, 

And blessed the imperial boy ? 
Never did noonday sun shine out so bright ! 

Oh, what a sight !" — 
Mother! for you that must have been 
A glorious scene ! 

" But when all Europe's gathered strengtU 
Burst o'er the French frontier at length, 

'Twill scarcely be believed 
What wonders, single-handed, he achieved. 

Such general never lived ! 
One evening ou my threshold stood 
A gnest — 'twas be ! Of warriors few 
He had a toil-woru retinue. 
He flung himself into this chair of wood, 
Muttering, meautime, with fearful air, 
' Quelle guerre ! oh, quelle guerre !' " 
Mother, and did our emperor sit there. 
Upon that very chair? 

"He said, 'Give me some food.' 

Brown loaf I gave, and homely wine. 
And made the kindling fire-blocks shiue. 
To di'y his cloak, with wet bedewed. 
Soon by the bonnie blaze he slept ; 
Then, waking, chid mo (for 1 wept) : 
' Courage !' he cried, ' I'll strike for all 
Under the sacred wall 
Of France's noble capital !' 
Those were his words: I've treasured np 
With pride that same wine-ciip, 
And for its weight in gold 
It never shall be sold !" 
Mother ! on that proud relic let ns gaze — 
Oh keep that cup always! 

"But, through some fatal witchery. 

He whom a Pope had crowned and blessed, 
Perished, my sons, by foulest treacliery ! 

Cast on an isle far in the lonely West. 
Long time sad rumors were afloat — 

The fatal tidings we would spurn. 
Still hoping from that isle remote 

Once more our hero would return. 



But when the dark announcement drew 

Tears from the virtuous and the br.ave — 
When the sad whisper proved too true, 
A flood of grief I to his memory gave. 
Peace to the glorious dead !" — 
Mother ! may God his fullest blessing shed 
Upon your agi5d head ! 



Samitcl (5rcg. 



Greg (1804-1876) was a native of Manchester, England. 
He was a classmate of the Rev. James Mailineau at the 
school of Dr. Laut Carpenter in Bristol (1819). Failing 
of success as a cotton-mill manager, he withdrew from 
business, and led a life of retirement, which in his latter 
years was somewhat darkened by tiisease. His brotli- 
er, William Rathbone Greg (boni 1809), author of "Tlie 
Creed of Christendom, " ete., writes ofliim: "It may be 
truly said that during all the later portion of his life he 
was manifestly ripening for the skies." After liis death, 
a selection from his papers was published (1877) under 
the title of "A Layman's Legacy in Prose and Verse." 



PAIN. 



Awful power! whose birthplace lies 
Deep 'mid deepest mysteries — 
Thine the cry of earliest breath ; 
Born in pain, entombed with death. 
Surely, Pain, thy power shall die 
When man puts off mortality. 

Awful mystery! can it be 

Mercy's name is writ on thee? 

That thou comest from above. 

Angel of the God of love ? 

While thou scourgest, tell us «'7i;/; 

^\'hat message speak'st thou from the sky ? 

Secrets dread hast thou to show? 
Knowledge, which God's sons must know ? 
Power to purge and purify ? 
Human strength and power defy ? 
Make man's stony nature feel ? 
Slould his ore to tempered steel f 

Or is thine the power alone, 

So to tune our dull earth tone 

To that diviner, holier strain 

E'en love and grief attempt in vain : 

Such as opens hearts to see 

What meant the cross of Calvary? 



SAMUEL GHEG.— THOMAS KIBBLE EEIiVKY. 



(iUl 



Pprliaps soino tloor is closed in lioavcu, 
WliDsu key to Piiin alone is j;ivcii ; 
And only tbiuo all-powerful baud 
Can open to the onward laud; 
Wliilo spirits none shall enter thero 
But those baptized in sullerinj; hero. 

This one thing I ask of thee, 

This one only answer me: 

Com'st thou from the heavenly seat f 

Lead'st thou to my Father's feetf 

Ho I suft'er not in vain f 

Art thou God's true angel, Pain f 

Then ril try to say that word, 
" In the name of God the Lord, 
Weleome art thou." Hut whate'er 
Thou bringi'st, give mo strength to bear. 
Spare not — 'tis my Father's will: 
I can meet it, and be still. 



BEATKX: HKATEN! 

Tell me, now, my saddened soul ! 

Tell me wbero wo lost the daj-, — 
Failed to win the shining goal. 

Slacked the pace, or missed the way f 
We arc beaten; — face the truth! 

'Twas not thus we thought to die. 
When the prophet-dreams of youth 

Sang of joy and victory. 

Yes, we own life's battle lost: 

llleeding, torn, we quit the (ield ; 
Jiiight success — ambition's boast — 

Hero to happier men wc yield. 
And if some strong hero's sword 

Ifad struck down my weaker blade, 
Not one coward, moaning word 

Had the weeping wound betrayed. 

Hut I see the battle won 

IJy less daring hearts than mine : 
Feebler feet the race have run; 

Humbler brows the laurel twine. 
See there! at the glittering goal, 

See that smiling winner stand! 
Measure him from head to sole — 

'Tis no giant of the laud. 

Can I to that winner bow. 

And declare how well he ran ? 



No : I only murmur now — 
" Beaten by a poorer man !'' 

"Perhaps he sought a lowlier iiri/.e." 
True : but what he sought ho won ; 

While the stars that gommed my skies. 
Quenched in darkness, all are gone. 

Yet, i)erchance, that star-like prize 

Is not lost — but not yet won:' 
Lift aloft thine earth-bound eyes : 

Seek the goal still farther on. 
Far beyond that sinking sun 

Swells a brighter, happier shore ; 
Thero a nobler race is run : 

Hark ! Ho bids thee try once more. 



(iIljoiilaG Kibble fjcrncij. 

Ilervey (1S04-1S.VJ) was u native of Manchester, Eng- 
land. He studied at Oxford and Canihridi^e, and after- 
ward read law. From 1S4(! to ISiU he edited The AOk- 
nmim. He published "Australia, and other Poems," 
W2i\ "The Poetical Sketchbook," 1820; "The English 
Helicon," 1841. His poems are distinguished by an airy 
delicacy of style and a rare metrical sweetness. 



HOPE. 



Again — again slio comes! — niethinks I hear 

Her wild, sweet singing, and her rushing wings; 
My heart goes forth to meet her with a, tear. 

And welcome sends from all its broken strings. 
It was not thus — not thus — wo met of yore. 

When my plumed soul went half-way to the sky 
To greet her ; and the joyous song she bore 

Was scarce more tuneful than the glad reply: 
The wings are fettered by the weight of years, 
And grief has spoiled the ninsie with her tears. 

She comes — I know her by her starry eyes, 

I know her by the rainbow in her hair! 
Her vesture of tho light and sunnner skies — 

But gone the girdle which she n.sed to wear 
Of summer roses, and the sandal flowers 

That hung enamored round lier faiiy feet. 
When, in Iii-r youth, she haunted earthly bowers. 

And culled from all the beantiful iiud sweet. 
No more she mocks me with her voice of mirth. 
Nor offers now the garlands of the earth. 

Come back, come back — thou hast been absent Ions. 
Oh! welcome back tho svbil of tho soul, 



602 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Who came, auil comes again, with pleading strong, 

To offer to the heart her mystic scroll ; 
Though every year she wears a sadder look. 

And sings a sadder song, and every year 
Some further leaves are torn out from her book. 

And fewer what she brings, and far more dear. 
As once she came — oh, might she come again. 
With all the i)erished volumes offered then ! 
* * « jf * * 

She comes — she comes — her voice is in mine ear. 

Her mild, sweet voice, that sings, and sings for- 
ever. 
Whose strains of song sweet thoughts awake to hear, 

Like flowers that haunt the margin of a river; 
(Flowers that, like lovers, only speak in sighs, 

Whose thoughts are hues, whose voices are their 
hearts,) 
Oh — thus the spirit yearns to piei-ce the skies. 

Exulting throbs, though all save hope departs: 
Thus the glad freshness of our sinless years 
Is watered ever by the heart's rich tears. 

She comes — I know her by her ratliaut eyes. 

Before whoso smile the long dim cloud departs; 
And if a darker shade be on her brow, 

And if her tones be sadder than of yore. 
And if she sings more solemn music now, 

And bears another harp than erst she bore, 
Aud if around her form no longer glow 

The earthly flowers that iu her youth she wore — 
That look is loftier, and that song more sweet. 
And heaven's flowers — the stars — are at her feet. 



TO ONE DEPARTED. 

1 know thou art gone to the homo of thy rest ; 

Then why should my soul be so sad? 
I know thou art gone where the weary are blessed. 

And the mourner looks up and is glad ; 
Where Love has put oft', in the laud of its birth, 

The stains it had gathered in this, 
Aud Hope, the sweet singer, that gladdened the earth, 

Lies asleep on the bosom of Bliss. 

I know thon art gone where thy forehead is starred 

With the beauty that dwelt iu thy soul, 
Where the light of thy loveliness cannot be marred. 

Nor thy spirit flung back from its goal. 
I know thou hast drunk of the Leth6 that flows 

Through a land where they do not forget ; — 
That sheds over memory only repose. 

And takes from it only regret. 



This eye must be dark, that so long has been dim, 

Ere again it may gaze ujion thine; 
But my heart has reveallngs of thee aud thy home, 

In many a token and sign : 
I never look up with a vow to the sky. 

But a light like thy beauty is there; 
And I hear a low murmur like thine in reply, 

When I pour out my spirit iu prayer. 

Iu thy far-away dwelling, wherever it be, 

I know thou hast glimpses of mine ; 
For the love that made all things as music to me, 

I have not yet learned to resign. 
In the hush of the night, on the waste of the sea, 

Or alone with the breeze on the hill, 
I have ever a presence that whispers of thee, 

Aud my spirit lies down aud is still. 

And though, like a mourner that sits by a tomb, 

I am wrapped in a mantle of care, 
Yet the grief of my bosom — oh, call it not gloom ! — 

Is not the dark grief of despair. 
By sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night, 

Far oft' a bright vision appears. 
And Hope, like the rainbow, a creature of light, 

Is born, like the rainbow, from tears. 



CLEOPATRA EMBARKING ON THE CYDNUS. 

Flutes in the suuny air. 

And harps In the porphyry halls! 
And a low, deep hum, like a people's prayer. 

With its heart-breathed swells and falls! 
And an echo, like the desert's call. 

Flung back to the shouting shores! 
And the river's ripple, heard through all. 

As it plays with the silver oars! — 
The sky is a gleam of gold, 

And the amber breezes float. 
Like thoughts to be dreamed of, but never told. 

Around the dauciug boat ! 

She has stepped on the burning sand — 

Aud the thousand tongues are mute, 
Aud the Syriau strikes, with a trembling hand, 

The strings of his gilded lute! 
Aud the Ethiop's heart throbs loud and high. 

Beneath his white symar. 
And the Lybian kneels, as he meets her eye. 

Like the flash of an Eastern star! 
The gales may not be heard. 

Yet the silken streamers quiver. 



THOMAS KIBBLE UEHVJiY. — WILLIAM CROSWELL. 



603 



And tlio vessel shoots, like a brigbt-plunied biixl, 
A\v;iy (liiwn tlio gcililoii liver! 

Away by the lofty inoniit, 

And iaway by tbo lonely sborc, 
And away by the gushing of inanj' a foiuil, 

AVlioro fountains gush no more ! — 
Oil! for sonio warning vision there, 

Siniio voice that should have spoken 
Of cliuii'S to be laid waste and bare, 

And glad young spirits broken! 
Of waters dried away, 

And hope and beauty blasted! 
— That scenes so fair and hearts so gay 

ijliould be so early wasted! 



TO KLLEN— WEEPIXG. 

Mine eyes — that may not see thee smile, 

Are glad to see thee weep ; 
Thy spirit's calm this weary while, 

Has been too dark and deep; — 
Alas for him who has but tears 

To mark his path of pain, 
But oh ! /lis long and lonely years. 

Who may uot weep again ! 

Thoii know'st, young mourner! thou hast been, 

Through good and ill, to me, 
Amid a bleak and blighted scene, 

A single leafy tree; 
A star within a stormy sky, 

An island on the main — 
And I have prayed, in agony. 

To SCO thee weep again ! 

Thou <r<T wert a thing of tears, 

When but a playful child, 
A very sport of hopes and fears. 

And both too warm anil wild; 
Thy lightest thnnghts and wishes wore 

Too passionate a strain — 
To mch bow often comes an hour 

They never weep again! 

Thou wert of those whose very morn 

Gives some dark hint of night. 
And in thino eye too soon was born 

A sad and softened light; 
And on thy brow youth set the seal. 

Which years, upon thy brain, 



Confirmed too well — and they who foci 
May scarcely weep again ! 

But once again within thine eye 

I see the waters start — 
The fountains cannot fl/( bo dry 

Within so young a heart ! 
Our love, which grew in light awhile, 

lias long been nursed by rain, 
But I shall yet behold thee smile, 

Since thon bast wept again ! 



llVilliam (CroGuu'l 



AMERICAN. 

Croswcll (180-J-18ol) was bom at Hudson, N. y.,aiul 
was graiUiated at Tale College in 1822. Most of his 
poetry appeared in the Episcopal Watchman, published 
in Hartford, Conn., of which lie was joint editor with 
George Washington Doane. Croswcll was Rector of 
Christ Cliurcli, Boston, 18-"J-'40; of St. Peter's, Au- 
burn, N. Y., l!*40-'44; of Church of the Advent, Boston, 
1844-'51. 



DKIXK AND AWAY. 

There is a beautiful rill in Bnrbnry, received into n large bn- 
gin, whicb bears n name signiTying "Drink and away," from 
the cicat danger of meeting with rognes and assassins. — Dr. 
Shaw. 

Up! pilgrim ami rover, redouhlo thy liasto ! 
Nor rest thee till over life's wearisome waste. 
Krc the wild forest ranger thy footsteps betray 
To trouble and danger, — oh, drink and away I 

Here liirks the dark savage, by night and by day. 
To rob and to ravage, nor scruples to slay : 
He waits for the slaughter: tlic^ blood of his prey 
•Shall stain the still water, — then up and aw.ay ! 

With toll though thon languish, the mandate obey, 
.Spur on, though in anguish, there's death in delay! 
Xo blood-lioiiiid, want-wasted, is liorcer than thc.v. — 
Pass by it untasted — or drink and away I 

Though soro be the trial, thy God is thy stay : 
Though deep the denial, yielil not in dismay ; 
But, wrapped in high vision, look on to the day 
When the fountains clysian thy thirst shall allay. 

There shalt thou forever enjoy thy repose, 
Where life's gentle river eternally flows; 
Yea, there shalt thou rest thee for ever and ayo, 
With none to molest thee — then, drink and away. 



604 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



DE PROFUNDIS. 

"There mny be a clonrl without a rambow, but there cannot 
be a rainbow witbunt a cloud." 

My soul was dnrk 
But for t.Lo golileu light auil rainbow hue, 
That, sweeping Leaven with their triuni2)bal arc, 

Break on the view. 

Enough to feel 
That Goil, indeed, is good. Enough to know, 
Without the gloomj' cloud, he could reveal 

No beauteous bow. 



(L'limunLi P. (!?i-iffiu. 

AMERICAN. 
GrifTiu (1S04-1S30) was a native of Wyoming, Penn.— a 
grandson, on tlie motlier's side, of Colonel Zeljulon But- 
ler, who defended the valley against the British attack 
which led to the massacre of 1778. Graduating at Co- 
lumbia College, N. Y., where he held the tirst rank in 
his class, Edmund studied for tlie Episcopal Church ; but 
au affection of the lungs compelled him to give upprcacli- 
ing, and try a voyage to Europe. On his return fiom 
home, in 1S30, he was prostrated by au inflammatory at- 
tack, and died. His "Literary Remains" were collect- 
ed by his brother. They include several Latin poems. 
There is abundant promise in his lines on Italy, though 
the inflneuee of Byron is manifest in the general tone. 



LINES ON LEAVING ITALY. 

"Dell ! fossi tu men bella, O almen pin {ovte."—Filicaia. 

Would that thou wert more .strong, at least less fair, 

Laud of the orange-grove aud myrtle bower! 
To hail whoso strand, to breathe whose genial air, 

Is bliss to all who feel of bliss the power. 
To look upon who.se mountains in the hour 

When thy sun sinks in glorj-, and a veil 
Of purple flows around them, would restore 

The sense of beauty when all else might fail. 

Would tliat thou wert more strong, at least less fair. 

Parent of fruits, alas ! no more of men ! 
Where springs the olive e'en from mountains hare, 

The yellow harvest loads the scarce-tilled jilain. 
Spontaneous shoots the vine, in rich festoon 

From tree to tree depending, aud the flowers 
Wreathe with their chaplets, sweet though fading 
soon, 

E'en fallen columns and decaying towers. 

Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair. 
Home of the beautiful, but not the brave ! 



Where noble form, bold outline, princely air, 

Distinguish e'en the peasant and the slave : 
Where, like the goddess sprung from ocean's wave, 

Her mortal sisters boast immortal grace, 
Nor spoil those charms which partial nature gave. 

By art's weak aids or tiishiou's vain grimace. 

Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair. 

Thou nurse of every art save one alone. 
The art of self-defence! Thy fostering care 

Brings out a nobler life from senseless stone, 
And bids e'en canvas sx^eak : thy magic tone, 

Infused in music now constrains the soul 
With tears the power of melody to own. 

And now with passionate throbs that spurn control. 

Would that thou wert less fair, at least more strong. 

Grave of the mighty dead, the living mean! 
Can nothing rouse ye both? no tyrant's wrong, 

No memory of the brave, — of what has licen ^ 
You broken arch once spoke of triunipli, then 

That mouldering wall, too, spoke of Inave de- 
fence — 
Shades of departed heroes, rise again ! 

Italians, rise, and thrust the oppressors hence ! 

Italy! my country, fare thee well! 

For art thou not my country, at whose breast 
Were nurtured those whose thoughts within me 
dwell. 

The fathers of my mind ? whose fame impressed. 
E'en on my infant fancy, bade it rest 

With patriot fondness on thy hills and streams. 
E'er yet thou didst receive me as a guest, — 

Lovelier th.an I had seen thee in my dreams ? 

Then faro thee well, my country, loved aud lost : 
Too early lost, alas ! when once so dear ; 

1 turn in sorrow from thy glorious coast. 
And virge the feet forbid to linger here. 

But must I rove by Arno's current clear. 
And hear the rush of Tiber's yellow flood. 

And wander on the monnt, now waste and drear, 
Where Caisar's palace in its glory stood ; — 

And see agaiu Parthenopd's loved bay. 

And P.TStum's shrines, aud Baiip's classic shore, 

And mount the bark, and listen to the lay 

That floats by night through Venice — never more ? 

Far off I seem to hear the Atlantic roar- 
It washes not thy feet, that envious sea. 

But waits, with outstretched arms, to waft mo o'er 
To otlier lauds, liir, far, alas! from tlieo. 



oriiAV cciiitr.—EDJV.tnn, i.oud lyttox. 



605 



Fare, fare tlioo well once more. I love tbee not 

As otlier tliinj;s inanimate. Thou art 
The cherislu'il mistress of my youth ; forgot 

Thou never canst be while I have a heart. 
Launched on those waters, wihl with storm and 
w inil, 

I know not, ask not, what may bo my lot ; 
For, torn from thee, no fear can touch my mind, 

Broodinjr in gloom on that one bitter thoufiht. 



(Dtuian ^rurrii. 

AMERICAN. 

Curry nS04-185.5) was a native of Greenfield, Iliijliland 
County, Ohio. His scliool education was Hniiled. In 
1S23 he went to Lebanon, and learned the trade of a car- 
penter. He had a taste for poetry, and in 1S38 became 
connected with Mr. \V. D. Gallaglier in editin;; The Iksjie- 
rian, a monthly niasazinc. In 1839 he removed to Marys- 
villc, began the study of the law, and practised it lor ten 
years. In 18.53 we find him connected with tlie fkioto 
Oazetk, a daily paper published inCliillicotlie. He tilled 
various public offices, and lived an unblemished life. 



KINGDOM COME. 

1 do not believe the sad story 

Of ages of sleeji in the tomb ; 
I .shall p.iss far away to the gliu'y 

And grandeur of Kin^dmn Come. 
The paleuess of death and its stillness 

May rest on ray brow for awhile ; 
And my spirit may lose in its cliillne.ss 

The splendor of Hope's happy smile : 

liut the gloom of the grave will be tran.sicnt, 

And light as the slumbers of worth ; 
And then I shall blend with the ancient 

And beautiful forms of the earth. 
Through the climes of the sky and the bowers 

Of bliss evermore I shall roam, 
Wearing crowns of the stars and the flowers 

That glitter in Kingdom Come. 

The friends who have parted before me 

From life's gloomy passion and pain, 
When the shadow of death pa.sses o'er mo 

Will smilo on me fondly again. 
Their voicos were lost in the soundless 

Retreats of their endless home : 
But soon we shall meet in the boundless 

Effulgence of Kingdom Come. 



Oniarb, £ori) £j)tton. 

Bulwer (whose full name was Edward George Earle 
Lytton Bulwer), afterward Lord Lytlon (1S0.>-1S7:3), one 
of the most versatile and conspicuous English authors 
of his day, was the youngest son of Gen. Bulwer of Hay- 
don Hall, county of Norfolk, who died in 1807. Edward's 
mother was of the ancient family of Lytton ; and on 
her death, in 1843, he succeeded to her valuable estate, 
and took the name of Lytton. He wrote verses at a 
very early age; and his first volume, consisting of boyish 
rhymes, appeared before he was sixteen years old. At 
Cambridge, in 182.5, he carried oil" the chancellor's gold 
medal for the best English poem. In 1S2G appeared an- 
other volume of verse, "Weeds and Wild Flowers;" and 
in 1827 his first novel, " Falkland." He sought and won 
distinction in poetry, the drama, the historical romance, 
domestic novel, ethical essay, and political disquisition. 
His plays, "The Lady of Lyons," "Richelieu," and 
" Money," still hold their place on the stage. His poems 
are contained in three 12mo volumes. In politics he was 
at one time a supporter of extreme radical measures, but 
in 18.53 entered Parliament as a Conservative. His few 
speeches were able and apt. His reputation rests chiefly 
on his novels, which are as various in style as in their 
degrees of excellence. In 1827 he married Miss Wheeler, 
by whom he had a son and daughter. Tlie latter died in 
1848 ; of the former, also a poet, an account will be found 
in our pages. The connection with Miss Wheeler proved 
an unhappy one ; there was a separation ; and she, as 
Lady Bulwer, wrote novels reflecting personally on her 
husband and his mother. 

As a poet, Lytton did not reach "the summit of the 
sacred mount;" but he has done some good work, and 
his reputation is not likely to be ephemeral. Among the 
"Curiosities of Literature" will be reckoned the inter- 
change of sarc.isms between him and Tennyson. In his 
" New Timon" (184.5), a poem partly satirical and partly 
narrative, Lytton had designated the laureate as "School 
Miss Alfred," aud his i)octry was alluded to as 

•'The jinijliug medley of purloined conceits. 
Out-babying Wordsworth nod out-glitterhig Kent*." 

Tennyson gave no babyish blow biiek. He published in 
Punch (1846) some stinging stanzas in reply, from which 
we quote the following: 

" Who killed the girls and thrilled the boys 
With d.indy pathos when you wrote; 
O Lion, you that made a noifie, 
Aud shook a mane en papiihteJi ! 

* * * * « 
"An artist, sir, shnnld rest in art. 

And waive a little of his claim; 
To have the great poetic heart 
Is more than nil poetic fame. 

* * • « « 
" What profits now to nnderPtnnd 

The merits of a spotless nhlrt — 
A dapper boot — a little hand— 
If half the little soul is dirt? 

* • • * * 
"A Timon yon ? Naj', nay, for shame; 

It looks too arrogant a jest — 
That llcrce old man— to take his name. 
Yea bandbox ! 00°, aud let bim rest." 



606 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH JXD AMERICAN FOETIIY. 



Lytton lived to do better tilings tluin he had yet jii-o- 
ducfd ; and Tcunyson no doubt lived to regi-et the ex- 
treme severity of his retort; as we find him dedicatini; 
one of his plays to the younger Lord Lytton, and refer- 
ring in the dedieation, with high resjiect, to the man at 
whom he had so savagely thrust back, and who, in spite 
of the ad'ectations of his younger days, was highly gifted 
as an author. 



CAEADOC, THE BARD TO THE CYMEIANS. 

FnoM " King Arthcr : A Poem in Twelve Books." 
No Cymrian hard, by the primitive law, could be.ir weapous. 

Hark to the measured niarcli ! — The S.ixons come ! 

The sound earth quails beneath the hollow tread ! 
Your fathers rnsbed upou the sword.s of Rome, 

And climbed ber war-ships, when the Ciesar fled! 
The Saxous come! why wait within the wall? 
They scale the mountain : — let its torrents fall! 

Mark, yo have swords, and shields, and armor, ye ! 

No mail defends tbe Cymviau Child of Song ; 
But where the warrior, there the Bard shall be ! 

All fields of glory to the bard belong ! 
His realm extends wherever godlike strife 
Spurns the base death, and wins immortal life. 

Unarmed be goes — bis guard tbe shield of all, 
Where be bounds foremost on tbe Saxon spear ! 

Uuarmed be goes, that, falling, even bis fall 

Shall bring no shame, and shall bequeath no fear: 

Does the song cease ? — avenge it by the deed, 

And make the sepulchre — a nation freed ! 



A SPENDTHRIFT. 
From " Richelieu." 

You have outrun your fortune ; 

I blame you not, that you would be a beggar ; 

Each to bis taste! But I do charge you, sir, 

That, being beggared, you would coin false moneys 

Out of that crucible called Debt. To live 

Oil means not yours ; be brave in silks and Laces, 

Gallant in steeds, splendid in banquets ; all 

Not yours, ungiven, uninherited, unpaid for; 

This is to be a trickster, and to filch 

Men's art and labor, which to them is wealth, 

Life, daily bread ; quitting all scores with, " Friend, 

You're troublesome !" Why this, forgive me. 

Is what, when done with a less dainty grace. 

Plain folks call "T/ie/?.'" You owe eight thousand 

pistoles. 
Minus one crown, two liards! 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

From Heaven what fancy stole 
The dream of some good spirit, aye at hand. 
The seraph whispering to the exile soul 
Tales of its native land? 

Who to the cradle gave 
The unseen watcher by the- mother's side. 
Born with the birth, companion to the grave. 
The holy angel guide ? 

Is it a fable ?— " No," 
I bear Love answer from the sunlit air; 
" Still, where my presence gilds tbe darkness, know 
Life's angel guide is tbere !" 

Is it a fable?— Hark, 
Faith bymus from deeps beyond tbe palest star, 
'■'/ am the pilot to thy wandering bark. 
Thy guide to shores afar." 

Is it a fable ?— Sweet 
From wave, from air, from every forest tree. 
The murmur spoke, '■ Each thing thine eyes can greet 
An angel guide can be ! 

•• From myriads take thy choice ; 
111 all that lives a guide to God is given ; 
Ever thou hear'st some angel guardian's voice 
When Nature speaks of Heaven !" 



TO THE KING. 
From "The Duciiesse de la Valli^re." 

Great thougli thou art, awake thee from the dream 
That eartb was made for kings — mankind for 

slaughter — 
Woman for lust — the People for the Palace! 
Dark warnings have gone ftu-th ; along the air 
Lingers the crash of the first Charles's throne. 
Behold the young, the fair, tbe haughty king, 
The ruling courtiers, and tbe flattering priests ! 
Lo ! where the palace rose, behold the scaffold — 
Tbe crowd — tbe axe — the headsman — and tbe vic- 
tim! 
Lord of tbe Silver Lilies, canst tbou tell 
If tbe same fate await not thy descendant! 
If some meek son of thine imperial line 
May make no brother to yon headless spectre ! 
And when the sage who saddens o'er the end 
Tracks back the causes, tremble, lest ho fiuds 



EDWAHD, LOUD LYTTOX. 



607 



Tlio seeds, tliy waxs, tliy poiiip, and tliy profusion, 
Sowed in a heartless court and breadloss iieople, 
(Jrew to the tree from whicli men sliaped ihe seaf- 

fidd,— 
And the long glare of thy funereal glories 
Light unborn monarchs to a, ghastly grave T 
Uewaro, proinl King! the Present cries aloud, 
A prophet to the fnture I Wake I — beware! 



IS IT AM. VANITY? 

Life answers, '-Xo! If ended here be Kfe, 

Seize what the sense cau give ; it is thine all ; 
iJisarm thee, Virtue! barren is tliy strife; 
Knowloilge, thy torch let fall ! 

■ Si'ck thy lost Psyche, yearning Love, no more! 

Love is Imt Inst, if soul be only breath ; 
Who would put forth one liillow from the slioro 
If the great sea bo — Death?'' 

l!ut if the soul, that 8li>w artificer, 

For ends its instinct rears /rowi life hath striven. 
Keeling beneath its patient web-work stir 
Wings only freed in Heaven, — 

Then, and but then, to toil is to bo wise: 
.'Solved is the riddle of the grand desire 
Which ever, ever for the Distant sighs, 
And must perforce aspire. 

Kise then, my sonl, take comfort from thy sorrow: 
Thou feeVst thy treasure when thou feel'st thy 
load : 
Life without thonglit, tlie day without the morrow, 
t!od on the biiite bestowed; — 

Longings obscure as for a native clime. 

Flight from what is to live in what may be, 
(iod gave the Soul :— thy discontent witli Time 
Proves thine eteruitv. 



INVOCATION TO LOVE. 

FnoM " King ABTnra." 

Hail tbon, the ever yoniig, albeit of night 
And of primeval chaos eldest born ; 

Thou, at whose birth broke forth the Founts of Light, 
And o'er Creation flushed the earliest morn ! 



Life, in thy life, suft'used tbo conscious whole ; 
Aiul formless matter took the harmonious soul. 

Hail, Love ! the Death-dctier ! ago to ago 

Linking, with flowers, in the still heart of man ! 

Dream to the Bard, and marvel to the Sage, 
Glory and mystery since the world Iiegan, 

Shadowing the cradle, brightening at the tomb, 

Soft as our joys, and solemn as our doom ! 

Ghost-liko amid the unfamiliar Past, 

Dim shadows flit along the streams of Time ; 

Vainly our learning tritles with the vast 

L'nknown of ages ! Like the wizard's rhyme 

We call the dead, and from the Tartarus 

'Tis but the dead that rise to answer us ! 

Voiceless and wan, we <juestion tli<iu in vain; 

They leave unsolved earth's mighty yestenlay. 
But wave thy wand — they bloom, they breathe 
again ! 

The liuk is found ! — as wc love, so loved they ! 
Warm to our clasp our human brothers start, 
Man smiles on man. and luart speaks out to heart. 

Arch power, of every power most dread, most sweet, 
Ope at thy touch the far celestial gates ; 

Yet Terror flics with Joy before thy feet, 

And, with the Graces, glide unseen the Fates; 

Eos and Hesperus, — one, with twofold light, 

Briuger of day, and herald of the night! 



EPIGRAMS FROM THE GERMAN. 

TO THE M\"STICS. , 

Life has its mystery; — True, it is that one 
Surrounding all, and yet perceived by none. 

TIIK KEY. 
To know ihijuelf — in others self discern ; 
Wonldst thou know others? read thyself — and learn ! 

MY BELIEF. 
What my religion ? those thou naniest — none T 
None, why f Because I have religion ! 

FniESD AND FOE. 
Dear is my friend — yet from my foe, .is from my 

friend, comes good ; 
My frii'ud shows what I can do, aud my foe shows 

what I ghould. 



608 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



FOIiL'M OF WOMEN. 

Woman — to jiulgo man rightly — do not scan 
Each separate act; — pass jiulgment on the Man! 

SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
Give me that which thou kuow'st — I'll receive and 

attend ; 
But thon giv'st mo thyself — prithee, — spare mo my 

friend ! 

THE PROSELYTE MAKER. 

"A little earth from out the Earth — and I 
The Earth will move;" so spake the Sage divine. 
Out of myself one little moment — try 
Mj-self to take : — succeed, and I am thine ! 

THE CONNECTING MEDIUM. 

What to cement the lofty and the mean 
Does Nature ? — what ? — jilace vanity between ! 

CORRECTNESS. 
The calm correctness, where no fault we see, 
Attests Art's loftiest or its least degree ; 
That ground in common two extremes may claim — 
Strength most consummate, feebleness most tame. 

THE M.\STER. 

The herd of scribes, by what they tell us. 
Show all in which their wits excel us ; 
But the True Master we behold, 
lu what his art leaves — ^jnst untold. 

SCIENCE. 

To some she is the Goddess great, to some the milch- 
cow of the field ; 

fTheir care is but to calculate — what butter she will 
yield. 

K.\NT AND HIS COMMENTATORS. 

How many starvelings one rich man can nouri.sh ! 
When mouarchs build, the rubbish-carriers flourish. 



Soralj JTlomcv ^baiiis. 

Miss Flower (1805-1849), a native of Loudon, was a 
younger daughter of Bcnjamiu Flower, editor of the Cam- 
bridge Intelligencer, and a well-known politician of the 
Liberal school. Sarah was married to AViUiam B. Adams, 
eminent as a civil engineer. Her celebrated hymn, "Near- 
er, my God, to Thee," founded on Jacob's dream, record- 
ed in Genesis, was contributed in 1S41 to a Unitarian col- 
lection of " Hymns and Anthems," edited by William .T. 



Fox, preacher and member of Pailiiiment. Few hymns 
have been so widely popular. It has been adopted by 
all Christian sects, and translated into various languages, 
adapted to the tune of "Bethany." Professor Hitch- 
cock relates that as he and his travelling companions 
rounded their way down the foot-hills of Mount Lebanon 
in 1870, they came in sight of a group of fifty Syrian 
students, who were singing in Arabic this beautiful hymn 
to this familiar tune. Mrs. Adams was also the author 
of a drama in five acts, founded on the martyrdom of 
Vivia Porpetua, and published in ISil ; and of " The Flock 
at the Fountain," designed for children. 



NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE. 

Nearer, my God, to thee — 

Nearer to thee ! 
E'en though it be a cross 

That raiseth me ; 
Still all my song shall be, 
Nearer, mj' God, to thee — • 

Nearer to thee ! 

Though like a wanderer, 

The sun gone down, 
Darkness comes over me, 

My rest a stone ; 
Yet in my dreams I'd be 
Nearer, my God, to thee ! — 

Nearer to thee ! 

There let the way appear 

Steps unto Heaven ; 
All that thou seudest mo 

In mercy given ; 
Angels to beckon rae 
Nearer, my God, to thee— 

Nearer to thee ! 

Then with my waking thoughts, 
Bright with thy praise, 

Out of my stony griefs 
Bethel I'll raise ; 

So by my woes to be. 

Nearer, my God, to thee — 
Nearer to thee ! 

Or if, on joyfnl wing. 

Cleaving the sky. 
Sun, moon, and stars forgot, 

Upward I'll fly- 
Still all my song shall be, 
Nearer, my God, to thee — 

Nearer to thee ! 



S.in.Uf II.OWER ADAMS.— nESIlY GLASSFOIiD BELL. 



609 



THE WORLD MAY CHANGE. 

A PAnArilRASE FROM SCUILLEK. 

The world may oliaugp fioiii (iM ti> new, 

From uew to old again ; 
Yet hope and bcavcii, forever tnic 

Within man's lioart remain. 
The dreams that hle.ss tlio weary soul. 

The strn-jgU's of the strong, 
Are step.s toward some happy goal, 

Tlio story of Hope's song. 

Hope leads the child to plant the flower, 

Tlie man to sow the seed; 
Xor leaves fnlfdment to her hour, 

lint prompts again to deed. 
.A.nd ere npon the old man's dnst 

The grass in seen to wave, 
AVe look tlirough fallen tears, — to trust 

Hope's sunshine on the grave. 

Oh no I it is no flattering hue, 

No fancy, weak or fond, 
When hope would bid us rest secure 

In better life beyond : 
Niir loss nor shame, nor grief nor sin, 

Her promise may gainsay ; 
The voice Divine hath spidie within. 

And God did ne'er betray. 



THY WILL, NOT MINE. 

He Rcndeth sun, he sendcth shower, 
Alike they're needful to the flower ; 
And joys and tears alike are sent 
To give the soul fit nourishment. 
As comes to me, or cloud or sun. 
Father! thy will, not uiiue, be done. 

Can loving children e'er reprove 

With murnnirs, whom they trust and love? 

Creator! I would ever bo 

A trusting, loving child to thee: 

As comes to me, or cloud or sun, 

Father! thy will, not mine, be done. 

Oh! ne"er will I at life repine — 
Enough that thou hast made it mine. 
Where falls the shadow cidd of death, 
I yet will sing wilh parting breath. 
As comes to me, or shade or sun. 
Father! thy will, not mine, be done. 
30 



i^enxn ©lassforb Dell. 

Bell (1805-1874) was a native of Glasgow, and edu- 
cated at the University of Ertinbuigli. After leaving 
college he wrote a "Memoir of Mary Queen of Scots," 
which passed through several editions. He edited the 
EiliiiOiiiy/i Literary Journal for three years. In 1S53 he 
was admitted to the Bar, became quite eminent as a law- 
yer, and in 1807 succeeded Sir Archibald Alison as Sher- 
iCfof Lanarkshire. His first volume of poems appeared 
h) 18;!1 ; his last in 1865, with the title of "Koniances, 
and other Minor Poems." Highly esteemed by all who 
knew him, "he had," says one of his biographers, "al- 
most the innocence of a child with the fortitude of a 
sage." 



FROM "THE END." 

Dear friend, is all we see a dream ? 

Docs this brief glimpse of time and space 
Exli.inst the aims, fullil the scheme 

Intended for the human race ? 

Shall even the .star-exploring mind, 
Which thrills with spiritual desire, 

I5e, like a breath of summer wind. 
Absorbed in sunshine and expire? 

Or will what men call death restore 

The living myriads of the past f 
Is dying but to go before 

The myriads who will come at last f 

If not, whence sprang the thought, and whence 

Perception of a Power divine, 
Who symbols forth Omnipotence 

In flowers that bloom, in suns that shine f 

'TIs not these fleshly limbs that think, 
'Tis not these filmy eyes that see ; 

Though mind and matter break the link, 
Mind does not therefore cease to be. 

Such end is but an end in Jiart, 
Such death is but the body's goal ; 

IJlood makes the pulses of the heart, 
But not the emotions of the soul. 



CADZOW. 

The birds are singing by Avon Bridge, 
The sky is blue o'er Chafebrault, 

And all through Cadzow's wooded glades 
The softest airs of summer blow. 



610 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BIIITISH AND AMESICAN POETRY. 



O birds that siug by Avon Bridge, 

Why shoukT your notes so richly flow ? 
O traiuiuil sliy of cloudless blue, 

Why shine so bright o'er Chatebrault ? 

O Avon ! rolling gently down, 

Why keep'st thou that old tuneful tone ? 
Where is the voice so soft and low 

Whose music echoed back thy own ? 

O Cadzow ! why this rustling ijouip 
Of leafy boughs that ■wave so high ? 

Where is the light that gleamed through all 
Thy shadowy paths iu days gone by '? 

O Slimmer airs ! vrhy thus recall 

The sweeter breath, that seemed to briug 

The balmy dews of summer skies, 
And all the roses of the spriug! 



©covcjc lllasl)iugton I3dl)unc. 



Dr. Bothnne (1805-1803), an eloquent pulpit orator of 
the Dutch Church, was a native of the city of New York. 
Graduatiug at Dickinson College iu the class of 1833, lie 
studied theology at Princeton, and preached successively 
at Rhiucbeck, Utica, Philadelphia, and Brooklyn, lie 
published iu 1848 " Lays of Love and Faith." 



IT IS NOT DEATH TO DIE. 

It is not death to die, to leave this ■weary road. 
And 'mid the brotherhood on high to be at home 

with God. 
It is not death to close the eye long dimmed by tears, 
And wake iu glorious repose to spend eternal years. 
It is not death to bear the •wrench that sets us free 
From prison-bars, to breathe the air of boundless lib- 
erty. 
It is not death to fling aside this sinful dust. 
And rise on strong, exultant wiug to live among tbe 

just. 
Jesus, thou prince of life ! thy chosen cannot die ; 
Like thee they conquer in the strife to live -with thee 
on high. 



And trust them, gentle reader, to thy grace ; 
Nor hope that iu luy pages thou wilt trace 
The brilliant proof of high poetic powers ; 
But dear memorials of niy happy days. 
When heaven shed blessings on my head like show- 
ers ; 
Clothing with beauty even the desert place ; 
Till I, ■n'ith thankful gladue-ss in my looks. 
Turned me to God, sweet nature, loving friends, 
Christ's little children, well-worn ancient books, 
The charm of art, the rapture music sends, — 
And sang away the grief that on man's lot attends. 



iJoljit Crbmuni) Ucalie. 

Rcade (1805-1870) was a native of England. His first 
volume, " The Broken Heart, and other Poems,"' appear- 
ed in 183.5. A diligent, if not a distinguished, writer, he 
published four collective editions of his poetical works 
(1851-1805). He also wrote several novels. His de- 
scription of the Colosseum, though suggestive of By- 
ron's " Childe Harold," is graphic and vigorous, showing 
no inconsiderable degree of original power. 



SONNET, INTRODUCING " LAYS," ETC. 

As one arranges in a single vase 

A little store of unpretending flowers, 

So gathered I some record of past hours, 



THE COLOSSEUM. 

From '' Italt : A Poem." 

Ilark ! the night's slumberous air is musical 
With the low carolling of birds, that seem 
To hold here au enduring festival : 
How do their notes and nature's flowers redeem 
The place from stained pollution ! if the stream 
And reek of blood gushed forth from man and 

beast. 
If, Cain-like, brethren gjoated o'er the steam 
Of immolation as a welcome feast. 
Ages have cleansed the guilt, the unnatural strife 

hath ceased. 

Along its shattered edges on a sky 
Of azure, sharjily, delicately traced. 
The light bird flits o'er flowers that wave from 

high, 
Wliere human foot shall nevermore be based : 
Grass mantles the arena 'mid defaced 
And broken columns freshly, wildly spread ; 
And through the hollow windows once so graced 
With glittering eyes, faint stars their twinklings 
shed. 
Lighting as if with life those sockets of the dead! 

So stretches that Titanic skeleton : 
Its shattered aud euormous circle rent, 



ROBERT T. COXRAD.— SAMUEL FERGVSOX. 



01 1 



And yawning open, arch and covering gone ; 
As the linge cratei-'a sides bang iminiucut 
Round the volcano whose last flames are spent, 
Whoso sounds shall nevernioro to heaven aspire. 
So frowns that stern and desolate mouument ; 
A stage in ruin, an exhausted pyre, 
Tbo actors passed to dust, forever quencbed tbe fire ! 



Uobcrt if. (Hoiual). 

AMERICAN. 

Conrad (1805-1858) was a native of Pliiladelphia. Quite 
early in life he manifested strong literary tastes. He 
studied for the Bar, became an acconiplislicd pleader, was 
made Judi;e of the Court of General Sessions in 1S40, and 
Mayor of the city in 18.">4. He was the author of two 
tragedies, "Conrad of Naples" and "Aylmere," the lat- 
ter written for Forrest, and produced on the stage with 
success. An edition of Conrad's poetical and dramatic 
writings was published (1853) in Phil.idclphia. 



FROM "MY ]iI{OTHi;K." 

Forever gone I I am alone — alone! 

Yet my heart doubts; to mo thou livcst yet: 
Love's lingering twilight o'er my soul is thrown ; 

E'en when tbe orb that lent that light is set. 
Thou niinglest with my hopes — does Hope forget? 

I think of thee as thou wert at my side; 
I grieve, and whisper — "He too will regret;" 
I doubt and ponder — " How will he decide t" 
I strive, but 'tis to win thy praises aud thy pride. 

For I tliy praise could Avin — thy praise sincere. 
How lov'dst tbou me, with more than woman's 
love ! 
And tbou to me wast e'en as honor dear! 
Xafure in one fond woof our spirits wove; 
I^ike wedded vines enclasping iu the grove 
\Vo grew. Ah! withered now the fairer vino! 

But from the living who tbe dead can move? 
Blending their sero and green leaves, there they 

twine, 
And will, till dust to dust shall mingle mine with 
thine. 

Tbe suushine of our boyhood! I bethink 

How wo were wont to beat tho briery wood ; 

Or clamber, boastful, up tbo craggy brink, 

Wlitrc tlie rent mountain frow ns upon tho flood 
That tlirids that vale of beauty and of blood, 

Sad Wyoming I The whispering past will tell. 
How by the silver-browed cascade we stood, 



And watched tbe sunlit waters as they fell [dell, 
(So youth drops in tho grave) down iu the shadowy 

And how we plunged in Lackawanna's wave ; 

The wild fowl startled, when to echo gay. 
In that bushed dell, glad laugh and shout we gave! 

Or on tho shaded hill-side how we lay 

And watched the bright rack on its beamy way. 
Dreaming high dreams of glory aud of pride ; 

What heroes we, iu free<lom's deadliest fray I 
How poured we gladly forth life's ruddy tide. 
Looked to our skyey flag, and shouted, smiled, ami 
died! 

Bright dreams — forever p.isti I dream no more' 

Memory is now my being: her sweet tone 
Can, like a spirit-spell, the lost restore — 

My tried, my true, my bravo, brigbt-tboughtcd 
one! 

Few have a friend — and such a friend! But none 
Have, iu this bleak world, more than one; aud be. 

Ever mine own, mine only — he is gone I 
Ho fell — as hope bad promised — for tho free: 
Our early dream, — al.as ! it was no dream to thee! 



Samuel f'criiiusoii. 

A native of Belfast, Ireland, Ferguson was born in 180.5. 
He was a contributor to lilackwooil's 3Ioga:inc and the 
Dublin Vniversity Mar/azine. An edition of his collected 
wrilimrs was published in 18C5 ; and in 18S0 appeared 
" Poems by Hir Samuel Ferguson ;" he having been 
knighted. 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 

Come, see tho Dolphin's Anchor fcu'gcd ; 'tis at .'i 
white-beat now ; 

Tho billows ceased, tho fl:inies decreased ; thongh 
on tbo forge's brow 

Tbe little flames still litfully play tbrongb tho 8,a- 
blo mound; 

And fltfully you still may see tbe grim smiths rank- 
ing round, 

All clad in leathern panoply, their bro.-wl bands only 
bare ; 

Some rest upon their sledges here, some work tho 
windlass there. 

The windlass strains tho tackle chains, tbe black 
monnd heaves below, 

And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at ev- 
er v throe ; 



612 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH J2\^D AMERICAN POETRY. 



It rises, roars, reuds all outriglit — O Vulcan, wLat 
a glow ! 

'Tis Uiuding white, 'tis blasting bright, the high suu 
shines not so ! 

The higli snn sees not, on the earth, such tiery fear- 
ful show ; 

The roof-ribs swarth, the candeut lieartli, the ruddy 
lurid row 

or smiths that stand, an ardent band, lilce nicu be- 
fore the foe ; 

As quivering through his fleece of flame tlie sail- 
ing monster slow 

Sinks ou the anvil — all about the faces liery grow — 

" Hurrah !" they shout ; " leap out — leap out :" bang, 
bang, the sledges go; 

Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and 
low ; 

A hailing fount of lire is struck at every squash- 
ing blow : 

The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling 
cinders strow 

The ground around; at every bound the swelter- 
ing fountains flow, 

And thick and loud the swiuking crowd, at every 
stroke, pant " Ho !" 

Leap out, leap out, my masters: leap ont and lay 
ou load I 

Let's forge a goodly Anchor, a bower thick and 
broad ; 

For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode. 

And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous 
road ; 

The low reef roaring on her Ice, the roll of ocean 
poured 

From stem to stern, sea after sea, the main-mast by 
the board ; 

Tlio bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove 
at the chains ! 

But courage still, brave mariners, the bower still 
remains, 

And not au inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye 
liitch sky high, 

Then moves his head, as though he said, " Fear noth- 
ing — here am 1 1" 

Swing in yonr strokes in order, let foot and hand 
keep time, 

Your blows make music sweeter far than any stee- 
ple's chime! 

But while ye swing yonr sledges, sing; and let the 
bnrdeu be, 

"The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal crafts- 
men we;" 



Strike in, strike in, the sparks begin to dull their 

rnstling red! 
Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will 

soon be sped ; 
Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiei\y rich 

array. 
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy 

couch of clay ; 
Our anchor soou nnist change the lay of merry 

craftsmen here. 
For the Yo-heave-o, and the Heave-away, and the 

sighing seaman's cheer; 
When weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from 

love and home. 
And .sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the 

ocean foam. 

In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down .at last, 
A shapely one he is and strong as e'er from cat was 

cast. 
O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life 

like me, 
What pleasures would thj' toils reward beneath the 

deep green sea! 
O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights 

as thou ? 
The hoary monsters' palaces ! methinks what joy 

'twere now 
To go plump plunging down amid the assembly of 

the whales. 
And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath 

their scourging tails! 
Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce .sea- 

nnicorn, 
And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his 

ivory horn ; 
To leave the subtle s worder-fish,of bony blade forlorn , 
And for the ghastly -grinning shark, to laugh his 

jaws to scorn ; 
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid 

Norwegian isles 
He lies, a lubber anchorage, for sudden shallowed 

miles ; 
Till snorting, like an nnder-sea volcano, off he rolls; 
Meanwhile to swing, a buffeting the far-astonished 

shoals 
Of his back-browsing ocean calves; or haply in a 

cove, 
Shell-strown, and eonsecr.ate of old to .some Undine's 

love, 
To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, h.ard by- 
icy lands, 
To wrestle with the sea-serpent npon cerulean sands. 



WILLIAM BOWAS HAMILTOX. — WILLIAM PAItSOXS LUXT. 



613 



O broatl-armeil Fisher of the deep, whose sports cau 

iM|u;il thine ? 
Tlic Dolphin weighs ;v thou.saiitl tons tliat tngs tliy 

cable line : 
Anil night liy night 'tis thy ileliglit, tliy g'oO' 'l^'J" 

by day, 
Through sable sea aud bleaker white, the giant 

game to phiy ; — 
l!ut, shaniir of our little sports! forgive the name 

I gave, 
.V fisher's joy is to destroy, — thine oflice is to save. 

O lodger in the sea-kings' halls, conldst thou but 

understand 
Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that 

dripping band, 
Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about 

thee bend. 
With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their 

aneient friend — 
Oh, conldst thou know what hi'roes glide with larger 

steps round thee, 
Thiue iron side would swell with pride, thou'dst 

leap within the sea 1 

(live honor to their memories who left the pleasant 
strand. 

To shed their blood so freely for the love of Fa- 
therland- - 

Who left their elianee of quiet age and gra.ssy ehnreh- 
yard grave 

So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave — 

Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly 
sung, 

Honor him for their memory, whoso bones ho goes 
among I 

lUilliixm Uoiuan Hamilton. 

Hamilton (1805-186.5), Astronomer Royal of Dublin, 
was also a poet. George Tieknor(Boston, U. S. A., 1701- 
1H71), in bis "Life, Letters, etc." (1870), speaks of tlic 
following sonnet a? "one of the finest m the English 
language.'' Wordsworth once said to Mr. Aubrey dc 
V'ere : "I have known many that might be called very 
clever men, and a good many of real and vigorous abililies, 
but few ofgenius; and only one whom I should call mm- 
derfid. That one was Coleridge. * » » Tlic only man like 
Coleridge whom I have known is Sir William Hamilton, 
Astronomer Royal of Dublin." 

A PRAYER. 

O brooding Spirit of Wisdom and of Love, 
Whose mighty wings even now o'ershaduw me. 



Absorb me iu thine owu immensity. 

And raise me far my finite self above ! 

Purge vanity away, aud the weak eare 

That name or fame of mo may widely spread ; 

Aud the deep wish keep burning in their stead. 

Thy blissful iuflucuce afar to bear, — 

Or see it borne! Let no desire of ea.se, 

Xo lack of courage, faith, or love, delay 

Mine OH 11 steps on that high thought-paven way 

111 n hieh my soul her clear commission sees : 

Yet with au equal joy let me behold 

Thy chariot o'er that way by others rolled ! 



TO ADAMS, 

DISCOVERER OF THE PLANET NEPTUNE. 

Wheu Vulcau cleft the laboring hraiu of Jove 
With his keen axe, and set Minerva free, 
I The uiiiuiprisoned maid, cxiiltingly. 
Bounded aloft, and to the Heaven above 
Turned her clear eyes, while the grim workman 

strove 
To claim the virgin Wisdom for his fee, 
Ilis pi-ivate wealth, his projierty to be. 
And hide iu Lemniau cave her light of love. 
If .some new truth, oh friend, thy toil discover, 
If thine eyes first by some fair form be blessed, 
Love it for what it is, and as a lover 
Gaze, or with joy receive thine honored guest : 
The new-found Thought, set free, aw hile may hover 
Gratefully uear thee, but it cannot rest. 



lllilliam (Jdrsoiis Cunt. 

AMERICAN. 

Lunt was born at Newburyport, Mass., in 180.'), and died 
at Akbar, in Arabia Pctra^a, March 20lh, 18.57. He was 
graduated at Harvard College in Vi'HA \ studied law for a 
time, then divinity. He olBeiated in 1828 as pastor of the 
Second UnilJirian Church in New York, but in ISio took 
charge of the eliuixh iu Quincy, Mass., and retained it 
up to the time of his death. His writings, both in prose 
and verse, give evidence of a clear, highly cultivated in- 
tellect and of an emotional nature, quick to sympathize 
w ith the good, beautiful, and true. 



TIIK AMERICAN FLAG. 

Flag of my country ! in thy fohls 

Are wrapped the treasures of the heart; 

AVhere'er that waving sheet is fanned 

By breezes of tin- sea or laiul. 
It bids the life-blood start. 



614 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



It is not that amoug tlioso stars 

The fiery crest of Mars shines out ; 
It is not that on liattle-ijUiin, 
'Mid heaps of harnessed warriors slain, 
It flaps triumphant o'er the rout. 

Short-lived the joy that conquest yields ; 

Flushed victory is bathed in tears; 
The burden of that bloody fame 
Which shouting myriads proclaim 

Sounds sad to widowed cars 

Thou hast a deeper, stronger hold, 
Flag of my country! ou the heart, 

Than when o'er mustered hosts unfurled. 

Thou art a signal to the world, 
At which the nations start. 

Thou art a symbol of the power 

Whose sheltering wings our homes surround ; 
Guarded by thee was childhood's morn. 
And where thy cheering folds are borne, 

Order and Peace are found. 

Flag of our mighty Union, hail! 

Blessings abound where thou dost float ; 
Best robe for living Freedom's form. 
Fit pall to spread upon her tomb. 

Should Heaven to death devote. 

Wave over us in glory still. 

And be our guardian as now ! 
Each wind of heaven salute thy streaks! 
And withered be the arm that seeks 

To bring that banner low ! 



lUilliam floni) (!?an-isou. 



Garrison was born in Ncwburyport, Mass., December 
lOtli, 1805, and died in the city of New York, May liitli, 
1879. His mother was a woman of rare good sense and 
strong religious convictions. The family were poor, and 
William had few advantages. He began early to leara 
the trade of a shoemaker, but left it for the printing- 
office. This led to his becoming associated in an edi- 
torial capacity with various journals. In 18:29 he joined 
Benjamin Lundy in starling The Ge/mis of Uidpcrsal Eiuaii- 
clpatioH in Baltimore, and was imprisoned some thirty 
days for his attacks on the slave system. In 1831 appear- 
ed the Liberator, published in Boston. Tlicnceforward 
he devoted himself strenuously to the eradication of 
slavery from the land. Political developments, attended 
by the estrangement of the South, gradually led to the 



conflict which ended in the fulfilment of his life-long en- 
deavors. Two of the subjoined sonnets were traced in 
pencil on the walls of the cell where he was imprisoned. 
He published a volume of ninety-six pages in 1843, enti- 
tled "Sonnets, and other Poems." 



THE GUILTLESS PRISONER. 

Prisoner! within the.se gloomy walls close pent, 
Guiltle.ss of horrid crime or venal wrong — 
Bear nobly up against thy punishment. 
And in thy innocence be great and strong! 
Perchance thy fault was love to all mankind ; 
Thou didst oppose some vile, oppre-ssive law. 
Or strive all human fetters to unbind ; 
Or wouldst not bear the implements of war : 
What then? Dost thou so soon repent the deed? 
A martyr's crown is richer than a king's! 
Think it an honor with thy Lord to bleed, 
And glory 'mid iutensest sutferings ! 
Though beat, imprisoned, put to open shame, 
Time shall embalm and magnify thy name ! 



FREEDOM OF THE MIND. 

High walls and huge the body may confine, 
Aud iron grates obstruct the prisoner's gaze, 
And massive bolts may baffle his design, 
And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways ; 
Yet scorns the immortal mind this base control! 
No chaius cau bind it, and no cell euclo.se : 
Swifter than light it flies from pole to pole, 
And in a fla.sh from earth to heaven it goes! 
It leaps from mount to mount — from vale to vale 
It waiiders, plucking honeyed fruits aud flowers ; 
It visits home, to hear the fireside tale, — 
Or in sweet converse pass the joyous hours; 
'Tis up before the sun. roaming afar, 
And in its watches wearies every star! 



TO BENJAMIN LUNDY. 

Self-tangbt, unaided, poor, reviled, contemned, 

Beset with enemies, by friends betrayed; 

As madman aud fanatic oft coudemned, 

Yet in thy noble canse still undismayed ; 

Leonidas could not thy courage boast ; 

Less numerous were his foes, his band more strong; 

Alone unto a more than Persian host. 

Thou hast undauntedly given battle long. 

Nor shalt thou singly wage the uneriual strife ; 



WILLIAM LLOYD GABKISOK.— FREDERIC HENRY HEDGE. 



C15 



Uuto tby aid, with spear and shield, I rush, 

And freely do I ofter up my lil'e, 

Aud liid uiy heart '.s-Mocid liiid a wound to gusu ! 

New volunteers are trooping to the Held; 

To dio we aro prepared, but not an inch to yield. 



SOXXET. 

How shall my lovo to God be clearest shown I 
He nothing needs of all that I possess; 
Xothiug it costs lip homage to express. 
In sackcloth and in ashes to lie prone, 
Sin in the abstract loudly to bemoan ! 
Easy it is religion to profess, 
Aud praise aud magnify Christ's righteousness ; 
Tor this requires but empty breath alone. 
l}y cleaving to the truth when under ban, 
Striving to break Oppression's iron rod, 
Bearing the cross where freedom leads the van, 
Shunning no path by failliful niartyra trod, 
And loving as myself my fellow-man, — 
Thus clearest shall I show my love to God. 



i^rcbcric Cjcmii C)cl>cic. 

AMERICAN. 

Hedge was born in Cambridge, Mass., in 1.S0.T — the sou 
of Levi Hedge, teacher of Logie,cte.,at Harvard College. 
In 181S he accompanied George Bancroft to Germany, 
and studied tlicre for some time. Returning to America, 
lie graduated at Harvard in 18i5, and studied for the min- 
istry. In 1S.56 he took cliarge of the parish in Brookline, 
Mass. ; but in 1873 removed to Cambridge, and was ap- 
pointed Professor of German Literature. Dr. Hedge has 
been a voluminous author, has published various trans- 
lations from the German, and written some excellent 
liyrans. 



THE CRUCIFIXIOX. 

'Twas the day when Goil's Anointed 
Died for us the death aiipointed. 

Bleeding on the guilty cross; 
Day of darkness, day of terror. 
Deadly fruit of ancient error, 

Nature's fall, and Eden's loss. 

Haste, prepare the bitter chalice! 
Gentile hate and Jewish malice 

Lift the royal victim high — 
Like the serpent, wonder-gifted, 
Which the Prophet once uplifted— 

For a sinful world to die. 



Con.scious of the deed unholy. 
Nature's pulses beat more slowly. 

And the sun his light denied ; 
Darkness wrapped the sacred city, 
AikI the earth with fear and pity 

Trembled when the Just One died. 

It is finished, Man of sorrows! 
From thy cross our nature borrows 

Streugth to bear aud conquer thus. 
While exalted there we view thee, 
Mighty suft'erer, draw us to thee, 

Sufferer victorious ! 

Not in vain for us uplifted, 
Man of sorrows, wonder-gifted ! 

May that sacred symbol be. 
Eminent amid the ages, 
Guide of heroes and of sages, 

May it guide us still to thee! 

Still to thee, whoso love unbounded 
Sorrow's deep for us has sounded. 

Perfected by sorrows sore. 
Glory to thy cro.ss forever! 
Star that points onr high endeavor 

Whither thou hast gone before. 



QL'ESTIOXIXGS. 

Hath this world without me wrought 

Other substance than my thought T 

Lives it by my sense alone, 

Or by essence of its own f 

Will its life, with mine begun, 

Cease to bo when tliat is done. 

Or another consciousness 

With the self-same forms impress f 

Doth yon fire-ball, poi.sed in air, 
Hang by my permission there f 
Are the clouds that wander by 
But the offspring of mine rye. 
Born with every glance I cast. 
Perishing when that is past ? 
And those thousand, thousand eyes. 
Scattered through the twinkling skies. 
Do they draw their life from mine. 
Or of their own beauty shine f 

Now I close my eyes, my ears. 
And creation disappears; 



616 



CYCLOPJSDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN FOETRT. 



Yet if I but speak the word, 

All creation is restored. 

Or — more wonderful — within, 

New creations do begin ; 

Hues more bright and forms more rare 

Thau reality doth wear, 

Flash across my inward sense, 

]5orn of the mind's omnii)oteuee. 

Soul! that all informest, say ! 
Shall these glories pass away 1 
Will those jilanets cease to blaze 
Wheu these eyes no longer gaze ? 
And the life of things be o'er, 
When these pulses beat no more ? 

Thought ! that in mc works and lives, — 

Life to all things living gives, — 

Art thou not thyself, perchance. 

But the universe in trance? 

A reflection iuly flung 

By that world thou fauciedst sprung 

From thyself, — thyself a dream, — 

Of the world's thinking, thou the theme ? 

Be it thus, or be thy birth 

From a source above the earth, — 

Be thou matter, be thou mind, 

In thee alone myself I find. 

And through thee alone, for me. 

Hath this world reality. 

Therefore, in thee will I live. 

To thee all my.self will give, 

Losing still, that I may find 

This bounded self in boundless mind. 



JTvcbcricli iJcnniison. 

Born about the year 1806, and cducatcil at Trinity Col- 
lege, Cambridge, Frederick was the eldest of the three 
Tennyson brothers, all of whom seem to have been gen- 
uine poets. In his religious views he is an outspoken 
Spiritualist, with a leaning to Swedenborg's teachings. 



THE BLACKBIRD. 

How sweet the harmonies of afternoon ! 

The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze 
His ancient song of leaves, and summer boon ; 

Rich breath of hay-fields streams through whis- 
pering trees ; 
And birds of morning trim their bustling wings, 
.\nd listen fondly — while the Blackbird sings. 



How soft the lovelight of the West reposes 
On this green valley's cheery solitude. 

On the trim cottage with its screen of roses, 
On the gray belfry with its ivy hood. 

And murmuring mill-r.ace, and the wheel that flings 

Its bubbling freshness — while the Blackbird sings. 

The very dial on the village church 

Seems as 'twere dreaming in a dozy rest; 

The scribbled benches underneath the porch 
Bask in the kindly welcome of the West: 

But the broad casements of the old Three Kings 

Blaze like a furnace — whila the Blackbird sings. 

And there beneath the immemorial elm 
Three rosy revellers ronnd a table sit. 

And through gray clouds give laws unto the realm, 
Curse good and great, but worship their own wit. 

And roar of fights, and fairs, and junketings. 

Corn, colts, and curs — the while the Blackbird 
sing's. 

Before her home, in her accustomed seat, 
The tidy grandam spins beneath the shade 

Of the old honeysuckle, — at her feet 

The dreaming pug, and purring t.abby laid ; 

To her low chair a little maiden clings. 

And spells in silence — while the Blackbird sings. 

Sometimes the .shadow of .i lazy cloud 

Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gardens green. 

While the far fields, with sunlight overflowed. 
Like golden shore.s of Fairy-land are seen ; 

Agaiu the sunshine on the .shadow springs. 

And fires the thicket — where the Blackbird sings. 

The woods, the lawn, the peaked manor-house, 
With its peach-covered walls, and rookery loud. 

The trim, quaint garden-alleys, screened with boughs. 
The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud. 

The mossy fountain with its murmurings. 

Lie in warm sunshine — while the Blackbird sings. 

The ring of silver voices, and the sheen 
Of festal garments — and my lady streams 

With her gay court across the garden green; 
Some laugh and dauce, some whisper their love- 
dreams. 

And one calls for a little page ; he strings 

Her lute beside her — while the Blackbird sings. 

A little while — and lo! the charm is heard; 

A youth, who.se life has been all summer, steals 



FREDERICK TEXNl'SOX.— CHARLES FEXXO HOFFMAN. 



Gi: 



Forth from the noisy guests around the board, 

Creeps liy her softly; at her t'ootstool kneels; 
And, when she pauses, nuinniirs tender things 
Into her fond car — while the lilaekhird sings. 

The smoke- wreatlisfrom the chimneys curl uphighcr, 
And dizzy thinijs of evu be^in to tJoat 

Upon the lij;lit; the breeze begins to tire. 
Half-way to sunset, with a drowsy note, 

The ancient. clock from out the valley swings; 

The grandani nods — and still the Blackbird sings. 

Far shonts and langliter from the farni-jtead peal. 
Where the great stack is piling in the sun; 

Through narrow gates o'crladen wagons reel, 
And barking curs into the tumult run ; 

While the inconstant wind hears off. and brings 

The merry tempest — and the Blackbird sings. 

On the high wold the last look of the sun 
Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream ; 

Tlie shouts have ceased, the laughter and the fun ; 
The grandam sleeps, and peaceful be her dreams! 

Only a hammer on an anvil rings; 

The day is dying — still the lilackbird sings. 

Xow the good vicar passes from his gate, 

Serene, with long white hair; and iu his eyo 

r.urns the clear spirit that has conquered Fate, 
And felt the wings of immortality; 

His heart is thronged with great imaginings, 

Ami tender mercies — while the Blackbird sings. 

Down by the brook he bends his steps, and through 
A lowly wicket ; and at last; he slamls 

Awful besidi! the bed of one who grew 

From boyhood with him, — who, with lifted bauds 

.Vnd eyes, seems listouiug to far welcomiugs 

.\nd sweeter innsic — than tln^ Blackbird sings. 

Two golden stars, like tokens fnun the blessed. 
Strike on his dim orl)S from the sc^tting snu ; 

His sinking hands seem pointing to the West; 
He smiles as though he said, " Thy will be done !" 

His eyes, they see not those illDminings; 

His cars, they hear not — what the Blackbird sings. 



SONNET. 

"Tis not for golden eloquence I prav, 

A godlike t(Miguo to move a stony heart: 

Metbiuks it were full well to be apart 



In solitary uplands far away, 
Between the blossoms of a rosy spray. 
Dreaming upon the wonderful sweet face 
Of Nature in a wild and pathless place. 
And if it chanced that I did once array, 
III words of magic woven curiously, 
All the deep gladness of a summer's morn. 
Or rays of evening that light up the lea 
On dewy days of spring, or shadows borne 
Across the forehead of an autumn noon, — 
Then would I die and ask uo better boon. 



(Uljarlcs -fcnno tjoffiuan. 

AMERICAN. 

IIolTman was born in the city of New York in ISOC. 
While yet a boy, as he was sitting carelessly at the end 
of a pier on the Hudson, a steamboat drew up and crush- 
ed one of his legs, so that he had to have it amputated. 
Tlicnccfoi-ward he had to go witli a wooden leg. This 
did not prevent his making an adventurous journey on 
horseback tlirougli the Xorthwestern States to the Mis- 
sissippi in 18:33. He published, on his return, a griipliie 
account of his adventures iu a volume, cntillcd " A Win- 
ter in the West.'' Educated at Columbia College, Hoff- 
man tried the law, but drifted into literature, and edited 
the Knickcrbocl;rr Magazine for a year or two. Brviint 
has truly said of him; "His kindly and generous temper 
and genial manners won the altachmciit of all who kia-w 
Iriin. His poems bear the impress of his uohic clianic- 
ter." HofTmim became insane, and passed the last quar- 
ter of his life in an asylum. 



WONTEKEY. 

" Ponils i(ii, brave Crilloti ! Nona flvons combattD, et tn n'y 
ctois pa?."— /.cWre dc Henri IV. d Criilon. 

Wo were not many, we who stood 

Before the iron steel that day — 
Yet many a gallant spirit would 
Give half his years if he then could 

Have becu with us at Monterey. 

Now here, now there, the shot, it hailed 

In deadly drifts of fiery spray. 
Yet not a single soldier quailed 
When W(mnded comrades round them wailed 

Their dying shout at Monterey. 

And on — still on our column kept 

Through walls of flame its withering way ; 
Where fell the dead, the living stepped. 
Still charging on the guns that swept 
The slippery streets of Monterey. 



618 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BHITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Tbe foo hiiuself recoiled agliast, 

■\Vlieii, striking -where he strongest lay, 
We swooped his flanking batteries i>ast, 
And, braving full their murderous blast, 
Stormed home the towers of Monterey. 

Onr banners ou those turrets wave. 

And there our evening bugles jday ; 
Where orange boughs above their grave 
Keep green the memory of the brave 
Who fought and fell at Monterey. 

We are not many — we who jiressed 

Beside the brave who fell that day ; 
But who of us has not confessed 
He'd rather share their warrior rest. 
Than not have been at Monterey? 



lUilliam (!?ilmorc SiinmG. 

AMERICAN. 

Simms (180C-1S70) was a native of Charleston, S. C, 
and resided there most of his life, with the exception of 
occasional visits to New York, where he was well known 
in literary circles. He wrote numerous novels, the most 
successful of which was "The Yemassee." His princi- 
pal poems are "Atlantis," "Lays of the Palmetto," and 
"Songs and Ballads of the South." Simms was a pro- 
lific writer, and as he wrote for an immediate support, 
he had little time to blot. A list of some sixty volumes 
from his pen may be found in Appleton's "Cyclopedia." 
As a man lie was thoroughly estimable. His collected 
poems, in two volumes, were published by Redfield, New 
York, 1853. In 1839 he had purchased an iuterest iu a 
newspaper ; but this proved a losing venture, as the doc- 
trine of nuUifleation was then iu the ascendant, and he 
was a strenuous advocate for the niaiutcuauce of tliu 
Union. His education was limited. 



THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING. 

O! thou bright and beautiful day, 
First bright day of tlie virgin spring, 

Bringing the slumbering life into play, 
Giving the leaping bird bis wing! 

Thou art round me now iu all thy hues, 
Thy robe of green, and thy scented sweets. 

In thy bursting buds, iu thy blessing dews, 
In every form that my footstep meets. 

I hear thy voice in the lark's clear note, 
Iu the cricket's eliirp at tlio evening hour. 



In the zephyr's sighs that around mo float, 
In the breathing bud and the opeuing flower. 

I see tliy forms o'er the parting earth. 
In the tender shoots of the grassy blade. 

In the thousand plants that spring to birth. 
On the valley's side in the home of shade. 

I feel thy promise in all ray veins. 

They bound with a feeling long suppressed. 

And, like a captive who breaks his chains. 
Leap the glad hopes in my heaving breast. 

There are life and joy in thy coming. Spring ! 

Thou hast no tidings of gloom and death ; 
But buds thou shakest from every wing, 

And sweets thou breathest with every breath. 



FREEDOM OF THE SABBATH. 

Let us escape! This is our holiday — 

God's day, devote to rest ; and, through the wood 

We'll wander, and, perchance, find heavenly food: 

So, proiitless, it shall not pass away. 

'Tis life, but with sweet difierence, methinks, 

Here iu the forest; — from the crowd set free, 

The spirit, like escaping song-bird, drinks 

Fresh sense of music from its liberty. 

Thoughts crowd about ns with the trees: the shade 

Holds teachers that await us : iu onr ear, 

Unwonted but sweet voices do we hear. 

That with rare excellence of tongue persuade: 

They do not chide our idlesse, — were content 

If all our walks were half so innocent. 



SOL.\CE OF THE WOODS. 

Woods, waters, have a charm to soothe the ear. 

When conniion sounds have vexed it : when the day 

Grows sultry, and the crowd is iu thy way. 

And working iu thy soul much coil and care. 

Betake thee to the forest: in the shade 

Of pines, and by the side of purling streams 

That prattle all their secrets in their dreams, 

Unconscious of a listener — unafraid — 

Thy soul shall feel their freshening, and the truth 

Of nature then, reviving in thy heart, 

Shall briug thee the best feelings of thy youth. 

When in all natural joys thy joy had part, 

Ere lucre and the narrowing toils of trade 

Had turned thee to the thing thou wast not made. 



ELIZABETH OAEES SMITH.— JOHN STERLIXG. 



cia 



(Pliuibctl) (Dakcs SinitI). 

AMERICAN, 

Mrs. SiniUi was boni in ISOli at CunilierUincl, about 
twelve miles fioiii Poitlaiul, Me. Iler imrulen name was 
Elizal)eth Dalies Prince. She niarrioil, in 1SJ3, Seba 
Smitli, author of the "Jack Downing Lettere," and sev- 
eral poems. Tlie family removed to New York in 1839, 
and after Mr. Smith's death in 1S()8, she resided for sever- 
al years in North Carolina. She )>ublished "The Sinless 
Child, and other Poems," wrote traijedies, stories, and 
hymns, besides conlributins larirely to masjazines and 
newspapers. Latterly she resided at Patchogue, Suffolk 
County, N. Y. 



SOXNET: TFIK UN ATTAINED. 

Anil is tliis lilV? ami aro mc boni for this? — 

To follow pliantom.s tliat clnde the grasp. 

Or whatsoe'er secured, within our clasp, 

To witlieriu'; lie, as if each earthly kiss 

Were doomed death's shuddering touch alone to 

meet. 
O Life! linst thou reserved no cup of bliss? 
Must still TiiK USATTAIXKD bcguile our feet? 
The UxATTAiNKi) with j-earnings (ill the breast, 
That rob for aye the Spirit of its rest ? 
Yes, this is Life; and everywhere we meet, 
Not victor crowns, but wailings of defeat ; 
Vet faint thou not: thou dost apply a, test, 
'I'liat shall incite tlieo onward, upward still: 
i'ho present cannot sate, uor e'er thy spirit till. 



SONNET: POESY. 

With no fond, sickly thirst for fame I kuccl, 
() goddess of the high-born art, to thee; 
Not unto thco with semblance of a zeal 
I conu', O pure and Iieaven-eyed I'ocsy ! 
Thou art to nie a spirit and a love. 
Felt ever from the time when first tlie earth 
In its green beauty, and the sky above. 
Informed my soul with joy too deep for mirth. 
I was a child of tliino before my tongue 
Could lisp its infant utterance unto thee; 
And now, albeit from my heart aro flung 
Discordant numbers, and the song maj* be 
That •which I would not, yet I know that thou 
The offering w ilt not spurn, while thus to thee I bow. 



SONNET: FAITH. 

Beware of donbt: — faith is the sulitle chain 
\Vhich binds us to the Inlinite: the voice 



Of a deep life within, that will remain 

Until we crowd it thence. We nuiy rejoice 

With an exceeding joy, and make our life, 

Ay, this external life, become a part 

Of that which is within, o'erwrought and rifo 

With faith, that childlike blessedness of heart; — 

The order and the harmony inborn 

With a perpetual hymning crown our way. 

Till callousness and sellislmess and scorn 

Shall pass as clouds where scathless lightnings 

play ! 
Cling to thy faith : 'tis higher than the thought 
That fiuestions of thy faith, the cold external doubt. 



iJoljii Sterling. 



sterling (1806-1S44) was born at Kaimes Castle, Isle 
of Bute. His father, Captain Sterling, became editor of 
the Times newspaper, and Jolin, having been educated at 
Trinity College, Cambridge, was early introduced into 
the best literary society of Loudon. This included Cole- 
riilge and Carlyle; and with the latter, who wrote a me- 
moir of him, he became very intimate. He took holy or- 
ders in the Church, and preached for eight months; but 
failing health aud doubts as to the creed he was teach- 
ing induced him to resign his charge. Thenceforth he 
devoted himself to literature, writing for Jlluckinood's Mag- 
azine and the ^ye■flmillsler licvicuj. In the former some 
of his poems first appeared. He published a volume of 
tliem, ISi!); "The Election," a poem, 1841; and "Staf- 
ford," a tragedy, 184:3. His prose n orks, edited by Arch- 
deacon Hare, appeared in 184S. Sterling was remarkable 
for his genial, amiable traits, and his conversational pow- 
ers. He was the charm of every society into which he 
entered. His poems lack the popular clement, but arc 
rich in profound, earnest thought. 



TO A CHILD. 

Dear child 1 whom sleep can hardly tame, 
As live and beautiful as liame, 
Thou glancest round my graver hours 
As if thy crown of wild-wood flowers 
Were not by mental forcheail worn, 
15ut on the summer breeze were borne. 
Or on a mountain streamlet's waves, 
Came glistening down from dreamy caves. 

With bright round check, amid whoso glow 

Delight anil womler come and go, 

And eyes whose inward meanings play, 

Congenial with the light of day. 

And brow so calm, a home for thought, 

Uefore he knows his dwelling wrought; 



620 



CYCLOFJEDIA OF BUITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Though wise indeed thou seemest not, 
Thou brighteuest well the wise inau's lot. 

That shout proclaims the uudoubtiug miud, 
That laughter leaves no ache behind; 
And in thy look and dance of glee, 
Unforced, uuthought of, simply free. 
How weak the schoolman's formal art 
Thy soul and body's bliss to iiart ! 
I hail thee childhood's very lord, 
In gaze and glance, in voice and word. 

In spite of all foreboding fear, 

A thing thou art of jiresent cheer; 

And thus to be beloved and known 

As is a rushy fountain's tone. 

As is the forest's leafy shade, 

Or blackbird's hidden serenade : 

Thou art a flash that lights the whole; 

A gush from nature's •^•ernal soul. 

And yet, dear child! within thee lives 
A power that deeper feeling gives. 
That makes thee more than light or air, 
Than all things sweet and all things fair; 
And sweet and fair as aught may be. 
Diviner life belongs to thee, 
For 'mid thine aimless joys began 
The perfect heart and will of man. 

Thus what thou art foreshows to me 
How greater far tliou soon shalt be ; 
And while amid thy garlands blow 
The winds that warbling come and go. 
Ever within not loud l)ut clear 
Prophetic murmur fills the e.ar. 
And says that every human birth 
Anew discloses God to earth. 



THE MAN SURVIVES. 

Fuosi"Hyjins of a Hehmit,'* 

How strange is death to life! and yet how sure 
The law wliich dooms each living thing to die! 

Whate'er is outward cannot long endure. 
And all that lasts eludes the subtlest eye. 

Because the eye is only made to spell 

The grosser garb and failing husk of things; 

The vital strength and stream that inlier dwells, 
Our faith divines amid their secret springs. 



The stars will sink as fade the lamps of earth, 
The e.arth be lost as vapor seen no more, 

And all around that seems of oldest birth. 
Abides one destined day — and all is o'er. 

The spirit leaves the body's wondrous frame. 
That frame itself a world of strength and skill; 

The nobler inmate new abodes will claim. 
In every chauge to Thee aspiring still. 

Oh ! rather bear beyond the date of stars 

All torments heaped that nerve and soul can feel. 

Than but one hour believe destruction mars 
Without a hope the life our breasts reveal! 

Although from darkness born, to darkness fled, 
We know that light beyond surrounds the whole ; 

The man survives, though the weird corpse be dead. 
And He who dooms the Hesh redeems the soul. 



PROSE AND SONG. 

I looked upon a plain of green, 

That some one called the land of prose, 

Where many living thiugs were seen, 
In movement or repose. 

I looked upon a stately hill 

That well was named the mount of song. 
Where golden shadows dwelt at will 

The woods and streams among. 

But most this fact my wonder bred. 

Though known by all the nobly wise, — 

It was the monntain streams that fed 
The fair green plain's amenities. 



iJulia Ipavboc. 



Miss Pardee (1800-1863) was a native of Beverley, in 
Yorkshire, Englanil. Slie was an extensive writer of 
novels, boolis of travel, :\ncl historical memoirs ; and is 
said to have produced a volume of poems at tlie age of 
thirteen. She travelled extensively, and the many vol- 
umes from her pun were favorably' received by the public. 



THE BEACON-LIGHT. 

Darkness was deepening o'er the seas, 
And still the hulk drove on ; 

No sail to answer to the breeze,— 
Her masts and cordage gone : 



JULIA PARDOE.— GEORGE LUNT. 



621 



Gloomy and drear lior course of fear, — 

Each IdoUed l)iit for a grave, — 
Wlien, full iu sight, the beacon-light 

Came streaming o'er the wave. 

Then wildly rose the gladdening shout 

Of all that hardy crew ; 
Boldly they put the Iielm about. 

And through the surf they flew. 
Storm was forgot, toil heeded not, 

And loud the cheer they gave, 
A.s, full in sight, the beacon-light 

Came streaming o'er the wave. 

And gayly of the tale they told, 

When they were safe on shore; 
How hearts liad sunk, and hopes grown cold, 

.\niid tlio billows' roar; 
When not a star had shone from far, 

l!y its pale beam to save. 
Then, full iu sight, the beacon-light 

Came streaming o'er the wave. 

Thus, in the night of Nature's gloom. 

When sorrow bows the heart. 
When cheering hopes uo more illume. 

And comforts all depart; 
Then from afar shines Bethlehem's star, 

With cheering light to save; 
And, full in sight, its 1>caeoti-light 

Comes streaming o'er the grave. 



(Dcorgc £uut. 

AMERICAN. 

Lunt wiis horn in Newburyport, Mass., in 1807, He 
WHS unuhiiited iit Harvard College in 18J4 , studied and 
practiced law. In 1K4,S he removed to Boston, and was 
appointed United SUiles District Attorney. He edited 
llie Buslun Courier for several years with niinUcd ability , 
published volumes of poems in 1S!9, 184:1, lS.>t, and 18.").5 ; 
also in the histnanied year, "Enstford, a Novel." He 
is also tlie nutlior of several valuable historical works. 
His residence since 1877 wtis in Scltuatc, Mass. 

Among the lyrics that "almost sing themselves" from 
the pen of Lunt is his "Pilgrim Song," which runs to 
the measure of T. H. Bayly's once poi)nlar ballad, 

"Gnj'ljr the troDbudour touched his guitar." 

One of the stan7.as from Lunt's poem is as follows : 

"En;;laii(l Imtli snniiy dnlcf*. clcnrly they bloom; 

Sculiu hnlh henitier-IitlJH, sweet their pcrfame : 

Yet through the wilderness cheerful we etrny, 

Nfttive ):iii(l, n.ttive liuid, home fur nway ! 

' riljyirima nnd w.-iudcrerf, liiiticT we come; 
Where the free date to he,— this is our home.' " 



THE HAYMAKERS. 

Down on the Merrimac River, 

While the autumn grass is green, 
Oh, there the jolly hay-men 

In their guudalows are seen ; 
Eloating down, as ebbs the current. 

And the dawn leads on the day. 
With their scythes and rakes all ready 

To gather iu the hay. 

The good wife, np the river, 

Has made the oven hot. 
And with plenty of pandowdy 

Has tilled her earthen pot. 
Their long oars sweep them onward, 

As the ripples round them play, 
And the jolly hay-men drift along 

To inuUo the meadow hay. 

At tho bank-side then they moor her, 

Wliere the sluggish waters run. 
By the shallow creek's low edges, 

Beneath the fervid sun — 
And all day long the toilers 

Mow their swaths, and, day by day, 
Yon can see their scythe-blades flashing 

At the cutting of the hay. 

When the meadow-birds are flying. 

Then down go scythe and rake. 
And right and left their scattering shots 

The sleeping echoes -wake — 
For silent spreads the broad expanse. 

To the sand-hills far away. 
And thus they change their work for sport, 

At niakiug of the hay. 

When the gnndalows are lo.aded — 

Gunwales to tho water's brim — 
With their little sqnare-sails set atop, 

Up the river how they swim ! 
At home, beside the Are, by night, 

While tho children round them play, 
What tales the jolly hay-men tell 

Of getting in the hay ! 



THE COMET. 

Yon car of lire, though veiled by day,^ 
.\loug that field of gleaming blue, 

AVheii twilight folded earth in gray, 
A world-wide wonder flew. 



6-22 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Duly, iu turn, each orb of night 

From out tbo darkening concave broke ! 

Eve's glowing herald swam in light, 
And every star awoke. 

The Lyre re-strung its burning chords, — 
Streamed from the Cross its earliest ray, — 

Then rose Altair, more sweet than words 
Or music's soul could say. 

They from old time, in course the same. 

Familiar set, familiar rise : 
But what art thou, wild, lovely flame, 

Across the startled skies ? 

Mysterious yet as when it burst, 

Tlirough the vast void of nature hurled. 

And shook their shrinking hearts at lirst, — 
The fathers of the world ! 

No curious sage the scroll unseals, — 
Vain quest for baffled Science given! — 

Its orbit ages, while it wheels, 
The miracle of heaven ! 

In nature's plan thy sphere unknown. 
Save that no sphere His order mars, 

Whose law could guide thy path alone 
In realms beyond the skies. 

God's minister! we know no more 
Of thee, thy frame, thy mission still. 

Than he who watched thy flight of yore 
On the Chaldean hill. 

Yet thus, transcendent from thy blaze 

Beams light to pierce this mortal clod; — 

Scarcely " the fool " on thee could gaze 

And say, "There is no God!" 
Octolier 7th, 1868. 



EEQUIEM. 

Breathe, trumpets, breathe slow notes of saddest 
wailing; 

Sadly responsive peal, ye muffled drums: 
Conn'ades,with downcast eyes and muskets trailing. 

Attend him homo ; the j-outhful warrior comes. 



Upon his shield, upon his shield returning, 
Borne from the field of battle where he fell : 

Glory and grief together clasped in mourning. 
His fame, his fate, with sobs exulting tell. 



Wrap round his breast the flag bis breast defended, — 
His country's flag, in battle's front unrolled : 

For it he died, — on earth forever ended : 

His brave young life lives in each sacred fold. 

With prond, proud tears, by tinge of shame untainted, 
Bear him, and lay him gently iu bis grave; 

Above the hero write, — the young, half-sainted, — 
"His country asked his life, his life ho gave." 



liobcrt flT. (Eljovlton. 

AMERICAN. 
Ch.irlton (1807-1854) was a native of Savamiali, son of 
a much esteeraeil judge. Robert was early admitted to 
the Bur, became United States District Attorney, and in 
18.53 was elected to the United States Senate. He was a 
polished orator aud a genial couvcrser. In 1839 appear- 
ed a volume of his poems, aud in 184:3 a second edition 
of them, with additions, was published in Boston. 



THE DEATH OF JASPER. 

AN HISTORICAL BALLAD. 

'Twas amid a, scene of blood. 

On a bright autumnal day, 
When misfortune like a flood 

Swept our fiiirest hopes away ; 
'Twas on Savannah's plain, 

On the spot we love so well. 
Amid heaps of gallant slain. 

That the daring Jasper fell. 

He had borne him in the fight. 

Like a soldier iu his prime. 
Like a bold and stalwart knight 

Of the glorious olden-time ; 
And unharmed by sabre blow. 

And untouched by leaden ball, 
He had battled with the foe. 

Till he heard the trumpet's call. 

But he turned him at the sound. 

For he knew the strife was o'er, 
That in vain on freedom's ground, 

Had her children shed their gore ; 
So he slowly turned away 

With the remnant of the band 
Who amid the bloody fray 

Had escaped the foeman's hand. 

But his banner caught his eye, 
As it trailed upon the dust, 



SOBEUT J/. CIIAItLTOX.—ICPHRAIM PEABODY. 



a-a 



And Iio saw his coiiiriido die 
Ere lio yicldi'd uji liis trust : 

"To the rt'sciic !" l<md ho ciicd ; 
" To the rescue, gallant men !" 

And bo dashed into the tide 
Of the battle-stream again. 

And then fierce tho contest rose 

O'er its Held of liroidered gold, 
And the blood of friends and foes 

Stained alike its silken fold ; 
But nnheeding wound and blow. 

He has snatched it midst tho strife, 
lie has borne that Hag away, 

ISiit its ransom is his life! 

"To my father take my sword," 

Thus the dying hero said ; 
"Tell him that my latest word 

Was a blessing on his head ; 
That when death had seized my fiame. 

And iiidifted was his dart, 
I ne'er forgot tho name 

That was dearest to my heart. 

" And tell her whose favor gave 

This fair banner to our band, 
That I died its folds to save 

From the foe's polluting hand ; 
And let all my comrades hear. 

When my form lies ccdd in death, 
That their friend remained sincere 

To his last expiring breath." 

It was thus that .I.isper fell, 

'Neath that bright autumnal sky; 
Has a stime been reared to tell 

Where ho laid him down to dio f 
To tho rescue, spirits bold! 

To tho rescue, gallant men ! 
Let tho marble page nnfold 

All his daring deeds again ! 



drpljraim |Jcabol)ij. 

AMERICAN. 
Pcnbody (lH07-lK.Vi) was a nsitive of Wilton, N. IT. 
Educated at Bowdoin College, he was graduated in 1837. 
ne became a Unitarian clergyman, and in IHlfi was set- 
tled over King's Chapel, Boston. Here lie preaelicd most 
acceptably for ten years. lie has shown tine talents for 
what Byron esleiiiied the highest order of poetry, tlic 
ethical ; but bis piodueliveness as a poet seems to liavc 
bccu cheeked by liis niiuistcrial labors. 



TO A CHILD. 

"The memory ot tliy name, dear one, 
Lives in my inmost heart, 
Linlvcd with a Ihuu^juud hopes and fears, 
That will not thenco depart." 

Things of high import sonnd I in thine ears. 
Dear child, though now thou maycst not feel their 
power ; 
lint hoard tlieiu up, and in thy eoniing years 

Forget them not, and when earth's tempests lower, 
A talisman unto thee shall they be, 
To give thy weak arm strength — to make thy dim 
eye see. 

Seek truth, that pnre celestial truth, whose birth 
Was iu the heaven of heavens, clear,sacred, shrined 

111 reason's light : not oft she visits earth, 
But her majestic port, the willing mind, 

Tlirongh faith, may soinetimes see: give her thy soul, 

Nor faint, though error's surges loudly 'gainst thee 
roll. 

Be free : not chiefly from tho iron chain, 
But from tho one which passion forges — bo 

The m.ister of thyself: if lost, regain 

Tho rnlo o'er chance, sense, cirenmslanee. Bo free. 

Trample thy proud lusts proudly 'ucath thy feet, 

And stand erect, as for a heaven-born one is meet. 

Seek virtue: wear her armor to the fight; 

Then, as a wrestler gathers strcuglli from strife, 
Shalt thou be nerved to a more vigorous might 

By each contending turbulent ill of life. 
Seek virtue. — She alone is all divine ; 
And having found, be strong, in God's own strength 
and thine. 

Truth, freedom, virtue, — these, dear child, have 
power. 
If rightly cherished, to uphold, sustain. 
And bless thy spirit iu its darkest hour; 

Xeglect them— thy celestial gifts are v.iin : 
In dust shall thy weak wings bo dragged and soiled ; 
Thy soul bo cruslied 'ueath gauds for wliieb it basely 
toiled. 



FROM "THE BACKWOODSMAN'.'' 

I stand upon tho mountain's top. 

And — solitude profound ! — 
Kot oven a woodman's smoke curls up 

Within tho horizon's bound. 



624 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Below, asi o'er its ocean breadth 

The ail's light currents run, 
The wihleruess of moving leaves 

Is glaucing in the sun. 

I look around to where the sky 

Meets the far forest line, 
And this imperial domain — 

This kingdom — all is mine ! 
This bending heaven, these floatiug clouds, 

Waters that ever roll, 
Aud wilderuess of glory, bring 

Their ott'eriugs to my soul. 

My palace, built by God's own hand, 

The world's fresh prime hath seen : 
Wide stretch its living halls away, 

Pillared and roofed with greeu : 
My nuisic is the wind that now 

Pours loud its swelling bars. 
Now lulls in dying cadences, — 

My festal lamps are stars. 

Though when in this my louely home, 

My star-watched conch I press, 
I hear no fond "good-night" — think not 

I am companionless. 
Oh no ! I .see my father's house, 

The hill, the tree, the stream, 
Aud the looks and voices of my home 

Come gently to my dream. 

And in these solitary hauuts. 

While slumbers every tree 
In night and silence, God himself 

Seems nearer unto me. 
I feel his presence in these shades. 

Like the embracing air ; 
And as my eyelids close in sleep. 

My heart is hushed in jirayer. 



Ntttljttnicl |3arkcr Ulillis. 

AMERICAN. 

Willis (lS0~-lf)C7) was a native of Portland, Maine, and 
was graduated at Yale College in 1S27. He ventured 
upon a magazine enterprise, the American Monthly, in 
18:39, but it expired in two years. From 1831 to 183.T he 
travelled in Europe ; and having taken an English wife, 
lie returned liome, and settled at a place on the Susque- 
hanna River, which he named Glcnmary. lu 1844 he re- 
visited Europe, aud, having become a widower, in 184G 



married his second wife. Miss Grinnell. The reniidudcr 
of his life was passed cliiefly at his well-known place on 
the Hudson, near Newburgh, to which ho gave the name 
of Idlewild. He was associated with George P. Morris 
in editing the Home Journal, a New York weekly i)aper. 
Willis's first volume of poems was published in Bos- 
ton in 1829. He wrote no long poem that can be pro- 
nounced successful; though his "Scriptural Poems" 
were highly popular in their day. Of his prose works, 
his "Pencillings by the Way" gave him a reputation, 
both in England aud at home, as a graceful and original 
sketcher, and one of the most attractive of the magazine 
writers. His sketches of Count D'Orsay, Moore, Camp- 
bell, Jerrold, D' Israeli, Hood, Lamb, Procter, Leigh Hunt, 
Bulwer, are witty, graphic, and entertaining. He wrote 
two dramatic pieces, but they attained no success on the 
stage. As a poet, Willis's contemporary fame exceeded 
his posthumous; but a true poet he was, and he would 
have shown it more clearly to the world if ambition to 
shine as a mau of society had not withdrawn him from 
the right path of literary labor. To younger authors 
he was kind and generous, aud left many warm friends 
among them. 



SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 

I love to look on a scene like this, 

Of wild aud careless play. 
And persuade myself that I am not old. 

And my locks are not yet gray; 
For it stirs the blood of an old man's heart, 

And makes his jiulses fly. 
To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 

And the light of a pleasant eye. 

I have walked the world for fourscore years, 

Aud they say that I am old ; 
That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, 

Aud mj' ye.ars are well-nigh told : 
It is very true ; it is very true ; 

I'm old, and I " bide my time ;" 
But my heart will leap at a scene like this. 

And I half renew my prime. 

Play on ! play on ! I am with you there, 

In the midst of your merry ring ; 
I can feel the thrill of the daring .jump, 

Aud the rush of the breathless swing. 
I hide with you in the fragrant hay. 

And I whoop the smothered call. 
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 

Aud I care not for the flill. 

I am willing to die when my time shall come, 

Aud I shall be glad to go — 
For the world, at best, is a weary place, 

And my pulse is getting low ; 



yjTBJXIEL PARKER WILLIS. 



C20 



But tbo jjravo is dark, and the heart will fail 

III trcaiUiifj; its gloomy way; 
And it wilrs my breast from its dreariness 

To SCO tlio yonng so gay. 



THIRTY-FIVE. 

"The years of n man's life are threescore and ten." 

O, weary heart ! thou'rt half-way home I 

Wo stand on Life's meridian height — 
As far from childhood's morning come, 

As to the grave's forgetful night. 
Give Youth and Hope a jiarting tear — 

Look onward with a placid brow — 
Hope promised bnt to bring us here, 

And Reason takes the guidance now — 
One backward look — the last — the last! 
One silent tear — for Youth is past ! 

Who goes with Hope and Passion back ? 

Who comes with uio and Memory on ? 
Oh, lonely looks the downward track — 

Joy's music hushed — Hope's roses gone I 
To Pleasure and her giddy troop 

Farewell, without a sigh or tear! 
But heart gives way, and spirits droop, 

To think that Love may leave us here ! 
Have wo no charm when Youth is flown — 
Mithvay to death left sad and lone! 

Yet stay ! — as 'twere a twilight star 

That sends its thread across the wave, 
I see a brightening light, from far, 

Steal down a path beyond the grave ! 
And now — bless God! — its golden lino 

Comes o'er — and lights my shadowy way — 
And shows the dear hand clasped in mine ! 
But list ! what those sweet voices say ! 
" TUo better land's in sight, 
And, by its ch.astening light. 
All love from life's midway is driven 
.Stve hers whoso clasped hand w ill bring thee on to 
Heaven !"' 



THE SPRING IS HERE. 

The ."Spring is here — the delicate-footed May, 
With its slight lingers full of leaves and flowers; 

And with it comes a thirst to he away, 

Wasting in wood-p.ith3 its voluptuous hours — 

.\ feeling that is like a sense of wings. 

Restless to soar above these perishing things. 
40 



We pass out from the city's feverish hum, 
To find refreshment in the silent woods ; 

And nature, that is beautiful and dumb, 
Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods. 

Yet even there a restless thought will steal, 

To teach the indolent heart it still must feel. 

Strange that the audible stillness of the noon, 
The waters tripping with their silver feet. 

The turning to the light of leaves in June, 
And the light whisper as their edges meet — 

Strange that they till not, with their tu;»U(iuil tone, 

Tlic spirit, walking iu their midst alone. 

There's -uo contcntnicut, in a world like this, 
Save in forgetting the immortal dream ; 

We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, 

That through the cloud-rilts radiantly stream : 

Bird-like, the prisoned soul Kill lift its eye 

And sing, till it is hooded from the sky. 



ACROSTIC: SONNET. 

It may be interesting to compare this soiniet with one by 
Percival (page 4S'2) on the same celebrated lady. Willis's has 
the advantage of conformity to the Petrarchan model. 

Elegance floats about thee like a dress, 

Melting the airy motion of thy form 

Into one swaying grace ; and loveliness. 

Like a rich tint that makes a picture warm, 

Is lurking iu the chestnut of thy tress, 

Enriching it, as moonlight after storm 

Mingles dark shadows into gentleness. 

A beauty that bewilders like a spell 

Reigns in thine eye's clear hazel, and thy brow. 

So pure in veined transparency, doth tell 

How spiritually beautiful art thou — 

A temple where angelic love might dwell. 

Life iu thy presence were a thing to keep. 

Like a gay dreamer clinging to his sleep. 



TO A CITY PIGEON. 

Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove ! 
Thy daily visits have touched my love. 
I watch thy coming, and list the note 
That stirs so low in thy mellow throat. 

And my joy is high 
To catch tho glance of thy gentle eye. 

Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves. 

And forsake the wood with Ha freshened leaves T 



626 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBICAIjf POETRY. 



Why dost thou hauut the sultry street, 

When tlie paths of the forest are cool aud sweet? 

How canst thou bear 
This noise of people — this sultry air ? 

Tlioii alono of the feathered race 

Dost look unscared on the hnraau face ; 

Thou alone, with a wing to flee, 

Dost love with man in his haunts to be; 

And the " gentle dove " 
Has become a name for trust and love. 

A holy gift is thine, sweet bird! 
Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word! 
Thou'rt linked with all that is fresh and wild 
In the prisoned thoughts of the city child ; 

And thy glossy wings 
Are its brightest image of moving things. 

It is no light chance: thou art set apart 
Wisely by Him who has tamed thy heart, 
To stir the love for the bright and fiiir. 
That else were sealed in this crowded air; 

I sometimes dream 
Angelic rays from thy pinions stream. 

Come then, ever, when daylight leaves 
The page I read, — to my humble eaves, 
And wash thy breast iu the hollow spout, 
And niurmnr thy low, sweet music out! 

I hear and see 
Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in thee! 



JJonatljan Camrcncc, 3r. 

AMERICAN, 

Lawrence (1S07-1833) was a native of New York. Grnd- 
n.iting at Cnlinnljia College before he was sixteen, he de- 
voted himself to the study of the law ; was admitted to 
the Bar, but died in his twenty-sixth year. A selection 
from his writings, includini;- poems, of which we give the 
best, was published in New Yorlc in 1833. It had been 
first privately printed by bis brother. 



LOOK ALOFT. 

The fnlh)wing lines were suijgested by an anecdote, said to 
fmve been related by Dr. Godmnn, of a ship-boy, who, about to 
hill from the rigging, was only saved by the mate's excIaniaLiou, 
"Look aloft, you lubber I" 

In the tempest of life when the wave and the gale 
.Vre around and above, if thy footing should fail — 



If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution de- 
part — 
Look aloft and be firm, and be fearless of heart. 

If the friend, who embraced iu prosperity's glow, 
With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe. 
Should betray thee when sorrows, like clouds, are 

arrayed, 
Look aloft to the friendship which never shall fade. 

Should the visions, which hope spreads iu light to 

thine ej'e. 
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighteu to fly. 
Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret. 
Look aloft to the sun that is never to set. 

Should those who are dearest, the son of thy heart. 
The wife of thy bosom, in sorrow depart, 
Look aloft from the darkness .and dust of the tomb, 
To that soil where affection is ever in bloom. 

And oh I when death comes, in terror to cast 
His fe.ars on the future, his pall on the past, 
In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart. 
And a smile in thine eye, look aloft, and depart. 



lolju f)oitiavb Bnjant. 



A brother of William Cullen Bryant, John was born iu 
Cnmniington, Mass., July 32d, 1807. He began to write 
verses while yet a boy. After receiving a good educa- 
tion at a school in Troy, N. T., be went West in 1831, 
and in 1S35 purchased of the United States Government 
five hundred and twenty acres of superior land iu Prince- 
ton, 111., where he took up bis residence, and where he 
attained to wealth and honors through his own energet- 
ic labors and exalted character. He held various offlees 
of trust. In 1855 a volume of his poems was published 
in New York. It abounds in evidences of the feeling, 
taste, and power of expression of one who could keenly 
appreciate the beauties of nature, and reproduce them 
in apt poetic forms. But the necessity of earning a sup- 
port for a growing f\imily eompelled him, as well as his 
brother Arthur, who also settled in Princeton, to forego 
those literary occupations which were congenial to their 
tastes. 



THE VALLEY BROOK. 

Fresh from the fountains of the wood 

A rivulet of the valley came, 
.\nd glided on for many a rood, 

Flushed with the morning's rnddy flame. 



joay HOWARD BRTAyr. 



G27 



The air was fresh and soft and sweet ; 

The slopes in Spring's new verdure lay, 
And, wet with dew-drops, at my feet 

Bloomed the young violets of May. 

Xo sound of busy life was heard 
Amid those pastures lone and still, 

Save the faint chirp of early bird. 
Or bleat of flocks along the hill. 

I traced that rivulet's winding way; 

Now scenes of beauty opened round. 
Where meads of brighter verdure lay. 

And lovelier blossoms tinged the ground. 

".\lil happy v.illey-stream," I said, 

"Calm glides thy wave amid the flowers, 

Whose fnigrance round thy path is shed 
Throngli all the joyous summer hours. 

"Oh! could my years like thine be passed 
In some remote and silent glen. 

Where I could dwell and sleep at last 
Far from the bustling haunts of men !" 

But what new echoes greet my earf 
The village school-boys' merry call! 

And "mid the village hum I hear 
The murninr of the water-fall. 

I looked I tho widening vale betrayed 
A pool that shono like burnished steel, 

Wliere that bright valley-stream was stayed 
To turn tho miller's ponderous wheel. 

Ah! why should I (I thought with shame) 

Sigh for a life of solitude, 
When even this stream without a name 

Is laboring for the common good f 

No, never let mo shun my part 

.Amid the busy scenes of life. 
But. with .1 wann and generous heart, 

I'ress onward in tho glorious strife. 



Tin: l.ITTLK CLOUD. 

As when, on Carmel's sterile steep, 
Tho ancient prophet bowed the knee, 

And seven times scut his servant forth 
To look toward the distant sea; — 



There came at last a little cloud 

i^carco broader than the human hand, 

Spreading and swelling, till it broke ' 

In showers on all the berbless laud, — 

Anil hearts were gliid, and shouts went up, 
.\nd praiso to Israel's mighty God, 

As tlio 'sere hills grew bright with flowers, 
And verdure clothed tho naked sod, — 

Even so our eyes have waited long; 

But now a little cloud appears. 
Spreading and swelling as it glides, 

Onward into tho coming years! 

Bright cloud of Liberty! full soon, 
Far stretching from the ocean strand. 

Thy glorious folds shall sjiread abroad, 
Encircling onr belov<^d land. 

Like tho sweet rain ou Jmlali's hills 
The glorious boon of love shall fall. 

And our broad millions shall arise 
As at an angel's trumpet-call. 

Then shall a shout of joy go >ip, 
Tho wild, glad cry of freedom come 

From hearts long crnshcd by cruel hands. 
And songs from lips long sealed and dumb.- 

iVnd every bondman's chain be broke, 
And every soul that moves abroad 

In this wide realm shall know and feci 
The blessdd liberty of God. 



SONNET. 

'Tis Autumn, and my steps have led me far 

To a wild hill that overlooks a laml 

Wide-spread and beautiful. A single star 

Sparkles new-set in heaven. O'er its bright sand 

The stre.imlet slides with mellow tones away : 

The West is crimson with retiring day: 

,\nd the North gleams with its own native light. 

Below, in autumn green, the meadows lie. 

And throngh green banks the river wanders by. 

And the wide woods with autumn-hncs are bright, — 

Bright — but of fading brightness!— soon is past 

That dream-like glory of the paiiit<-il wood ; 

And jiitiless decay o'ertakes, as fast. 

The pridu of men, the beauteous, great, and good. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



3amcs (Dtis llocktDcU. 

AMERICAN. 

Rockwell (1807-1831) was a native of Lebanon, Conn. 
At an early age he was apprenlieed to a printer in Utiea, 
N. Y., and began, while yet a boy, to write for the news- 
papers. Afterward he labored as a journeyman compos- 
itor in Boston till he became an assistant editor of thi'. 
titaiesman. He was connected with the Patriot of Provi- 
dence, R. I., at the time of his death. Some pathetic lines 
to his memory were written by Whittier. 



THE LOST AT SEA. 

Wife, who in thy deep devotion 

Puttest nji a prayer for cue 
Sailing on the stormy ocean, 

Hope no more — bi.s cour.se i.s done. 
Dream not, when upon tby pillow, 

That be slnmber.s by tby side; 
For bis corse beneath the billow 

Heavctb with the restless tide. 

Children, who, as sweet flowers growing, 

Laugh amid tbe sorrowing rains. 
Know ye many clouds are throwing 

Shadows oil your sire's remains? 
Where the ho.arse, gray surge is rolling 

With a mountain's motion on. 
Dream ye that its voice is tolling 

For your father lost and gone ? 

When the sun looked on the water. 

As a bero on his grave, 
Tiugeing with the buo of slaughter 

Every blue and leaping wave. 
Under the majestic ocean. 

Where the giaut current rolled. 
Slept thy sire, without emotion, 

Sweetly by .1: beam of gold. 

And the silent sunbeams slanted, 

Wavering through the crystal deep, 
Till their wonted splendors haunted 

Those shut eyelids in their sleep. 
Sands, like crumbled silver gleaming. 

Sparkled through bis raven hair; 
But the sleep tliat knows no dreaming 

Bound him in its silence there. 

So we left him ; and to tell thee 
Of our sorrow and thine own, 

Of the woe that then befell thee, 
Come we wcarv and alone. 



That thine eye is quickly shaded, 
That thy heart-blood wildly flows. 

That thy cheek's clear hue is faded, 
Ai'e the fruits of these new woes. 

Children, whose meek eyes, inquiring 

Linger on your mother's face, — 
Know ye that she is expiring. 

That ye are an orpbau race? 
God be with you on tbe morrow, 

Father, mother — both no more ; 
One within a grave of sorrow. 

One upon the ocean's floor! 



fjcnvv) lllttiisroovtl) Congfclloiu. 



Longfellow was born in Portland, Me., Feb. 27th, 1807. 
He was graduated at Bowdoiu College in 183.5, in the 
same class with Hawthorne ; was appointed Professor of 
Modei-n Languages in 1826 ; then passed four years in 
Europe, and on liis return commenced the duties of his 
chair. His "Outre-Mcr," containing his notes of travel, 
appeared in 183.5. The same year he succeeded George 
Ticknor in the chair of belles-lettres at Harvard, when 
he again visited Europe. He g.ave up his iirofessorsldp 
in 18.54, and devoted himself exclusively to literature. 
His " Voices of the Night " appeared in 1839, and secured 
for him a high rank among the poets of tlie age. His 
prose romance of "Hyperion" appeared the same year. 
It was followed by " Ballads, and other Poems," in 1841 ; 
"Poems on Slavery," in 1843 ; "The Spanish Student," 
a play, in 1843 ; " Poets and Poetry of Europe," in 1843 ; 
"The Belfry of Bruges," in 1845; "Evangeline," in 1847; 
"Kavanagh," a novel, in 1849; "Seaside and Fireside," 
in 1849 ; " The Golden Legend," in 1851 ; "The Song of 
Hiawatha," in 1855; "The Courtship of Miles Standish," 
in 1858; "Talcs of a Wayside Inn," in 1863; "Flower 
do Luce," in 1800; a translation of" The Divine Comedy 
of Dante," in 1867; "The New England Tragedies," in 
1808; "The Divine Tragedy," in 1871; "Three Books of 
Song," in 1873; " Keramos, .and other Poems," in 1878; 
besides many minor productions that have appeared in 
leading American magazines. 

Unlike some poets of the most recent school in verse, 
Longfellow rarely tries to convey an idea which is not 
clear and intelligible to his own mind. He is as honest 
as Shakspcare, Milton, or Burns in this respect. The 
notion lliat the poet must suggest more than he express- 
es IS a just one ; but it lias led some writers to take it 
for granted that snggestiveness lies in obscurity rather 
than in such a clearly defined expression as this: "One 
touch of nature makes the whole world kin." Here we 
h.ave the utmost paucity of words, and yet the thought 
is level to the ordinary understanding. The oljseure 
may sometimes excite a lively imagination so as to pro- 
duce a poetical effect; but surely the higliest order of 
poetry is that winch gives more than it requires for its 



BEXIiT WAt)SWORTU LOXGFELLOW. 



C2U 



eolulion. Tlic obscure writer is often a contriver of rid- 
dles which may be interpreted in different ways by dif- 
ferent minds. The true, the lasting poetry, is that which, 
while it !;oes to tlic [general heart, does not involve too 
much of a strain of the thinliin;? faculty. It is in his 
sliorter lyrical pieces, his ballads, and his line descriptive 
touches that Longfellow's powers are brought out to 
most advantage ; for it is in these that he oftcncst com- 
bines the neatness and skill of the consummate artist 
with the curious felicity and perfect simplicity of the 
genuine poet. His "Building of the Ship," "Rain in 
Summer," "Sea-weed," "The Fire of Drift-wood," "Ke- 
venge of Rain-in-thc-faee," "Paul Kevere's Ride," and 
many other pieces, have in them, on this account, the 
elements of an enduring popularity. Several of his son- 
nets arc among the choicest in the language. 

For some forty-live years he has been almost continu- 
ou.sly productive, cither as author, compiler, or transla- 
tor ; and his latest poems have shown an increase rather 
than a diminution of power. Few poets have lived to 
reap such a harvest of contemporary fame, united to ad- 
miration and esteem for personal qualities and an un- 
blemished life, such as the history of the " irritable 
race" too rarely exhibits. Longfellow has been twice 
married; and in his second marriage was blessed with 
that experience of paternity which finds beautiful ex- 
pression in some of his verses. An elegant quarto edi- 
tion of his poems, linely illustrated, appeared in Boston 
in ISSO. 



KIl.Ll.l) AT TIIK FORD. 

lie is (lead, the beautiful youtli, 

The heart of honor, the tongue of truth — 

lie, the light and life of us all, 

Whose voice was as blithe as a bugle-call, 

Whom all eyes followed with one consent, 

'I'lio cheer of whoso laugh and whoso pleasant word 

Hushed all jnurninrs of discontent. 

Only last uight, as we rode along 

Down tho dark of Iho mountain gap, 

To visit the picket-guard at tbo ford, 

Little dreaming of any mishap, 

Ho was humming the word.s of some old bong: 

"Two red vo.ses ho had on his cap, 

And another he bore at tho point of his sword." 

Snddeu and swift a whistling ball 

Canio out of the wood, and the voice was still : 

Something I heard in tho darkness fall. 

And fiu- a moment my blood grew chill ; 

I spake in a whisper, as ho who speaks 

In a room where some one is lying dead; 

lint lie made no answer to what I said. 

Wo lifted liirri np on his saddle again. 

And through the mire and the mist and the rain 



Carried him back to tho silent camp. 

And laid him asleep as if ini his bed ; 

And I saw by tho light of the surgeon's lamp 

Two white roses upon his checks, 

And cno just over his heart blood-red. 

And I saw in a vision how far and tleet 

Tliat fatal bullet went speeding forth, 

Till it reached a town iu tho distant North, 

Till it reached a house in a sunuy street, 

Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat 

Without a murmur, widuMit a cry; 

And a bell was tolled in that far-off town, 

For one who had passed from cross to crown — 

Aud the neighbors wondered that she should die. 



THE LAUNX'II. 
FitoM *' The IiriLDiNO op the Snip." 

Then tho master, 

With a gesture of command. 

Waved his hand ; 

And at tho word, 

L(Mul and sudden there was heard. 

All around them and below, 

Tho sound of hammers, blow on blow. 

Knocking away tlie shores and spurs. 

And see ! she stirs ! 

She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel ; 

Aud, spuruiug with her foot tho gronud, 

W'ith one exnlting, joyous bound, 

She leaps into the ocean's arms ! 

Aiul lo ! from the assembled crowd 
There rose a shout jirolougcd and loud, 
That to the oceau Bccincd to say, — 
"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray. 
Take her to thy jirotecting arms, 
Witli all her youth and all her charms!" 

How beautiful she is! how fair 

Slie lies within those arms, that press 

Her form with many a soft car(»s 

Of tenderness and watchful care! 

Sail f<ntli into the sea, O ship ! 

Tlirough wind and wave right onward steer! 

Tho moistened eye, tho trembling lip, 

Are uot tho signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into tho sea of life. 
Oh, gentle, loving, trusting w ife, 



630 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH JXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Aud safe from all atlversity 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Tby comings and tliy goings be ! 
For gentleness and love aud trust 
Prevail o'er angry wave and gnst ; . 

And in tbe wreck of noble lives 
Somethiug immortal still survives! 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 

Sail on, O Uniox, strong and great ! 

Humanity, with all its fears. 

With all the hopes of future years, 

Is bangiug breatbless qa thy fate ! 

We know what master laid tby keel. 

What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 

Who made each mast, and sail, aud rope, 

What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 

In what a forge and what a heat 

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 

'Tis of the wave, and not the rock : 

'Tis but the flapping of the sail. 

And not a rent made by the gale! 

In spite of rock and tempest's roar — 

In spito of false lights on the shore — 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee ; 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears. 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 

Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 



THE AEEOW AND THE SONG. 

I shot au arrow into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 

I breathed a song into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For who hath sight so keen and .strong. 
That it can follow the flight of song? 

Long, long afterward, in an o.ak 
I found the arrow, still unbroke, 
And the song from beginning to end, 
I found .again in the he.irt of a friend. 



REVENGE OF EAIN-IN-THE-FACE. 

In that desolate land and lone. 
Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone 



Roar down their mountain path, 
By their fires the Sioux Chiefs 
Muttered their woes and griefs. 

And the menace of their wrath. 

" Revenge !" cried Rain-in-the-Face, 
" Revenge upon all the race 

Of the White Chief with yellow li.air!" 
And the mountains dark and high 
From their crags re-echoed the cry 

Of his auger aud despair. 

In the meadow, spreading wide 
By woodland aud river-side, 

The Indian village stood ; 
All was silent as a dream. 
Save the rushing of the stream 

Aud the blue-jay in the wood. 

In his war-paint and his beads, 
Like a bison among the reeds. 

In ambush the Sitting Bull 
Lay, with three thousand braves. 
Crouched in the clefts aud caves. 

Savage, unmerciful. 

Into the fatal snare 

The White Chief with yellow hair, 

And his three hundred men, 
Dashed he.adlong, sword iu hand! 
But of that gallant band 

Not one returned again. 

The sudden darkness of death 
Overwhelmed them, like the breath 

Aud smoke of a furnace fire ; 
By the river's bank, .and between 
The rocks of the ravine, 

They lay iu their bloody .attire. 

But the focm.au fled in the night, 
Aud Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight. 

Uplifted high in air 
As a ghastly trophy, bore 
The brave heart that beat no more, 

Of the White Chief with yellow hair. 

Whose was the right and the wrong? 
Sing it, oh funeral song, 

AVith a voice that is full of tears, 
And say that our broken faith 
Wrought all this rnin and scath, 

III the Year of a lluudred Y'ears, 



HEXIir WADSUomU LONGFELLOW. 



g:u 



Tin: KAINY DAY. 

This grncefiil little poem vna benutirally set to music by 
William R. Dempster, the ^rcuttish composer. 

Tbo (lay is coUl aud ilark and dreary ; 
It rains, aud tlie wiud is never weary; 
The vino still clings to the mouldering wall, 
lint at every gush the dead leaves fall — 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold and dark aud dreary — 
It rains, and the wiud is uever weary; 
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, 
Hnt the hopes of youth fall thick iu the blast. 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, 8.id heart, and cease repining — 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining: 
Thy fate is the coniiuon fato of all; 
Into each life some rain must fall — 

Some days must be dark and droarv. 



RAIN IX SUMMER. 

How beantifnl is the rain I 

Afti-r the dust and heat, 

In the broad and licry street, 

In the narrow lane. 

How beautiful is the rain ! 

How it clatters along the roofs, 

Like the tramp of hoofs ! 

How it gushes and struggles out 

From the throat of the overflowing spout 1 

Acro.ss the window-pane 

It pours and pouts ; 

An<l swift and wide, 

Willi a muddy tide, 

Like a river down the gutter roars 

The rain, the welcome rain! 

The sick man from his chamber 

Looks at the twisted brooks; 

Ho can feel the cool 

Breath of each little pool ; 

His fevered brain 

(;rows calm again, 

And he breathes a ble.ssitig on tbo rain. 

From the neighboring school 

Come the boys, 

With more than their wonted uoiso 



And commotion ; 
And down the wet streets 
Sail their mimic fleets. 
Till the treacherous pool 
Engulfs them in its whirling 
And turbulent ocean. 

In the country, on every side. 

Where far and wide. 

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, 

Stretches the plain, 

To the dry grass aud the drier grain 

How welcome is the rain ! 

In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand; 

Lifting the yoke-encnmbercd head. 

With their dilated nostrils spread, 

They silently inhale 

The clover-scented gale, 

And the vapors that arise 

From the well-watered and stuoking soil. 

For this rest in the furrow after toil 

Their largo and lustrous eyes 

Seem to thank the Lord, 

More than mans spoken W(ud. 

Near at hand, 

From under the sheltering trees, 

The farmer sees 

His pastures, and his fields of grain. 

As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no siu 

That ho sees therein 

Only his own thrift and gain. 

These, and far more than these, 

The Poet sees! 

He can behold 

Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air ; 

And from each ample fold 

Of the clouds about him rolled. 

Scattering everywhere 

The showery rain, 

As the farmer scatters his grain. 

Ho can behold 

Things manifold 

That h.-ivo not yet been wholly told, — 

Have not been Avholly sung nor .said, 



632 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



For bis tbouglit, that never stops, 

Follows the water-drops 

Dowu to tlie graves of tbo deail, 

Down through chasms and gulfs profouud, 

To the dreary fonntaiu-hcad 

Of lakes aud rivers uudergrouufl ; 

Aud sees them, wheu the rain is doue, 

On the bridge of colors seven 

Climbiug up once moi'e to heaven, 

Opposite the setting suu. 

Thus the Seer, 

With vision clear, 

Sees forms appear and disappear, 

In the perpetual rouud of strange 

Mysterious change. 

From birth to death, from death to birth. 

From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth ; 

Till glimpses more sublime 

Of things, unseen before, 

Unto his wondering eyes reveal 

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 

Turning for evermore 

In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 



SONNET: THE POETS. 

O ye dead i)oets, who are living still 
Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, 
And ye, O living poets, who are dead 
Though ye are living, if neglect can kill,— 
Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, 
With drops of anguish falling fast aud red 
From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head. 
Ye were not glad your errand to fulfil? 
Yes; for the gift and ministry of song 
Have something in them so divinely sweet. 
It can assuage the bitterness of wrong: 
Not in the clamor of the crowded street. 
Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, 
But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat. 



PHANTOMS. 

All houses wherein men have lived and died 
Are haunted houses. Through the open dooi-s 

The harmless phantoms on their crr.ands glide, 
With feet that make no sound upon the floors. 

We meet them at the door-way, on the stair, 
Along the passages they come and go. 



Impalpable impressions on the air, 

A sense of something moving to aud fro. 

There are more guests at talde than the hosts 

Invited ; the illuminated hall 
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, 

As silent as the pictures on the wall. 

The stranger at my fireside cannot see 

Tbe forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear; 

He but perceives what is ; while unto nie 
All that has been is visible aud clear. 

We have no title-deeds to house or lands; 

Owners and occupants of earlier dates 
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands 

Aud hold in mortmain still their old estates. 

The spirit-world around this world of sense 
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere 

Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense 
A vital breath of more ethereal air. 

Our little lives are kept in ecjuipoise 
By opposite attractions aud desires ; 

The struggle of the instinct that enjoys, 
Aud the more noble instinct that aspires. 

The perturbations, the perjietual jar 
Of earthly wants aud aspirations high. 

Come from the influence of that unseen star, , 
That undiscovered planet in our sky. 

And as the moon, from some dark gate of cloud, 
Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, 

Across whose trembling planks onr fancies crowd, 
Into the realm of mystery and night; 

So from the world of spirits there descends 
A bridge of light connecting it with this. 

O'er whoso unsteady floor, that sways aud bends. 
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss. 



SONNET: NATURE. 

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er. 

Leads by the h.and her little child to bed. 

Half willing, half reluctant to be led, 

And leave his broken playthings on the floor. 

Still gazing at tliem through the open door, 

Not wholly reassured and comforted 

By promises of others in their stead, 



HEXnT WADSWORTH LOSGFELLOW. 



C3:! 



Wliioli, though more spleniliil, may not pjcaso him 

more : 
So Natmc deals with os, ami takes away 
Our phiytliiugs oue by ouc, and hy (ho hand 
Leads HS to rest so gently, that we go 
Scarce knowing if wo wish to go or stay, 
lieing too full of sleep to understand 
How far the unknown transcen<ls tlio wh;.-; we know. 



EXCKLSIOR. 

The sliades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, wlio bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device, 
Kxeelsior! 

His brow was sad; his eye beneath 
Flashed like a falehion from its sheath, 
And like a, silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongne. 
Excelsior! 

I» hnppy homes he saw the light 
Of household tires gleam warm and bright ; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone. 
And from his lips escaped a groan, 
Excelsior ! 

" Try not the Pass !" the old man said ; 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" 
And loud that clarion voice replied. 
Excelsior I 

'•Oh stay," the maiden saiil, '• and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast!" 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye. 
Hut still he answerc<l with a sigh. 
Excelsior ! 

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! 
liewaro the awful avalanche!" 
This was the peasant's last Good-night, 
A voice replied far up the height. 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
I'ttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior! 



A traveller by the faithful hound 
Half-bnried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with (he strange device. 
Excelsior! 

There in the twilight cold and gray. 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay; 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star. 
Excelsior ! 



HAWTHOHXE. 

How beautiful it was, that ouc bright day 

In the long week of rain ! 
Though all its splendor could not chase away 

The omnipresent pain. 

The lovely town was white with apple-blooms. 

And the great elms o'erhead 
Dark shadows wove on their ai'rial looms, 

Shot through with golden thread. 

Across the meadows, by the gray old manse. 

The historic river flowed : 
I was as oue who wanders in a trance. 

Unconscious of his road. 

The faces of familiar frieiuls seemed strange; 

Their voices I could hear. 
And yet the words they uttered seemed to change 

Their meaning to my ear. 

For the one face I looked for was not there, 

The one low voice was mute ; 
Only an unseen presence filled the air. 

And baffled my pursuit. 

Now I look hack, and meadow, manse, and stream. 

Dimly my thought deliues ; 
I only see — a dream within a dream — 

The hill-to]) hearsed with pines. 

I only hear above his pl.ice of rest 

Their tender undertone, 
Till' infinite longings of a troubled breast, 

The voice so like his own. 

There in scclnsion, and remote from men, 

The wizard hand lies cold. 
Which at its to)imost speed let fall the pen, 

And left the tale half told. 



634 



CYCLOPEDIA or BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



All ! wbo shall lift that wand of magic powei-, 

And tho lost clew regain ? 
The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower 

Unfinished lunst remain ! 
M:iy 23cl, lSO-1. 



THE BELLS OF LYNN, HEARD AT NAHANT. 

O curfew of the setting sun ! O Bells of Lynn ! 
O requiem of the dying day! O Bells of Lynn! 

From the dark helfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted, 
Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynu! 

Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twi- 
light, 
O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn ! 

Tho fisherman in his hoat, far out heyond the head- 
land. 
Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn ! 

Over the shining sands the wandering cattle home- 
ward 
Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn! 

The distant light-honso hears, aud with his ll.iming 

signal, 
Answers you, passing tho watchword on, O Bells of 

Lynn I 

And down the darkeuiug coast run the tnmnltnons 

snrges, 
Aud clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of 

Lynn ! 

Till from tho shuddering sea, with yuur wild in- 
cantations. 
Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn! 

And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of 

Endor, 
Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn! 



Solju (Prcnilciaf ll11)itticr. 

AMERICAN. 

AVliilticr, a native of Haverhill, Mass., was boni Decem- 
ber 31st, 1807. His family were of the Society of Friends, 
and he early learned from tlicm his strong and life-long 
opposition to slavery. Until his eighteeutli year lie 
worked on his fetlier's farm. A horn poet, with decided 
literary tastes, he was indebted for his education chiefly 



to his own exertions. He was not nineteen when bis 
first published poem appeared in a Newburyport paper, 
edited by 'William Lloyd Garrison. The first complete 
collection of liis jioems was published in 1850. Other 
volumes appeared later: "Songs of Labor," in 1851; 
"Tlie Chapel of the Hermits," in 1853; "The Panora- 
ma, "in 1850; "Home Ballads," in 1800; "In War Time," 
in 1863; " Snow -Bound," in 1865; " Tlie Tent on the 
Beach," in 1867; "Among the Hills," in 1868; "The 
Pennsylvania Pilgrim," in 1873. 

AVhittier was at difl'erent periods of his life an editor, 
and he has put forth some four or five volumes in prose. 
But it is as a poet, and one indigenous to the soil of 
America, and true to its traditions and associations, that 
lie will be known to posterity. Even his moral and di- 
dactic verse is distinguished by a lyrical grace and fi-ee- 
dom that overcomes their gravity. His " Maud MuUer " 
(1S55) is one of the choicest of idyllic poems, aud savors 
thoroughly of the native soil. In his religious utterances 
he shows an earnest and devotional spirit, hopeful in its 
views of the destiny of the race, but too broad for cir- 
cumscription in any sectarian creed. As a ballad-writer 
lie is eminently successful — simple, graceful, interesting, 
aud never prolix, His "Witch of Wenham" may be in- 
stanced iis a singularly beautiful specimen in this depart- 
ment of verse. Among the tributes sent to him on his 
seventieth birtliday was the following little poem by 
Lydia Maria (Francis) Child, born in Medford, Mass., in 
1803, and the author of " The Progress of Religious 
Ideas," and other approved works, as well as of some 
admirable poems for the youug : 

"I tlianfc thee, friend, for words of cheer, 
Tliut made the path of duty clear. 
When thiiu and I were youii;r, and slronj^ 
To wrestle with a mighty wrun;;. 
And DOW, when len<;thening shadows come, 
And this world's work is nearly done, 
I thank thee for thy genial ray, 
That prophesies a brighter d;iy, 
When we can work, with strength renewed, 
III clearer light, for surer good. 
God bless thee, friend, and give thee peace. 
Till thy fervent spirit finds release ! 
And may we meet in worlds afar. 
My Morning aud my Evening Star!" 

Whittier has resided the greater part of his life at 
Ainesbury, Mass. He has never been married, aud his life 
has been almost wlioUy devoted to literary pursuits. In 
1877 ho edited "Songs of Three Centuries," a tasteful 
eoUcetion of poetry, British and American. 



MAUD MULLER. 

Maud Mnller, on a summer's day. 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed tho wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The uiock-bird echoed from his tree. 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 



C35 



Hilt, when she glanced to tlio far-off town, 
White fioiu its bill-slope lookiug down, 

Tlie sweet song tlieil, anil a vague nnrest 



V wish, that she hardly dated to own, 
I'or siiincthiiig better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing Lis horse's chestnut maue. 

He drew his bridle iu the shade 

I If the apple-trees, to greet the maid. 

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
Tliioiifih the meadow, across the road. 

She stooped where tlio cool spring hubblcd up. 
And Idled for him her small tin cuii, 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
Ou her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

• Thanks !'' said the Judge ; " a sweeter draught 
Kroni a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

Ho spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 
I >f the singing-birds and the huuimiug-bccs ; 

Thin talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud iu the west would bring foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown. 
And her gr.aceful ankles bare and brown ; 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Mauil MuUer looked and sighed: ".\h me! 
That I the Judge's bride might be ! 

" He would dress mo up iu silks so fine, 
.And praise ami toast nic at his wine. 

••>ly father should wear a broadcloth coat; 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

■• I'll dress my motliiT so grand and gay, 

And the baby should have a new toy each day. 



"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor. 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The Judge looked back as ho climbed the Iiiil, 
And saw Maud Muller standing still. 

"A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

"And her modest answer and graceful air 
Shovr her wise and good as she is fair. 

"Would she were mine, and I to-day. 
Like her, a harvester of hay : 

'' Xo doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
Xor weary lawyers with endless tongues; — 

"lint low of cattle and song of I)irds, 
And health and quiet and loving words."' 

But he thought of his sisters proud and cold. 
And his mother vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
And Maud was left iu the held alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. 
When lie hummed iu court an old love tune ; 

And the young girl mused beside the well. 
Till the rain ou the unraked clover fell. 

Ho wedded a wife of richest dower. 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, iu his marble hearth's bright glow, 
He watched a picture coiiio and go : 

And sweet Maud MuUer's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, 
He longed for the waysido well instead ; 

And closed his eyes on his garnishoil rooms, 
To dream of ine.ldows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud mau sighed, with a secret pain : 
"Ah, that I were free again ! 

"Free as when I rode that day. 

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hav." 



636 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISH AND AMEIUCAN POETRY. 



She wedded a man iiuleavned autl poor, 
Aud mauy childreu played round Uer door. 

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and Ijrain. 

Aud oft, ■nhen the summer snu shone hot 
On the now-mown hay iu the meadow lot. 

And she heard the little spring-brook fall 
Over the roadside, thi'ough the wall, 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his reiu ; 

And, gazing down with timid grace, 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls ; 

The weary wheel to a spiuuet turned, 
The tallow-caudle an astral burned, 

Aud for him who sat by the chimney-lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe aud mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 
Aud joy was duty, and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again, 
Saying only, " It might have been." 

Alas for maiden, alas for .Judge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both ! aud pity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen. 

The saddest are these : " It might have been !" 

Ah, well ! for ns all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
EoU the stone from its grave away ! 



BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 

Up from the meadows rich with corn, 
Clear iu the cool September morn, 



The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
Green-walled l>y the hills of Maryland. 

Round about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach tree fruited deep. 

Fair as a garden of the Lord 

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde. 

On that pleasant morn of the early Fall, 
When Lee marched over the mountain wall- 
Over the mountains winding down. 
Horse and foot into Frederick town — 

Forty flags with their silver stars. 
Forty flags with their crimsou bars. 

Flapped iu the morning wind : the sun 
Of noon looked down, aud saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietehie then. 
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town, 

She took up the flag the men hauled down; 

Iu her attic window the staff she set. 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right 
He glanced ; the old flag met his sight. 

"Halt!" — the dust-brown ranks stood fast; 
"Fire!" — out blazed the ride blast. 

It shivered the window, pane and sash ; 
It rent the bauuer with scam and gash. 

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staft", 
Damo Barbara snatched the silken scarf; 

She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

" Shoot, if you must, this old grny head. 
But spare your country's flag !'' she said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame. 
Over the face of the leader there came; 



JOHK GKEENLEAF WHITTIER. 



fi:57 



The nobler nature within him atirreil 
To life at that woniau's deed and word : 

" Who touches a bair of yon gray liead 
Dies like a dog! JIarcU on!'' ho said. 

All day long tlirnngh Frederick street 
.Sounded the tread of niarchiug feet : 

All day long that free flag tossed 
Over the beads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fill 

On the loyal winds that loved it well; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-uigbt. 

liarbara Frietehic's work is o'er. 

And the Kebcl rides on his raids no more. 

Honor to her! and let a tear 

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave 
Flag of Freedom and Union wave ; 

Peace and order and beauty draw 
Uouud thy symbol of light and law ; 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Frederick town! 



MR. WHITTIER TO HIS FRIENDS, 

ox THE CELEBR,\TION OF HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHD.VV. 

Reside that mile-stono where the level sun, 
Nigh unto setting, sheds his last, low raj's 
On word and work irrevocably done, 
Life's blending threads of good and ill ontspnn, 
I hear, oh friends! your words of cheer and praise, 
Half doubtful if myself or otherwise. 
Like him who, in the old Arabian Joke, 
A beggar slept and crowned Caliph widje. 
Thanks not the h'ss. With not nnglad surprise 
I see my life-work through your partial eyes; 
Assured, in giving to my home-taught songs 
A liigber value than of right belongs, 
You do but read between the written lines 
The liner grace of uufullllled desigus. 
12tli mo., 19;i. 



MY TWO SISTERS. 

From " Ssow-iloCND." 

There, too, our elder sister plied 
Her <'vening task the stand besido ; 
A full, rich nature, free to trust. 
Truthful and almost sternly just. 
Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act, 
And make her generous thought a fact. 
Keeping with many a light disguise 
The secret of self-sacrilice. 
O, heart sore tried! thou hast the best 
That Heaven itself could give thee — rest; 
Rest from all bitter thoughts and things! 
How many a poor one's blessing went 
With thee beneath the low green tent 
Whoso curtain never outward swings ! 

As one who held herself a part 
Of all she saw, .and let her heart 

Against the household bosom lean. 
Upon the motley-braided mat 
Our youngest and our dearest sat, 
Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes, 

Now bathed within the fadeless green 
And holy peace of Paradise. 
Oh, looking from some heavenly hill, 

Or from the shade of saintly palms. 

Or silver reach of river calms, 
Do those large eyes behold me still f 
With me one little year ago: — 
The chill weight of the winter snow 

For months upon her grave has Iain ; 
And how, when summer south-winds blow 

And brier and harebell bloom again, 
I tread the pleasant paths wo trod, 
I see the violet sprinkled sod 
Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak 
The hill-side flowers she loved to seek. 
Yet following mo where'er I went 
With dark eyes full of love's content. 
The birds are glad; the bricr-roso fills 
The air with sweetness ; all the hills 
Stretch green to June's unclouded sky; 
But still I wait with ear and eye 
For something gone which should be nigh, 
A loss in all familiar things, 
lu flower that blooms, and bird that sings. 
And yet, dear heart ! remembering thee. 

Am I not richer than of old f 
Safe in thy immortality. 

What change can reach the wealth I hold f 

What chance can mar the pearl and gold 



638 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBICAN FOEXnY. 



Thy love hath left iu trust with me? 
Aud while iu life's late afternoon, 

Where cool aud long the shadows grow, 
I walli to meet the night that eoou 

Shall shape and shadow overflow, 
I cannot feel that thou art far. 
Since near at need the angels are; 
And when the sunset gates nnbar, 

Shall I not see thee waiting stand, 
Aud, white against the evening star, 

The welcome of thy becliouiug hand? 

We sit beneath their orchard-trees, 

We hear, like them, the hum of bees, 
Aud rustle of the bladed corn ; 
We turn the pages that they read, 

Their written words we linger o'er, 
But in the sun they cast no shade. 
No voice is heard, no sigu is made, 

No step is ou the conscious floor! 
Yet Love will dream, aud Faith will trust 
(Since He who knows our need is just), 
That somehow, somewhere, meet we must. 
Alas for him who never sees 
The stars shine through his cypress-trees I 
Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, 
Nor looks to see the breakiug day 
Across the mournful marbles play! 
Who hath not learned, in hour.s of faith, 

The truth to flesh and sense unknown. 
That Life is ever lord of Death, 

Aud Love cau never lose its own ! 



THE POET'S PORTRAIT OF HIMSELF. 

From "The Tent on the Beach." 

And one there was, a dreamer born. 

Who, with a mission to fulfil. 
Had left the Muses' haunts to turn 

The crank of an opinion-mill. 
Making his rustic reed of song 
A weapon in the war with wrong, 
Yoking his fancy to the breaking-plough 
That beam-deep turned the soil for truth to spriiif: 
and grow. 

Too quiet seemed the man to ride 

The winged Hippogriff Reform ; 
Was his a voice from side to side 

To pierce the tumult of the storm ? 
A silent, shy, peace-loving man. 
He seemed no fiery partisan 



To hold his way against the public frown. 

The ban of Church aud State, the tierce mob's 
honudiug down. 

For while he wrought with strenuous will 

The work his hands had found to do. 
He heard the fitful music still 

Of winds that out of dream-land blow. 
The din about him could not drown 
What the strange voices whispered down ; 
Along his task-field weird processions swept. 
The visionary pomp of stately i>hantoms stepped. 

The common air was thick with dreams, — 

He told them to the toiling crowd ; 
Such music as the woods and streams 

Sang in his ear he sang aloud ; 
In still, shut bays, on windy capes. 
Ho heard the call of beckoning shapes, 
Aud, as the gay old shadows prompted him, 
To homely moulds of rhyme he shaped their legends 



THE ETERNAL GOODNESS. 

friends, with whom my feet have trod 
The quiet aisles of prayer. 

Glad witness to your zeal for God 
And love of men I bear. 

1 trace your lines of argument ; 
Your logic, linked and strong, 

I weigh as one who dreads dissent, 
And fears a doubt as wrong. 

But stni my human hands are weak 

To hold your iron creeds ; 
Against the words ye bid me speak, 

My heart within me pleads. 

Who fathoms the Eternal Tliought ? 

Who talks of scheme and plan ? 
Tlie Lord is God ! He needeth not 

The poor device of man. 

I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground 
Ye tread with boldness shod; 

I dare not fix with mete and bound 
The love and power of God. 

Ye praise his justice; even such 
His pitying love I deem ; 



JOnx GREEXLEAF WUITIIEB.— CHARLES DOTXE SILLERY. 



(iU'J 



Ye seek a king ; I fuin would touch 
The robo that hath no seiim. 

Ye see the curse which overbroods 

A worhl of pain and hiss; 
1 hear our Lord's beatitudes 

And prayer upon the cross. 

More than your schoohnen teacli, witliiii 

Myself, alas ! I know: 
Too dark ye caunot paint the sin, 

Too snuill the merit show. 

I bow my forehead to the dust, 

I veil mine eyes for shame. 
And tirge, in trembling self-distrust, 

A prayer without a claim. 

I see the wrong (hat round mo lies, 

I feel the guilt within ; 
I hear, with groan and travail-cries, 

The worhl confess its sin : 

Yet, in tlie maddening maze of things, 
.\nd tossed by storm and flood. 

To one fixed stake my spirit clings : 
I know that God is good! 

Not mine to look when cherubim 

And seraphs may not sec; 
But nothing can bo good iu Ilim 

Which evil is in me. 

The wrong that pains my soul below, 

I dare not throjie above • 
I know not of His hate — I know 

His gooducss and His love! 

I dimly gness from blessings known 

Of greater out of sight, 
.\nd, with tlic chastened Psalmist, own 

His judgments too are right. 

I long fur honsehold voices gone. 

For vanished smiles I long; 
Hut Ciiid hath led my dear ones on. 

And He can dn no wrong. 

I know not what the future hath 

Of marvel or surprise, 
Assured alone tliat life and death 

His inerev underlies. 



And if my heart and flesh are weak 

To bear an untried pain. 
The brnisdd reed He will not break. 

But strengthen and sustain. 

No offering of my own I have. 
Nor works my faith to prove ; 

I can but give the gifts he gave. 
And plead His love for love. 

And so beside the Silent Sea 

1 wait the muffled oar ; 
No harm from Him can come to me 

On ocean or on shore. 

I know not where His islands lift 
Their frondcd palms in air; 

I only know I cannot drift 
Beyond His love and care. 

O brothers ! if my faith is vain. 
If hopes like these betray. 

Pray for mo that my feet may gain 
The sure and safer way ! 

And thou, O Lord! l>y whom are seen 

Thy creatures as they be. 
Forgive me if too close I lean 

My linnian heart on Tliee ! 



(Cljarlcs Doiinc Sillcrji. 

Sillery (ISOT-ltsJfi) was a native of Athlonc, Ireland, 
but was brought up in Edinburfrli. His favorite pursuits 
were poetry and miijlc. In 1S29 he published by sub- 
scription a poem in nine cintos, entitled " Vallcry," and 
afterward " Eldrcd of Erin," in which tlie devotional 
sentiment prevails. Of sprightly and winning manners, 
he was much esteemed in the literary circles of llie Scot- 
tisli capiUil. Poetry, iu its every department, be culti- 
vated Willi the devotion of an enthusiast. 



SHE DIED IN BEATTY. 

She died in beauty! lihe a rose 
Blown from its parent stem ; 

She died iu beauty ! like a pearl 
Dropped from some iliadem. 

She dii'd in beauty! like a hay 

Along a moonlit lake ; 
She died in beauty! like the song 

Of birds amid the brake. 



640 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



She died in beauty! like the snow 
On flowers dissolved away ; 

She died in beauty ! like a star 
Lost on the brow of day. 

She Vires iu glory ! like night's gems 
Set round the silver moon ; 

She lives in glory ! like the sun 
Amid the blue of June ! 



llicljarb (CIjcikdU S^rtncl). 

Trench was born in Dublin iu 1807. He studied at 
Cambridge, took orders in the Church of England, was 
made Dean of Westminster in 1856, and Arclibisliop of 
Dublin. in 1804. lie lias published theological discourses, 
two volumes on the study of Words, and several volumes 
of verse. Many of his poems evince genuine lyrical 
power ; but the didactic prevails iu his style. 



OUR FATHER'S HOME. 

I say to thee, do tliou repeat 

To the first man thou inayest meet 

Iu lane, highway, or open street, — 

That he, and we, and all men, move 

Under a canopy of love 

As broad as the blue sky above ; 

That doubt and trouble, fear and pain 
And anguish, all are shadows vain ; 
That death itself shall not renuain ; — 

That -weary deserts we nmy tread, 
A dreary labyrinth may thread. 
Through dark ways underground be led,- 

Yet, if we will our Guide obey, 
The drearie,st path, the darkest way. 
Shall issue out in heavenly day; 

And we, on divers shores now cast. 
Shall meet, our perilous voyage past. 
All in our Father's home at last. 

And ere thou leave him, say thou this 
Yet one word more : They only miss 
The winning of that final bliss, 

Who will not count it true that love. 
Blessing not cursing, rules above. 
And that in it we live and move. 



And one thing further make him know. 

That to believe tliese tilings are so. 
This firm faith never to forego, — 

Despite of all which seems at strife 
With blessing, or with curses rife, — 
That this is blessing, this is life. 



BE PATIENT. 

Be patient, oh, bo iKitient ; put your ear against the 

earth. 
Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the seed has 

birth ; 
How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little way, 
Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, and the 

blade stands up iu the day. 

Bo patient, oh, be jiatieut! the germs of mighty 
thought 

Must have their silent undergrowth, must under 
ground be wrought ; 

But as sure as there's a Power, that makes the grass 
appear. 

Our land shall be green with Liberty, the blade- 
time shall be here. 

Be patient, oh, be patient ! go and watch the wheat- 
ears grow. 

So imperceptibly, that eye can mark nor change nor 
throe ; 

Day after day, day after day, till the car is fully 
grown ; , 

And then again, day after day, till the ripened field 
is brown ! 

Be patient, oh, be patient ! though yet our hopes are 

green. 
The harvest-fields of Freedom shall be crowned with 

the sunny sheen ; 
Bo ripening! be ripening! mature your silent w.ay. 
Till the whole broad land is tongued with fire on 

Freedom's harvest-dav ! 



SONNET: ON PRAYER. 

Lord, what a change within us one short hour 
Spent in thy presence will jirevail to make^ 
What heavy burdens from our bosoms take! 
What parchi5d grounds refresh as with a shower! 
We kneel, and all around us seems to lower: 



RICHARD CHENEVIX TEEXCH.— ARTHUR WILLIAMS AUSTIN. 



641 



\\'c rise, and all, tlie distant and the ucar, 
Stands foitli in snnny ontline, bravo and clear; 
Wo kiii'fl, liDW weak, wu rise, Iiow full nf pouei! 
Why, tlicrefore, should wo do oureelves this wrong, 
Or others — that wo aro not always strong; 
That wo aro ever overborne with care ; 
Tliat we shonld ever weak or heartless be, 
Anxious or troubled, when with us is prayer. 
And joy, and strength, and courage aro with thee? 



SPRING, 

Who was it th.nt so lately said. 
All pulses iu tliiiic heart were dead, 

Old earth, that now in festal robes 
Appearest, as a bride new wed ? 

Oh, wrapped so late iu winding-sheet — 
Thy winding-sheet, oh! where is lied? 

Lo ! 'tis an emerald carpet now, 

Where the young monarch. Spring, may tread. 

He comes, — ami, a defeated king. 
Old Winter to the hills is fled. 

The warm wind broke his frosty spear. 
And loosed the helmet from his he.ad ; 

And ho weak showers of arrowy sleet 
From his strongholds has vainly sped. 

All that w.as sleeping is awake, 
.\nd all is living that was dead. 

Who listens now can hear the streams 
Leap tinkling from their pebbly bid. 

Or see them, from their fetters free. 
Like silver snakes the meadows thread. 

Tlie joy, the life, the hope of earth. 
They slept awhile, they were not dead: 

O (hon, who say'st thy sore heart ne'er 
Willi verdure can again be spread; 

O tlmii, wliii mouiiiest lliem that sleep, 
l.cnv lying iu an earthly bed; 

Look out on this reviving world. 
And be new hopes williiii theo bred! 
41 



!?lrtl)nr Ulilliains CluGtiii. 



Boiu in CluTilestowu, Muss., in 1807, Austin was grad- 
uated lit C;unbiidgc in 1S25, studied law, and in 1850 was 
made Collector of the port of Boston under I'rcsideut 
Bueliaiian. An excellent Greek scholar, lie lias made 
some accur.ite and graceful translations from "The 
Greek Anthology." In 187.5 lie published n volume en- 
titled "Tlie Woman and the Queen: a Ballad, and other 
Specimens of Verse." 



FROM "THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY." 

RUFIXUS: TO RIIOD.\. 

Klioda ! to thee I send a garland, wove 

From flowers late gathered by these hands of mine : 

Hero lily, celandine, and budding rose. 

The tender daliodil, the violet blue! 

When ennviied with these, .abate thy lofty jiridc: 

Thyself, the llowers, the garland, all will fade ! 

SIMMI.VS: EPITAPH ON SOPHOCLES. 

.\roiiiicl this place where Sophocles reclines, 
Let ivy silent creep, and fruitful vines; 
Let palm-trees overhang liis honored tomb. 
And Uowcriug roses shed a sweet perfume : 
Gifted with pleasant words and precepts wise, 
Muses and Graces were Lis choice allies. 

MAl!IANi:S: TO A STATl'E OF CUPID CliOWNED. 

Where is that bow of yours, tho wings, the dart, 
And those sharp arrows meant to pierce tho heart! 
Wliy on your head a wreath, why garlands huldt 
"Stranger, think not I am of common mould; 
Not of the earth, nor son of earthly joy,.— 
No ccMuuioii Venus owns me fiu' her boy. 
To tho pure mind of man I .send a flame. 
And lead his soul to heaven, from whence it came; 
Four garlands from the Virtues I entwine. 
And, above all, the prize of Wisdom iiiine!" 

.MAP.IAXIS: THE I.OVE-C.nOVE OF AMASIA. 

This Grove of Love hath charms ; the western breeze 
Sends soothing miirniurs through the well-pruned 

trees ; 
On dewy meadow sparkling violets grow, 
.\nd from a triple source the waters How: 
And hero at noonday Iris rolls its wave. 
That fair-haired wood-nymphs may at ple.isuro lave : 
Exposfcd on all sides to the Sun's caress. 
Hero fruitful vine and fertile olive bles« ; 
Hero all around the nightingales are heard, — 
Crickets responding to the tiinefiil bird: 



643 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBICAN POETMY. 



Regard, my friend, a well-meant, kind request : 
Pass uot my gate, — I welcome such a guest. 

ALCjEUS : SEVENTH FRAGMENT.' 
Nor ijorclies, theatres, uor stately halls, 
Nor seuseless equipage, nor lofty walls, 
Nor towers of wood or stoue, nor workmen's arts, 
Compose a State. But men with daring hearts, 
Who on themselves rely to meet all calls. 
Compose a State, — it needs not other walls! 



iJamcs Uallantine. 

Ball.Tntine w.ns bom in Edinburgh in 1808, When he 
was a mere boj' the loss of his father compelled him to 
work for the family's support ; and he became an accom- 
plished painter on glass. An edition of bis poems was 
piiblishcd in 18.50. They indicate a love of the beauti- 
ful iu nature, and a devout fiiitli that the order of things 
means good, aud not evil, for the human race. Ho was 
the author of a work on stained glass, which was trans- 
lated and piublishcd in Germany. 



ITS AIN DEAP O' DEW. 

Confide ye aye iu Providence, 

For Providence is kind. 
An' hear ye a' life's changes 

Wi' a calm an' tranquil mind ; 
The' iiresscd and hemmed on every side, 

Ha'o faith, an' ye'U win through, 
For ilka blade o' grass 

Keps its aiu drap o' dew. 

Gin reft frae friends, or crossed iu love, 

As whiles nao doubt ye've heen. 
Grief lies deep-hidden in your heart. 

Or tears flow frae your e'en, 
Believe it for the best, and trow 

There's good in store for you, 
For ilka blade o' grass 

Keps its aiu drap o' dew. 

In lang, lang days o' simmer, 

When the clear and cloudless sky 
Refuses ae wee drap o' rain 

To Nature, parched and dry, 
The geni.il Night, wi' balmy breath. 

Gars verdure spring anew. 
An' ilka blade o' grass 

Keps its aiu drap o' dew. 

^ See the aruphficiUiou of this fragment by Sir WiUiam Jones. 



Sae lest 'mid fortune's sunshine 

We should feel ower proud an' hie. 
An' in our pride forget to wipe 

The tear frae poortith's' e'e. 
Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come. 

We ken na whence or hoo. 
But ilka blade o' grass 

Keps its aiu drap o' dew. 



flicnrji JotljergiU (Jlljovlcg. 

Chorley (1808-1873) was a native of England. He was 
a good musical critic, and a poet of no ordinary ability. 
His " Song of the Oak " was set to music by Henry Rus- 
sell. He wrote several plays and numerous librettos. 
His "Memoirs" by Hewlett appeared in 1873. 



THE BRAVE OLD OAK. 

A song for the oak, the brave old oak. 

Who hath ruled in the greenwood long ; 
Here's health and renown to his broad green crown, 

Aud his fifty arms so strong. 
There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down, 

And the fire iu the west fades out ; 
And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, 
When the storms through his branches shout. 
Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak, 

Who stands in his pride alone ; 
And still flourish he, a h.ale, green tree, 
AVhon a hundred years are gone! 

In the days of old, when the spring with gold 

Had brightened his branches gray. 
Through the grass <at his feet crept maidens sweet. 

To gather the dew of May. 
And ou that day to the rebec gay 

They frolicked with lovesome swains ; 
They are gone, they are dead, iu the church-yard laid. 

But the tree it still remains. 
Then here's to the oak, etc. 

He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes 

Were a merry sound to hear. 
When the squire's wide hall aud the cottage small 

Were filled with good English cheer. 
Now gold hath the sway we all obey, 

Aud a ruthless king is he ; 
But he never shall send our ancient friend 

To be tossed on the stormy sea. 
Then here's to the oak, etc. 

' Scottish for poverti/. 



LUCRETIA AXD MARGARET DAFIDSOX. 



643 



£ucrctia a\\h fllarciavct Danibson. 

AMERICANS. 

Liicretla Maria (1808-18i">) ami Mai<pirct Miller David- 
son (lS-i;!-lS3S), sisters, were the daiivrhtcrs of Dr. Oliver 
Davidson and Marsjarct Miller, lils wife, both pers^ons of 
culture and relincineut. Lucretia was born at Platts- 
burg, on the shore of Lake Champhiin. She was a 
precocious child and an assiduous student, and began to 
write verses before slic was ten years old. In 1824 she 
was sent to Mrs. Willard's wcU-knowu school in Troy. 
Here she ajiplied herselftoo closely to study. Her licalth 
soon failed, and she died ol consumption one month be- 
fore herscventeeulh birthday. A volume, entitled "Amir 
Khan, and other Poems," beini; a collection of her pieces, 
with a memoir, was published in 1S30 by Mr. S. F. 15. 
Morse, It attracted much attention, and was very favor- 
ably noticed in the London Qmirtabj Heview,\\\.,'M>, by 
Southey, who wrote: "In our own languaijc, except in 
the cases of Cliattcrton and Kirke White, we can call to 
mind no instance of so early, so ardent, and so fatal a 
pursuit of intellectual advancement." She showed as 
much talent for drawing as for literary work. 

-Margaret, the sister, was about two years old at the 
time of Lucrclia's death. She had the same imaginative 
traits, the same ardent, impulsive nature, and her life 
seems like a repetition of that of her elder sister. She 
improvised stories, wrote plays, and advanced so rapidly 
in her studies that it was necessary to check her dili- 
gence. She had the most lively reverence for her de- 
parted sister, and believed that she had close and inti- 
mate communion with her. At the age of six she took 
[■leasure in reading Milton, Cowper, Thomson, and Scott. 
■■-She was at times," says Irving, "in a kind of ecstasy 
from the excitement of her imagination and the exuber- 
ance of her pleasurable sensations. In such moods every 
object of natural beauty inspired a degree of rapture al- 
ways mingled with a feeling of gratitude to the Being 
'who had made so many beautiful things for her.' * * » 
A beautiful tree, or shrub, or flower would fill her with 
delight ; she would note with surprising discrimination 
the various effects of the weather on the surrounding 
landscape. A bright starlight night would seem to awa- 
ken a mysterious rapture in her infant bosom." 

Margaret died even younger than Lucretia; being at 
her death but liftecn years and eight months old. The 
wife of Southey (Caroline Bowles) addressed the follow- 
ing beautiful sonnet (1*43) "To the Mother of Lucretia 
and Margaret Davidson :" 

"O, Indy! prently favored! p;rently tried! 
Was ever jjlory, ever prief like thine, 
Since hers, the mother of the Man divine— 
The perfect one— tlie crowned, the crucified? 
Wonder and joy, hiph holies and chastened pride 
Tlirillcd thec; inteaily watching, hour by hour, 
Ttic fast anrolding of each human Qower, 
In hues of more than e.-irlhly brilliance dyed — 
And then, the blight— the fiidlag- the first fear— 
Tlie eickeniag hope— ihc doom— the end of all; 
Uearl-witliering, if indeed all ended here. 
Hut from the dast. the coflln, and the pall. 
Mother bereaved I thy learrul eyes upraise — 
Mother of angels! jolu their songs of praise 1" 



Lucretia's poems, with a memoir by Miss C. M. Sedg- 
wick, were republished 1842; Margaret's poems were in- 
troduced to the public under the kind auspices of Wash- 
ington Irving in 1841; aivl a revised edition of both, in 
one volume, appeared in 18.50. There was a brother, Lieu- 
tenant L. P. Davidson of the United States Army, who also 
wrote verses, and died young. We regard Margaret as 
evincing the superior genius. Among her productions 
is a poem of some fourteen hundred lines, entitled "Lc- 
nore." It has a "Dedication" to the spirit of her sis- 
ter, also an "Introduction," both of which we give en- 
tire. They are quite equal to the best work accomplished 
by Chatterton. A vohmic of selections from the writings 
of Jlrs. Davidson, the mother of these gifted cliildren, 
with a preface by Miss C. M. Sedgwick— all showing no 
ordinary degree of literary ability— ajipearcd in lSt4. 



TO MY SISTER. 

Lucretia M. Davidson. 

Lucretia had an elder sister, and was often moved by her 
anisic ; particularly by Sloore's " Farewell to my Harp." 'i'his 
she woald ask to have saug to her at twilight, when it w*tuld 
excite a shivering throngh her whole frame. On one occasion 
she became cold and pale, and was near fainting, and aflerward 
jionrcd her e.xcitcd feelings forth in the following address. This 
was in her flftecuth year. See Miss Sedgwick's Memoir. 

When evening spreads her shades around, 
And darkness fills the arch of heaven ; 

Wlieii not a iiiiiriniir, not a sound 
To Fancy'.s sportive ear is given ; 

When the liioud orb of heaven is bright, 
And looks around vrilh golden eye; 

When Nature, softened by her light, 
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie; 

Then, when our thoughts are raised above 
This world, and all this world cau give, — 

Oh, si.ster, sing tlie song I love. 
And tears of gratitude receive. 

The song which thrills my bosom's core, 
Ami hovering, trembles, half-afraid ; 

O, sister, slug the song oneo ukmo 

Which ne'er for mortal ear was made! 

'Tvvere almost sacrilege to sing 

Those notes amid the glare of day; 

Notes borne by angels' purest wing, 
And wafted by their breath away. 

When sleeping in my grass-grown bed, 
SlionUrst thou still linger here above, 

Wilt thou not kneel beside my head, 
And, sister, sing the song I love T 



644 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



PROPHECY: TO A LADY. 

LdcRETIA M. DAVID30X. 

I have tolil a maiden of hours of grief; 
Of a bleeding heart, of a joyless life; 
I have read her a tale of future woe ; 
I have marked her a iiathway of sorrow below ; 
I have read on the page of her blooming cheek 
A darker doom than my tongue dare speak. 
Now, maiden, for thee, I will turn my eye 
To a brighter path through futurity. 
The clouds shall pass from thy brow away, 
And bright be the closing of life's long day ; 
The storms shall murmur in silence to sleep, 
And angels around thee their watches shall keep ; 
Thou shalt live in the sunbeams of love and delight. 
And thy life shall flow on till it fades into night; 
And the twilight of ago shall come quietly on ; 
Thou wilt fee], yet regret not, that daylight hath 

down ; 
For the shadows of evening shall melt o'er thy soul. 
And the soft dreams of Heaven around thee shall roll. 
Till sinking in sweet dreamless slumber to rest. 
In the arms of thy loved one, still blessing and blessed. 
Thy soul shall glide on to its hai'ljor in Heaven, 
Every tear wiped away — every error forgiven! 



DEDICATION OF "LENORE." 

TO THE SPIRIT OF 5IV SISTER LUCRETIA. 

Yet more renifivknble in some respects thftii nuy of the poems 
I'v LuciTtiii, is the fo]Io^villLr, we think, written by Margaret be- 
fore her tifleeuth year. 

O thou, so early lost, so long deplored ! 

Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near! 
And while I touch this hallowed harp of thine. 

Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear! 

For thee I pour this unaffected lay, 

To thee these simple numbers all belong; 

For though thine earthly form hath passed away, 
Thy memory still inspires my childish song. 

Then take this feeble tribute! 'tis thine own! 

Thy fingers sweep my trembling heart-strings o'er ; 
Aronso to harmony each buried tone. 

And bid its wakened music sleep no more! 

Long hath thy voice been silent, and thy lyre 
Hnng o'er thy grave in death's unbroken rest. 

But when its last sweet tones were borne away, 
One answering echo lingered in my breast. 



O thou pure spirit ! if thou lioverest near, 
Accept these lines, unworthy though they be, 

Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine. 
By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee. 



JOY. 

Margaret M. Davidson. 

Oh ! my bosom is throbbing with joy, 
With a rapture too full to express : 

From within and without I am blessed; 
And the world, like myself, I would bless. 

All nature looks fair to my eye. 

From beneath and arouud and above : 

Hope smiles in the clear azure sky. 

And the broad earth is glowing with love. 

I stand on the threshold of life, 

On the shore of its wide-rolling sea; — 

I have heard of its storms and its strife, 
But all things are tranquil to me. 

There's a veil o'er the future, — 'tis bright 

As the wing of a spirit of air; 
Aud each form of enchantment and light 

Is trembling in Iris hues there. 

I turn to the world of affection. 

And warm, glowing treasures are mine; — 

To the past, — and my fond recollection 
Gathers roses from memory's shrine. 

But oh! there's a fountain of joy 

More rich than a kingdom beside : 
It is holy ; — death cannot destroy 

The flow of its heavenly tide. 

'Tis the love that is gushing within; — 

It would bathe the whole world in its light. 

Which the cold stream of time shall not quencli. 
The dark frown of woe shall not blight. 

Though age, with an icy-cold finger, 
May stamp his pale seal on my brow, 

Slill, still in my bosom shall linger 
The glow that is warming it now. 

Youth will vanish, and Pleasure, gay charmer. 
May depart on the wings of to-day ; 

But that spot in my heart shall grow warmer, 
As year after year rolls away. 



LUCRETIA ASD MARGAUET DAriDSOX. 



G45 



IXTUODUCTIOX TO "LEXOHK: A POEM." 

The r)llo\viiij;, written by Mnrgaret bcfaro t*he was tUieeu 
years old, is anmng llic most remarkable of Uer poems, in vigor 
and maturity of expression. 

Why slionUl / sing f The scenes which roused 

The bards of old arouse no more ; 
The reign of Poesy hath passed, 

And till hrr glowiny dreams are o'er: — 
Why shoiilil I sing? A thousand harps 

Have toucliud the self-saiue cliords before, 
Of lovo and hate and hifty pride, 

And fields of battle bathed iu gore ! 
Why should 1 seek the buruiug fount 

From whence their glowing fancies sprung f 
My feeble muse can only sing 

What other, uoblcr bards have sung! 

Thus did I breathe my sad complaiut, 

As, bending o'er my Silent lyre, 
I sighed for some romantic theme 

Its slumbering music to inspire. 
Scarce had I spoke when o'er my soul 

.V low, reproving whisper came ; 
My heart instinctive shrank with awe. 

And conscience tinged my cheek with sliainc. 
'•Down with thy vain, repining thoughts! 

Xor dare to breathe those thonghts again ; 
Or eiulless sleep shall bind thy lyre. 

And scorn repel thy bursting strain! 

"What though a thousand bards have sung 

The charms of earth, of air, or sky ! 
A thonsaml minstrels, old and young, 

Poured forth their varied melody! 
What though, inspired, they stooped lo diink 

At Fancy's fountain o'er and o'er! 
.Say, feeble warbler, dost thou think 

The glowing streandet llows no more? 
Because a nobler hand hath culled 

The loveliest of our earthly (lowers. 
Dost thou believe that all of bloom 

Hath lied those bright, poetic bowers f 

•■ Know. then, that long as earth shall roll, 

Hevolviiig 'nealli yiui azure sky. 
Music shall charm each purer soul. 

And Fancy's fount shall never dry ! 
Long as the ndllng seasons change. 

And Xatiire liolils her empire here; 
Long as the human eye can range 

O'er you pure heaven's expanded sphere ; 



Long as the ocean's broad expanse 
Lies spread beneath you broader sky ; 

Long as the jdayful moonbeams dance, 
I-ike fairy forms, on billows high, — 

"So long, nnboHud by mortal chain. 

Shall Genius spread her soaring wing ; 
So long the i)ure, poetic fount 

Unchecked, unfettered, on shall spring.! 
Thou say'st the days of song have jiassed, — • 

The glowing days of wild romance, 
When War ponied out his clarion blast. 

And Valor bowed at Beauty's glance! 
Wlien every hour that onward sped 

Was fraught with some bewildering tale; 
When Superstition's .shadowy hand 

O'er trembling nations cast her veil ;— 

"TIiou say'st that life's unvaried stream 

In peaceful ripples wears away ; 
And years produce no fitting theme 

To rou.se the Poet's slumbering lay : — 
Not so ! while yet the hand of God 

Each year adorns his teeming earth; 
While dew-drops deck the verdant sod, 

And birds ami bees and flowers have biith ; 
While every day unfolds anew 

Some charm to meet the searching eye ; 
While buds of every varying htto 

Are bni-sting 'neath a sumtner sky ! 

"'Tis trtto that Wat's unsparing hand 

Ilath ceased to bathe onr fields iu gore. 
That Fate hath tiuenched his bnrniiig brand. 

And tyrant princes reign no more; — 
Kilt dost thou think that scenes like these 

Fcuni all the poetry of life f 
Wonlil thy untutored mu.se delight 

In scenes of rapine, blood, and strife? 
No! there are boundless fields of thought, 

Where roving spirit never soared; 
Which wildest Fancy never sought. 

Nor boldest Intellect explored! 

"Then bow not silent o'er thy lyre. 

But tnno its chords to Nature's praise : 
At every turn thine eye shall meet 

Fit themes to form a Poet's lays! 
Go forth, prepared her sweetest smiles 

Ii! all her loveliest scenes to view ; 
X'or diem, though others there have knelt. 

Thou may'st not weave thy garland too I" 



646 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



— It iiaused : I felt how true the -words, 
How sweet the comfort they conveyed ! 

I chased my mourniug thoughts away — 
I heard — I trusted — I obeyed ! 



FROM "LINES TO LUCEETIA." 

or the poem, written by Margaret Davidson wlien slie was 
not fourft^en years old, from which we here give an extract, 
Washington Irving remarks: " We may have read poetry more 
arliflcially perfect in its structure, but never any more truly 
divine in its inspiration." 

My sister! with this mortal eye, 
I ne'er shall see thy form again ; 

And never shall this mortal ear 

Drink in the sweetness of thy strain : 

Yet fancy wild, and glowing love, 
Reveal thee to my spirit's view, 

Enwreathed with graces from above, 

And decked in Heaven's own fadeless hue. 

I hear tliee in the snmmer breeze. 
See thee in all that's pure or fair ; 

Thy whisper in the murmuring trees, 
Thy breath, thy spirit everywhere ! 

Thy lingers wake my youthful lyre, 
And teach its softer strains to flow ; 

Thy spirit checks each vain desire. 
And gilds the lowering brow of woe. 

When all is still, and fancy's realm 

Is opening to the eager view. 
Mine eye full oft, in search of thee. 

Roams o'er that vast expanse of blue. 

I know tliat here thy harp is mute. 
And quenched the bright poetic lire ; 

Yet still I bend my ear to catch 
Tlie hymnings of thy seraph lyre. 

Oil ! if this i)artial converse now 
So joyous to my heart can be. 

How must the streams of rapture flow 
When both are chainless, both are free ! 



Caroline Norton. 

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Sheridan (1S0S-1ST7), (laugli- 
ter of Thomas Sheridan, son of the celebrated Ricliard 
Briiisley Sheridan, author of "The Rivals," "The School 
for Scandal," etc., was a native of London. She was one 



of three sisters ; one became Lady Seymour, and the oth- 
er Mrs. Blackwood (afterward Lady Dufl'erin). They all 
manifested a taste for poetry. Caroline began to write 
early; she had inherited the literary gift both from the 
paternal and the maternal side. In her nineteenth year 
she married Mr. Norton, sou of Lord Grantley. This 
union was dissolved in 1840, after Mrs. Norton had been 
the object of suspicion and persecution of the most pain- 
ful description. "The Sorrows of Rosalie," "The Un- 
dying One," "The Dream, and other Poems," "The 
Child of the Islands," are among her productions in 
verse. She also wrote novels, and entered into political 
discussions on reformatory questions. A year or two 
before her death she married Sir William Sterling Max- 
well (1817-1879), author of "The Cloister Life of Charles 
V." (1852), and other works. A critic in the Quarterly 
Review says of Mrs. Norton : " She has much of that in- 
tense personal passion by which Byron's poetry is dis- 
tingnished from the larger grasp and deeper communion 
with nature of Wordsworth." 



BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 

A .soldier of the Legion, 

Lay dying at Algiers; 
There was lack of woman's nursing, 

There was dearth of woman's tears ; 
But a comrade stood beside hiui, 

While his life-blood elibed away. 
And bent with pitying glances 

To hear what he might say. 
The dying soldier faltered 

As he took that comrade's hand, 
And he said, "I never more shall see 

My own, my native land ; 
Take a message and a token 

To some distant friends of mine; 
For I was horn at Biiigeu, 

Fair Bingcn on the Rhine. 

" Tell my brothers and companions, 

When they meet and crowd around 
To hear my mournful story. 

In the pleasant vineyard ground. 
That we fought the battle bravely ; 

And when the day was done, 
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale 

Beneath the setting sun ; 
And 'mid the dead and dying 

Were some grown old in wars, 
Tlio death-wound on their gallant breasts. 

The last of many scars ; 
But some were young, and suddenly 

Beheld life's morn decline ; 
And one had come from Bingeu, 

From Bingen on the Rhine. 



CAROLINE NORTON. 



647 



"Tell my motlicr that her otber sons 

Shall comfort licr old age, 
Ami \ was aye a truaat bird 

Tbat thoiigbt bis bome a cage ; 
Tor my fatber was a soldier, 

Aiul, eveu as a cbild. 
My beart leaped forth to bear liim tell 

Of struggles fierce and wild ; 
And wben be died, and left us 

To divide bis scanty board, 
I let them take wbate'er tbey would, 

But kept my father's sword; 
And with boyish lovo I bung it 

Where the bright light used to sbiue, 
On the cottage wall at Bingeu — 

Calm Biugea ou tbe Rhiuo! 

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, 

And sob with drooping bead, 
When the troops are marching borne again, 

With glad and gallant tread! 
But to look upon them proudly, 

With a calm and steadfast eye, 
For her brother was a soldier. 

And not afraid to die. 
And if a comrade seek iier love, 

I ask bcr in my name, 
To listen to bini kindly, 

Without regret or shame, 
And hang the old sword in its place, 

(My father's sword and mine,) 
For the honor of old Bingen, 

Dear Bingen ou tbo Kbine. 

"There's another, not a sister — 

In the bap(>y days gone by 
You'd have known her by tbo merriment 

That sparkled in ber eye ; 
Too innocent for coquetry, 

Too fond for idle scorning — 
Oh I friend, I f.'ar tbe lightest beart 

Makes sometimes heaviest mourning! 
Tell ber tbo last night of my life — 

For ero tbo morn bo risen 
My body will bo out of pain. 

My soul Iio out of prison — 
I dreamed that I stood with ber 

And saw the yellow sunlight sbino 
On the viuc-clad bills of Biugen, 

Fair Bingeu on tbe Rhine. 

" I saw tbe blue Rhine sweep along ; 
I heard, or seemed to bear. 



Tbe German songs wo nsed to sing. 

In chorus sweet and clear; 
And down the pleasaut river, 

Anil up the slanting bill 
That echoing chorus sounded 

Through tbe evening calm and still ; 
And ber glad blue eyes were on me, 

As we passed with friendly talk, 
Down many a path beloved of yore. 

And well-remembered walk ; 
And ber little band lay lightly, 

Contidiugly in mine — 
But we'll meet no more at Bingen, 

Loved Bingen on the Rhine." 

His voice grew faint and hoarser. 

His grasp was childish weak. 
His eyes put on a dying look. 

He sighed, and ceased to speak ; 
His comrade bent to lift him, 

But tbe spark of life bad fled — 
Tbe soldier of tbe Legion 

In a foreign laud was dead ! 
And the soft moon rose up slowly. 

And calmly she looked down 
On the red sand of the battle-field, 

AVitb bloody corses strewn — 
Yea, calmly ou that dreadful scene. 

Her pale light seemed to shiuo 
As it shone ou distaut Bingen, 

Fair Bingen ou tbe Rbioc ! 



THE CHILD OF EARTH. 

Fainter her slow step falls from day to day, 

Death's baud is heavy ou ber darkening brow; 
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say, 

" I am content to die, but oh, not now ! 
Not while tbe blossoms of tbo joyous spring 

Make tbe warm air such luxury to breathe ; 
Not while tbe birds such lays of gladness sing ; 

Not while bright flowers around my footsteps 
wreathe. 
Spare me, great God, lift up my drooping brow! 
I am content to die — but oh, not now!" 

The spring hath ripened into snramcr-time, 
Tbe season's viewless boundary is p.ist; 

Tbe glorious sun bath reached bis burning prime ; 
Oh ! must this glimpse of beauty be the last T 

" Let mo not perish while o'er land and lea, 
With silent steps the lord of light moves on; 



648 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Nor while the murmuv of the mouutaiu bee 

Greets my dull ear with music in its tone! 
Palo sickness dims my eye, and clouds mj' brow ; 
I am content to die — bnt oli, not now!" 

Summer is gone, and antnmn's soberer hues 

Tint the ripe frnits, and gild the waving corn ; 
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues, 

Shouts the halloo, and winds his eager horn. 
" Spare me awhile to wander forth and gaze 

On the broad meadows and the quiet stream. 
To watch in silence while the evening rays 

Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam ! 
Cooler the breezes play around my brow ; 
I am content to die — but oh, uot uow !" 

The bleak wind whistles, snow-showers, far and near. 

Drift without echo to the whitening ground; 
Autumn hath passed away, and, cold and drear, 

Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound. 
Yet still that prayer ascends: — "Oh! laughingly 

My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd. 
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high. 

And the roof rings with voices glad and loud ; 
Spare me awhile ! raise up my drooping brow ! 
I am content to die — but oh, not now!" 

The spring is come again — the joyfnl spring ! 

Again the banks with clustering flowers are 
spread ; 
The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing — 

The child of earth is numbered with the dead! 
" Thee never more the sunshiue shall awake, 

Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane; 
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break, 

Nor fond familiar voice arouse again! 
Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow ; 
Why didst thou linger? — thou art happier now!"' 



TO MY IJOOKS. 

Mrs. Norton preferi-ed to write lier sonnets in the •' Sbakspen- 
rian stanza," as, to lier raiud, *' abetter Eni^lish model than tlint 
adopted by Jlilton." 

Silent companions of the lonely hour. 
Friends, who can never alter or forsake ! 
Who, for inconstant roving have no power. 
And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take, — 
Let me return to you : this turmoil ending 
Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought. 
And o'er your old familiar pages bending 
Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought! — 



Till, haply meeting there, from time to time, 
Fancies, the audible echo of my own, 
'Twill be like hearing in a foreign clijne 
My native language, spoke in friendly tone, 
And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell 
On these, my unripe musings; told eo well! 



LOVE NOT. 

Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay ! 

Hope's gayest wreaths are made ofearthly flowers — 
Things that are made to fiide and fall away. 

Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours. 

Love uot, love uot ! The thing yon love maj' change, 
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you; 

Tile kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange, 
The heart still warndy beat, yet not be true. 

Love not, love not ! The thing you love may die — 
May perish from the gay and gladsome earth ; 

The silent stars, the bine aud smiling sky. 
Beam on its grave as once upon its birth. 

Love uot, love uot ! Oh warning vainly said 
lu present hours as in the years gone by ; 

Love flings a halo round the dear one's head, 
Faultless, immortal — till they chauge or die. 



THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 

Word was brought to the Danish King 

{Emrij!) 
That the love of his heart lay .sutt'cring. 
And pined for tlie comfort his voice would bring 

{Oh! ride as thoiiijlt yon n-ere flij'uirj !) 
Better he loves each golden curl 
On the bi'ow of that Scandinavian girl. 
Than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and pearl: 
And his Rose of the Isles is dying! 

Thirty nobles saddled with speed; 

{Hurry!) 
Each one mounting a gallant steed, 
Which he kept for battle and days of uecd ; 

{Ok! ride as ihotifih you nxre flying !) 
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank — 
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank — 
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst — 
But ride as they would, the King rode first, 
For his Rose of the Isles lay dying! 



CAROLIXE SORTOX.—CaARLES {TENNYSON) TURNER. 



641) 



His nobles are beateu, one by one, 

{Uuiry!) 
Tlioy liave fainted, and faltered, and lionieward gone ; 
His liltlo fair pajri' now follows alone — 

For Ktreiij;lli and for conra^o tryini;! 
riu' Kiiif; looked Iiaek at that faithful child ; 
Wan was the face that answering smiled ; 
Tliey passed the drawbridge with clattering din, 
Then he dropped ; and only the King rode iu 
Where his Kose of the Isles lay dying ! 

The King blew a blast on his bnglo-horn ; 

(Silence!) 
No answer came; bnt faint and forlorn 
An echo retnrTied on the cold gray morn, 
Like the brealli of a spirit sighing. 
The castle portal stood grimly wide ; 
None welcomed the King from that weary ride; 
I'or dead, in the light of the dawning day, 
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, 
Who had yearned for his voice while dying! 

The panting 8teeil,with a drooping crest, 

Stood weary ! 
The King returned from her chamber of rest. 
The thick sobs choking in his breast, 

And, that ilnmb companion eying — 
The tears gushed forth which he stros-e to check, 
lie bowed his head on his charger's neck — 
" O steed ! that every nervo didst strain, 
Hear steed, onr rido hath been in vain 
To the halls where mj- love lav dving!'' 



Cl)arlcs (iTcuiujsou! itunicr. 

Cliiirles Tennyson (1808-1879), a native of Somcrsby, 
Lincolnsliire, w;i8 educated, like his ilUistiious brother, 
Alfred, at tlie Grammar School of Loutli, from wliicli tlie 
two youtlis put forth in 1837 "Poems liy Two Brolliers." 
Subsequently lliey removed to Trinity College, Cam- 
l)ridge, where another brother, Frederick, the eldest, h.td 
preceded them. Some time after leaving college, Charles, 
for family rea-sons, assumed his grandmotlicr's name of 
Turner. In 183fi he took holy orders, and became Vicar 
nfGrasby. He published (ISIiO) " Soinicts and Fugitive 
Pieces." Of the sonnets, Coleridge says, in his "Tables- 
Talk," they "have many of the cliaracteristic excellences 
of those of Wordsworth and Southey." A second vol- 
ume was issued in 1804; a third in 18C8; in 1873, "Son- 
nets, Lyrics, and Translations ;" and in 1880, a posthu- 
mous volume of Turner's collected poems. His sonnets 
have the charm of unambitious simplicity and concrete 
clearness. In one of them, addressed (1868) to his brother 
Allj-cd, the poet-laureate, he pays the following beautiful 



and affectionate tribute to the "In Memoriam" of the 

latter : 

" That bonlc of memory 
Which is to grievinj; hearts like the sweet sotuh 
To ilie parchetl meadow, or the dying tree; 
Whicli nils with cicgy the craving niouttt 
Of sorrow— slakes with 8(Ht^ tier pileoas drouth. 
And leaves her calm, thongh wecpiug gjlenlly." 



MORXING. 

It is the fairest sight in Nature's realms 

To seo on summer morning, dewy-sweet, 

That very type of freshness, the green wheat. 

Surging through shadows of the hedge-row elms; 

How the eye revels in the many shapes 

And colors which the risen day restores .' 

How the wind blows the poppy's scarlet capes 

About his nrn ! and how the lark npsoars! 

Not like the timid corn-crake scudding fast 

From his own voice, be with him takes his song 

Heavenward, then striking sideways, shoots along, — 

Happy as sailor-boy that, from the mast. 

Kirns out npoii the yard-arm, — till at last 

He sinks into his nest, those clover tufts among. 



Tin: I.ATTUi: AT SFNinsF. 

As on my bed at dawn I mused and prayed, 
I saw uiy lattice prankt upon the wall. 
The llanntitig leaves and Hitting birds withal, — 
A snnny phantom interlaced with shade. 
"Thanks bo to Heaven," in happy mood, I said; 
"What sweeter aid my matins could befall 
Tlian (his fair glory from the East hath made? 
What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of all, 
To bid ns feel and sec ! Wo are not free 
To say wo sec not, for the glory comes 
Nightly and daily, like the llowing .sea: 
His lustre pierecth through the midnight glooms; 
And, at prime hour, beliolil. He follows me 
With golden shadows to my secret rooms!" 



A BRILLIANT 1»AV. 

O, keen pcUncid air! nothing can Inrk 

Or disavow it.self on this bright day; 

Tlio small rain-plashes shine from far away. 

The tiny emmet glitters at his work ; 

Tho bee looks blitlio and gay, and as she i>lies 

Her task, and moves and sidles round the cup 

Of this spring llower, to drink its honey up, 

Her glassy wiugs, like oars that dip and rise, 



650 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BHITISH AND AMEBIC AK POETRY. 



Gleam momently. Pure-bosomed, clear of fog, 
The long lake glistens, wbile the glorions beam 
Bespangles the wet joints anil floating leaves 
Of water-plants, whose every point receives 
His light ; and jellies of the spawning frog, 
Unmarked before, like piles of jewels seem ! 



LETTY'S GLOBE. 

ON SOME iriREGULAPJTIES IN A FIRST LESSON IN 
GEOGltArilY. 

When Letty had scarce passed her third glad year. 
And her young artless words began to How, 
One day we gave the child a colored sphere 
Of the wide Earth, that she might mark and know 
By tint and outline all its sea and land. 
She patted all the world ; old empires peeped 
Between her baby-fingers ; her soft hand 
Was welcome at all frontiers; how she leaped. 
And laughed, and prattled, in her pride of bliss! 
But when we turned her sweet nulearndd eye 
On our own Isle, she raised a joyous cry, 
"Oh yes! I see it, Letty's home is there!" 
And while she hid all England with a kiss. 
Bright over Europe fell her golden hair. 



I^oratius Bonar. 



Boimr (1808-1869), a distinguished evangelical Ijynin- 
writer, was a native of Edinburgh. His ancestors lor 
several successive generations were ministers of the 
Church of ScotUmd. Educated at the University of 
Edinburgh, and ordained to the ministry at Kelso in 
1837, he was the author of several tlieological works. 
Latterly he ministered to tlic Chalmers Memorial Free 
Church, Edinburgh. His poetical works consist of his 
"LyraConsolationis," and "Hymns of Faitli and Hope," 
of wliicli a tliird series has been published. 



HOW TO LIVE. 

He livetli long who liveth well! 

All other life is short and vain: 
Ho liveth longest who can tell 

Of living most for heavenly gain. 

He liveth long who liveth well ! 

All else is being flung away ; 
He liveth longest who can tell 

Of true things truly done each day. 

Waste not tby being; back to Him 
Who freely gave it, freely give ; 



Else is that being bnt a dream : 
'Tis but to if, and not to live. 

Be what thou seemest ! live thy creed! 

Hold up to earth the torch divine ; 
Be what thou prayest to be made ; 

Let the great Master's steps be thine. 

Fill up each hour with what will last; 

Buj' up the moments as they go : 
The life above, when this is past, 

Is the rijie fruit of life below. 

Sow truth, if thou the true wouldst reap ; 

Who sows the false shall reap the vain ; 
Erect and sound thy conscience keep ; 

From hollow words and deeds refrain. 

Sow love, and taste its fruitage pnre ; 

Sow peace, and reap its harvests bright ; 
Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor, 

And find a harvest-home of light. 



THE INNER CALM. 

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, 
While these hot breezes blow ; 

Be like the night-dew's cooling balm 
Ujiou earth's fevered brow. 

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, 

Soft resting on thy breast ; 
Soothe me with holy hymn aud psalm, 

And bid my spirit rest. 

Calm me, my God, and keep mo calm ; 

Let thine ontstretclK'd wing 
Be like the shade of Elim's palm 

Beside her desert spring. 

Yes, keep me calm, though loud and rude 
The sounds my ear that greet ; 

Calm in the closet's solitude. 
Calm in the bustling street ; 

Calm iu the hour of buoyant health, 

Calm in the hour of pain ; 
Calm in my jiovcrty or wealth. 

Calm iu my loss or gain ^ 

Calm in the sufferance of wrong, 
Like Him who bore my shame ; 



iriLLIAM 1). CALLAGJIEH. 



051 



Calm 'iiiirt the threatening, taunting throng, 
AVho liate thy linly uaiiio. 

Calm when the great world's news with power 

Jly listening spirit stir: 
Let not the tiilings of the hour 

KVr linil too fond an ear. 

Calm as the ray of sun or star. 
Which storms assail in vain, 
Jloving nnruftli'd Ihrongh earth's war 



lllilliam D. (^allagljcr. 

AMERICAN. 

Gallagher wns born in 1808 in Philadelphia, but went 
West at an early age, learned the trade of a pihitcr; and 
became connected willi various journals, literary and 
political. He bold several offices of trust under goveru- 
nient; but iu 18.13 retired to a farm near Louisville, Ky. 
llis Western ballads and some of his lyrical pieces entitle 
him to an honorable place among the natural poets wlio 
sing with the spontaneousncss of the bird. Esteemed for 
his high personal qualities, Gallagher is one of the best 
reiiresentalives of the American character in literature. 



FROM "MY FIFTIKTH YEAR."' 

Heantifnl, beautiful youth! that iu the soul 
Livetli forever, whi'ro sin liveth not, — 

How fresh Creation's chart doth still unroll 
Before onr eyes, although the little spot 

That knows us now shall know ns goon no more 

Forever! We look backward and bef(ue, 
And inward, and we feel there is a life 

Impi'lling us, that need not with this frame 

Or llesh grow feeble, but for aye the same 
May live on, e'en amid this worldly strife, 

Clothed with the beauty and the freshness still 

It brought with it at lirst ; and that it will 
Glide alnnist impereeptibly away, 
Taking no taint of this dissolving clay; 

And, joining with the incorruptible 
And spiritual body that awaits 
It.s coming at the starred and golden gates 

Of Heaven, move on with the celestial train 
Whose shining vestments, as along they stray. 
Flash with the splendors of eternal day; 

And mingle with its Primal Source again. 

Where Faith, Hope, Charily, and Love and Truth, 
Dwell with the Godhead in immortal youth. 

' Coiitril)«IC(l to CoKi;c6linira" Poets mill Poetry of the West" 
(Colnnibn?, Ohio, ISCnj. 



LINES. 

When last the maple bud was swelling, 

When last the crocus bloomed below, 
Tliy heart to mine its love was telling; 

Thy soul with mine kept ebb and How : 
Again the maple bud is swelling. 

Again the crocus blooms below: — 
In heaven thy heUrt its love is telling. 

Hut still our souls keep ebb and llow. 

When last the April bloom was Hinging 

Sweet odors on the air of .Spring, 
In forest aisles thy voice was ringing. 

Where thou didst with the red-bird sing. 
Again the April bloom is flinging 

Sweet odors on the air of Spring, 
But now in heaven thy voice is" ringing. 

Where thou dost with tho angels sing. 



THE LABORER. 

Stand up — erect ! Thou hast the form 
And likeness of thy God! — who inoref 

A soul as dauntless 'mid tho storm 

Of daily life, a heart as warm 
And pure as breast e'er wore. 

What then 7 — Thou art as true a man 
As moves tho human nm.ss among; 
As nnieh a part of the great plan. 
That with creation's dawn began, 
As any of tho throng. 

Wlio is thine enemy? the high 

In station, or in wealth the chief f 
Tlie great, who coldly p.a.ss thee by, 
Willi proud step an<l averted eye? 
Nay! nurse not such belief. 

If true nnto thyself thou wast, 

What were tho proud one's scorn to (hee f 
A feather, whii-h th<m mightcst cast 
Aside, as idly as the blast 

The light leaf from tho tree. 

No: — uncurbed passions, low desires, 

Absence of noble self-respect, 
I)e:ith, in the breast's coiisnmiiig fires, 
To that high nature which aspires 

Forever, till thus cheekeil ; 



G52 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BMITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



These are tbine enemies — thy ■worst ; 

Tliey cUaiii tbeo to tlij' lowly lot: 
Thy labor and thy life accursed. 
Oh, stand erect! aud from tbeiii burst! 

And longer suffer not! 

Thou art thyself thine enemy ! 

Tbo great ! — what better they than thou ! 
As theirs, is not thy wilt as free ? 
Has God with equal favors thee 

Neglected to endow ? 

True, wealtb thou bast not — 'tis but dust! 

Nor place — uucertaiu as the wind! 
But that thou hast, which, with thy crust 
And water, may despise the lust 

Of both — a noble mind! 

With this, and passions under ban. 
True faitli, and holy trust in God, 

Tbon art the peer of any man. 

Look up, then, that thy little span 
Of life may be well trod! 



FROM "illAMI W00D8." 

The autumn-time is with us! Its appioacb 
Was heralded, not many days ago, 
By hazy skies that veiled the brazen sun, 
Aud sea-like murmurs from the rustling corn, 
Aud low-voiced brooks that wandered drowsily 
By purpling clusters of the juicy grape, 
Swinging upon the vine. Aud now 'tis here ! 
Aud what a change hath passed upon the face 
Of Nature, where the waving forest spreads. 
Then robed in deepest green ! All through the night 
The subtle frost hath plied its mystic art ; 
Aud in the day the golden sun hatli wrought 
True wonders ; aud the winds of morn and even 
Have touched with magic breath the changing 

leaves. 
And now, as wanders the dilating eyo 
Athwart the varied landscape, circling far. 
What gorgeousness, what blazonry, what pomp 
Of colors bursts upon the ravished sight! 
Here, where the maple rears its yellow crest, 
A golden glory : yonder, where the oak 
Stands monarch of the forest, and the ash 
Is girt with flauie-like parasite, and broad 
The dog-wood spreads beneath, a rolling field 
Of deepest crimson ; and afar, where looms 
The gnarl(5d gum, a cloud of bloodiest red ! 



Out in the woods of Autumn ! — I have cast 
Aside the shackles of the town, tliat vex 
Tlie fetterless soul, and come to hide mj'sclf, 
Miami ! in thy venerable shades. 
Low on thy bank, where spreads the velvet moss, 
My limbs recline. Beneath me, silver-bright. 
Glide the clear waters, with a plaintive moan 
Fur summer's parting glories. High o'erhead. 
Seeking tlie sedgy lakes of the warm South, 
Sails tireless the unerring water-fowl. 
Screaming among the cloud-racks. Oft from w here, 
Ei'cct on mossy trunk, the partridge stands. 
Bursts suddculy the whistle clear and loud. 
Far-echoing througli the dim wood's fretted aisles. 
Deep murmurs from the trees, beuding with brown 
And ripened mast, are interrui)ted now 
By sounds of dropping nuts ; and warily 
The turkey from the thicket comes, and swift, 
As flies au arrow, darts the jdieasant down, 
To batten on the autumn ; aud the air. 
At times, is darkened by a sudden rush 
Of myriad wings, as the wild pigeon leads 
His squadrons to the banquet. 



©liiKv lUeuiicll tjolincs. 

AMERICAN. 

Holmes was bom in Cambridge, M;iss., in 1809, and ed- 
uciited at Harvard College, wliere lie graduated in 1829. 
His fattier, the Rev. Abdiel Holmes, was tlie autlior of 
"American Auuals" (1805). Our poet studied medicine 
abroad some three years. He received liis degree ofM.D. 
in 1836, and in 1847 was appointed Professor of Anatomy 
in Harvard College — succeeding Dr. Warren. As a lect- 
urer on medical science, he was distinguished aud popu- 
lar. Indeed bis scientific tastes seem to have equalled 
bis literary. As a microscopist be has had few superiors 
in America. Holmes began to publisli poetry in T/ie Col- 
liv/Mii (1830), a magaziue somewhat on tlie plan of T/ie 
Etonian, and containing pieces from John O. Sargent, 
William n. Sinmions, and other undergraduates of Har- 
vard ; also from Epos Sargeut. Here some of the witti- 
est of Holmes's early poems appeared. He contributed 
to the Kcw England Magazine (1836) certain bumorous 
papers, entitled "The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table." 
These be resumed, some twenty years afterward, in the 
AUautic Montkbj, and the result was the wittiest book 
by which American literature had yet been distinguished. 
It has been as much a favorite in England as in bis own 
country, and has been translated into German. He sub- 
sequently contributed two novels, "Elsie Venner"and 
" The Guardian Angel," to the Atlantic Monthly. 

The first collection of bis poems was published in Bos- 
ton in 1836; a second appeared in 1848; and collections 
were published in England in 184.'), 18.53, IS.'Jo, and 1878. A 
complete American collection appeared in 1877. Holmes's 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 



fi5:i 



strengtli lies in liis lyrics and his short poems. Indeed, 
he lias attempted no sustained llii,'lit of an epic or dra- 
matic character. In his "Astnea" and otlicr rhymed 
essays lie shows a mastery of the heroic measiire, not ex- 
celled by Pope or Goldsmith in its visorous but mellillii- 
ous flow. lie belongs, however, neither to the old nor 
the new school of verse. He has created a school of liis 
own. In no poet of the day is the individuality more 
marked. In his poems of wit, humor, and pathos, whicli 
form the larger part of his productions, he reminds us of 
no predecessor or contemporary ; aad in his serious po- 
ems, like "The Nautilus," he is fresh and original, never 
imilative in style and thought. These qualities give to 
his verse enduring elements, which must commend them 
to a late posterity, equally with the works of the most 
eminent poets among his eonteniporarie.*, English and 
American. In his prose and in his jioctry his wit has 
never a taint of coarseness or asperity. Brilliant, inci- 
sive, and delicate in style, it attains its end only by means 
the most pure and legitimate. Happy in his domestic 
and paternal relations, and in his host of friends, few 
poets have had so smooth a lot as Holmes, or such a 
foretaste of that posthumous fame which his writings 
qiust command. His seventieth birthday called forth a 
iriand enterlahiment given by his Boston publishers, at 
which many of the leading men and women of letters in 
the country were present. 



BILL AXU JOE. 

Conic, dear old comrade, you aud I 

Will steal an hour from days gone by, — 

I'he shining days when life wa.s new, 

.\mi1 all was bright with morning dew, — 

Till' lusty days of long ago, 

Wlieu you were Bill and I was Joe. 

Yonr name may flaunt a titled trail, 
I'rond as a cockerel's rainbow tail ; 
And mine as brief apppndi.\ wear 
As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare; 
To-day, old friend, remember Rtlll 
That I am Joe, aiul yon are ISill. 

You've won the great world's envied prize, 

.\nd grand yon look in people'.s eyes. 

With HON and L L D 

In big brave letters, fair to gee, — 

VcHir fist, nlil fi-llow ! off they go! — 

How are yon. Hill f How are yon, Joe f 

You've won the judge's ermined robe ; 
You've taught yonr name to half the globe; 
You've sung mankind a deathless strain ; 
You've made the dead past live again: 
The world may c;ill you what it will, 
lint yon ami I are Joe and Hill. 



The chafling young folks stare and say, 
"See tho.se (dd bnlfers, bent and gray, — 
They talk like fellows in their teens! 
JIad, poor old boys ! That's what it means," 
And shake their heads; tliey little know 
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joel — 

How Bill forgets his hour of pride, 
While Joe sits smiling at his side ; 
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, 
Finds the old school-mate in his eyes, — 
Those calm, stern eyes that melt aud fill. 
As Joe looks fondly np at Hill. 

All, pensive scholar, what is fame ? 

A fitful tongno of leaping flame ; 

A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, 

That lifts a pinch of mortal dust; 

A (\'\\ swift years, and who can show 

Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe? 

Tlio -weary idol takes his stand. 

Holds out his brui.seil and aeliing hand. 

While gaping thousands come and go, — 

How vain it seems, this empty show! — 

Till all at once his pulses thrill : — 

'Tis poor old Joe's " God bless you. Hill !" 

And .shall we breathe in happier spheres 
The names that jileascd our mortal ears. 
In some sweet lull of harp ami song 
For earth-born spirits none too long. 
Just whispering of the world below 
Where this was Bill and that was Joe ? 

No matter; while our home is hero. 
No sounding name is half so dear; 
When fades at length our lingering day. 
Who cares what pompons tombstones say f 
Read on the hearts that love us still, 
Uic jacct Joe. Hie jucct Bill. 



OLD IRONSIDES. . 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! 

Long has it waved on high. 
And many an eye has d.iiicod to see 

That banner in the sky; 
Beneath it rung the battle-shout. 

And burst the cannon's roar;— 
The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more ! 



654 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISH AND AMESICAN FOETRY. 



Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, 

Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
When winds were hnrryiug o'er the flood, 

And waves were white below, 
No more shall feel the victor's tread. 

Or know the conquered kuee ; — 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eagle of the sea ! 

Oh, bettor that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave ; 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep. 

And there should be her gi-ave; 
Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail, 
Aud give her to the god of storms, — 

The lightning and the gale ! 



RUDOLPH, THE HEADSMAN. 

Eudolph, professor of the headsman's trade. 
Alike was famous for his arm aud blade. 
One day, a prisoner justice had to kill 
Knelt .at the block to test the artist's skill. 
Bare - armed, swart- visaged, gaunt aud shaggy- 
browed, 
Eudolph the headsman rose above the crowd. 
His falchion lightened with a sudden gleam. 
As the pike's arnu>r flashes iu the stream. 
He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go; 
The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow. 
" Why strikest not ? Perform thy murderous act," 
The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly cracked.) 
"Friend,! hare struck," the artist straight replied ; 
"Wait but one moment, and yourself decide." 
He held his snufl'-box, — " Now, then, if you please!'' 
The prisoner snifi'ed, aud, with a crashing sneeze. 
Oft" his bead tumbled, — bowled along the floor, — 
Bounced down the steps ; — the prisoner said no more. 



NEARING THE SNOW-LINE. 

Slow toiling upward from the misty vale, 

I leave the bright enamelled zones below ; 

No more for me their beauteous bloom sh.all glow. 

Their lingering sweetness load the morning gale ; 

Few are the slender flowerets, scentless, pale, 

That on their ice-clad stems all trembling blow 

Along the margin of nnmelting snow ; 

Yet with unsaddened voice thy verge I hail. 

White realm of peace above the flowering-liue ; 



Welcome thy frozen domes, thy rocky spires ! 
O'er thee nudimmed the moon-girt jdanets shiue, 
On thy majestic altars fade the tires 
That filled the air with smoke of vain desires, 
And all the unclouded blue of heaven is thine! 



THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 

During the growth of the n.intilos, parts of its shell are pro- 
gressively vacated, aud these are successively partitioned off 
into air-tight chambers. 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign. 

Sails the unshadowed main, — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
Iu gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings. 

And coral reefs lie bare. 
Where tlie cold sea-maids rise to sun their stream- 
ing hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl! 

And every chambered cell. 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell. 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell. 

Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! 

Year after year beljeld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil ; 

Still, as the spiral grew. 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new. 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through. 

Built up its idle door. 
Stretched in his last-found home, aud knew the old 
no more. 

Tlianks for the heavenly message brought by thee. 

Child of the wandering sea. 

Cast from her lap forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is borne 
Thau ever Triton blew from wreathi^d horn ! 

W^hile on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice 
that sings : 

Build thee more stately mansions, my soul. 

As the swift seasous roll! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last. 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free. 
Leaving thine outgrown shell bj' life's unresting sea! 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 



(>55 



THK TWO STKKAMS. 

Behold tbe rocky wall 
That down its sloping sides 
I'linrs the swift raiu-drojis, bleudiiig, as they fall, 
In rushing river-tides! 

You stream, whose sources run 
Turned by a pebble's edge. 
Is Athabasca, rolling toward tbe sun 
Through the cleft mountain-ledge. 

The slender rill had strayed, 
But fur the slanting stone, 
To evening's ocean, with the tangled braid 
Of foam-flecked Oregon. 

.So from the heights of Will 
Life's parting stream descends. 
And, as a moment turns its slender rill, 
Each widening torrent bends, — 

From the same cradle's side, 
From the same mother's knee, — 
One to long darkness and the frozen tide. 
One to the Peaceful Sea! 



TO JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. 

I bring the simplest pledge of love, 

Friend of my earlier days ; 
Mine is the hand without the glove. 

The heart-beat, not the phrase. 

lliiw few still breathe this mortal air 
We called by school-boy names ! 

You still, whatever robe you wear. 
To me are always James. 

That name the kind apostle bore 

Who shames the sullen creeds, 
Not trusting less, but loving more. 

And showing faith by deeds. 

What blending thoughts our memories share! 

What visions yours and mine 
Of May-days in whoso morning air 

The dews were golden wiuc. 

Of vistas bright with opening day. 
Whose all-aw,ikening sun 



Showed in life's landscape, far away. 
The summits to be won ! 

The lieights are gained. — Ah, say not so 

For him who smiles at time. 
Leaves his tired comrades down below. 

And only lives to climb! 

His labors, — will they ever cease, — 
With hand and tongue and pen f 

Shall wearied Nature ask release 
At threescore years and ten ? 

Our strength the clustered seasons tax, — • 
For him new life they mean ; 

Like rods around the lictor's axe, 
They keep him bright and keen. 

The wise, the brave, the strong, we know,- 
We mark them here or there. 

But be, — we roll our eyes, and lo ! 
Wo find him everywhere ! 

With truth's bold cohorts, or .alone, 
He strides through error's liehl ; 

His lance is ever manhood's own, 
His breast is woman's shield. 

Count not his years while earth has need 
Of souls th.at Heaven inflames 

With sacred zeal to save, to lead, — 
Long live our dear Saint James! 
April 4tb, ISSO. 



CONTENTMENT. 
" M.in wnuts bnt little here below." 

Little I ask; my wants .ire few; 

I only wish a hut of stone, 
(A very plain brown-stone will do.) 

That I m,ny call my own ; — 
And close at hand is such a one. 
In yonder street that fronts the sun. 

Plain food is quite enough for me ; 

Three courses are as good as ten ; — 
If Nature can subsist on three, 

Thank Heaven for three. Amen ! 
I .always thought cold victual nice ; — 
My choice wonld be vanilla ice. 

I care not much for gold or land: — 
Give mo a mortgage here and there,- 



656 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Some good bank-stock, — some note of h.ind, 

Or trifling railroad share; — 
I only ask that Fortune send 
A little more than I shall spend. 

Honors are silly toys, I know. 

And titles are Ijiit empty names; — 

I would, perhaps, be Pleuipo, — 
But only near St. James ; — 

I'm very sure I sliould not care 

To fill our Gubernator's chair. 

Jewels are baubles ; 'tis a sin 

To care for such unfruitful things; — 

One good-sized diamond in a piu, — 
Some, not so large, in rings, — 

A ruby, and a jiearl, or so, 

Will do for me; — I laugh at show. 

My dauio shall dress in cheap attire 
(Good, heavy silks are never dear) ; — 

I own perhaps I might desire 
Some shawls of true cashmere, — 

Some marrowy crapes of C'liina silk, 

Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. 

Of pictures, I should like to own 

Titians and Raphaels three or four, — 

I love so nuich their style and tone, — 
One Tnruer, and no more — 

(A landscape, — foi'egrouud, golden dirt ; 

The sunshiue jiaiuted with a squirt.) 

Of books but few, — .some fifty score 
For daily use, and bound for wear; 

The rest upon an upper floor ; — 
Some little luxury there 

Of red morocco's gilded gleam, 

And vellum rich as country cream. 

Busts, cameos, gems, — such things as these, 
Which others often show for pride, 

/ value for their power to please. 
And selfish churls deride ; — 

One Stradivarius, I confess. 

Two meer.schaunis, I would fain possess. 

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, 
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool ; — 

Shall not carved tables serve my turn. 
But all must be of buhl ? 

Give grasping pomp its double share, — 

I ask bnt one recumbent chair. 



Thus humble let me live and die. 
Nor long for Midas' golden touch 

If Heaven more generous gifts deny, 
I shall not miss them much, — 

Too grateful for the blessings lent 

Of simple tastes and mind content. 



THE VOICELESS. 

We count the broken lyres that rest 

Where the sweet wailing singers slumber. 
But o'er their silent sister's breast 

The wild flowers who will stoop to number ? 
A few can touch the magic string, 

And noisy fame is proud to win them; 
Alas for those tliat never sing. 

But die with all their music in them! 

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone. 

Whose song has told their hearts' sad story : 
Weep for the voiceless, who have known 

The cross without the crown of glory ! 
Not where Lencadiau breezes sweep 

O'er Sappho's nieinory-hanuted billow, 
But where the glistening night-dews weep 

Ou nameless sorrow's church-yard [lillow. 

O hearts that break, and give no sign. 

Save whitening lip and fading tresses, 
Till Death pours out his cordial wine, 

Slow-dropped from misery's crushing presses! 
If singing breath or echoing chord 

To every hidden pang were given. 
What endle."^ melodies were iionred. 

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! 



L'INCONNUE. 

Is thy name Slary, maiden fair? 

Such should, methinks, its music be; 
The sweetest name that mortals bear. 

Were best befitting thee ; 
And she to whom it once was given. 
Was half of earth and half of heaven. 

I hear thy voice, I see thy smile, 
I look upon thy folded hair ; 

Ah ! while we dream not they beguile. 
Our hearts are in the snare ; 

And she, who chains a wild bird's wing, 

Must start not if her captive sing. 



ALBERT riKE. 



657 



So, lady, take tho leaf that falls, 
To all but tlico unseen, unknown ; 

Wbeu evening shades tliy silent walls, 
Then read it all aloue ; 

In stillness read, iu darkness seal. 

Forget, despise, but not reveal ! 



Albert IJikc. 



Pike was bm-n in Boston in 1809, but his boyliood was 
passiJ at Newburyport. lie entered Harvard College, 
but kfl before graduuling. After teaching school for 
awhile, he went South, and settled in Little Kock, Arkan- 
sas, wlierc he practised law and publisbcd a newspaper. 
He foHi;lit in the Mexican War aijainst tlic Mexicans, and 
in the Civil War on tlie side of the Confederates. He 
publislied in 1834 "Prose Sketches and Poems;" and in 
18.>I, " Nuga;, a Collection of Poems." His " Hymns to 
tlie Gods," iu the style of Keats, show a kindred poeti- 
cal L'in. 



BUENA VISTA. 

From the Rio GraudcS's waters to the icy lakes of 

Maine, 
I,(t all exult! for we have met tho enemy again — 
licncath their stern old mountains, wo have met 

them iu their pride, 
And rolled from Bnena Vista back the battle's bloody 

tide : 
Where the enemy came surging, like tho Mississippi's 

Hood ; [with blood. 

And tho reaper, Death, was busy, with his sickle red 

Santa Anna boasted loudly that, before two hours 

were past. 
His lancers through Saltillo should pursue us thick 

and fast : 
On came his solid regiments, lino marching after 

line ; 
Lo! their great standards in the suu like sheets of 

silver shine ! 
With thoniiands upon thousauds, yea, with more than 

four to one, 
A forest of bright bayonets gleams fiercely in tho sun ! 

I pon lluin with your squadrons. May ! — Out leaps 
the Hauling steel ! 

Uefore his serried coluum how the frightened lau- 
cers reel! 

They fleo amain. — Now to the left, to stay their tri- 
umph there. 

Or else tho day is surely lost iu horror and despair : 
42 



For their hosts are pouring swiftly on, like a river 

in tho spring — 
Our llauk is turned, and on our left their cannon 

thundering. 

Now bravo artillery! Hold dragoons! — Steady, my 

men, and calm ! 
Through rain, cold, hail, and thunder; now nervo 

each gallant arm ! 
What though their shot falls round us here, still 

thicker than tho hail ! 
We'll stand against them, as tho rock stands lirm 

against tho gale. 
Lo! — their battery is silenced now: our iron hail 

still showers : 
They falter, halt, retreat ' — Hurrah ! the glorious 

day is ours! 

Now charge again, Santa Anna! or the day is surely 

lost; 
For back, like broken waves, along our left your 

hordes are tossed. 
Still louder roar two batteries — his strong reserve 

umvcs on ; — 
More work is there before you, men, ero the good 

fight is won ; 
Now^ for your wives and childreu st.ind! steady, my 

braves, once more ! 
Now for your lives, your honor, fight! as you never 

fought before. 

Ilol Hardin breasts it bravely !—McKee and Bissell 
there 

Stand firm before tho storm of balls that fills the 
astonished air. 

The lancers are upon them, too ! — the foe swarms 
ten to one — 

Hardin is slain — McKee and Clay the last time sec 
tho sun ; 

Anil many another g.allant heart, in that last desper- 
ate fray, 

Grew cold, its hast thoughts turning to its loved oucs 
far away. 

Still sullenly the caunou roared — but died away at 

last : [ows fast. 

And o'er the dead and dying canio the evening shad- 

Aiid then above the mountains rose the cold moon's 

silver shield, [field ; — 

And patiently and pityingly looked down upon the 

And careless of his wounded, and neglectful of his 

dead, [fied. 

I Despairingly and sullen, iu tho night, Sauta Anna 



658 



CTCLOFJEDIA OF BSITISH AND AMEBICAN POETRY. 



€l)omas iUillcr. 



Miller (1809-1874) was a uative of Gainsborough, Eng- 
land, " one of the humble, happy, industrious, self-taught 
sons of genius." lie was brought up to the trade of a 
basket-maker; and while thus obscurely laboring "to 
consort with the Muse and support a family," he at- 
tracted attention by his poetical effusions. He was as- 
sisted by Rogers, the poet, and through him obtained the 
more congenial employment of a bookseller. He pro- 
duced several novels, and some poems that entitle him 
to honorable mention among the poets that have fought 
their way to notice from very humble beginnings. He 
published "A Day in the Woods" (1836), "Gideon Giles, 
the Roper" (1811), "Fair Rosamond," "Lady Jane Grey," 
and other novels ; also several volumes of rural descrip- 
tion, besides contributing largely to ijcriodical literature. 



^InbrctD Houng. 



EVENING SONG. 

How many days with mute adieu 
Have gone down yon niitroildcn sky, 
And still it looks as clear and blue 
As wlieu it first was hung on high. 
The rolling sun, the frowning cloud 
That drew the lightning in its rear, 
The thunder tramping deep and loud, 
Have left no footmark there. 

The village-hells, with silver chime, 
Come softened by the distant shore ; 
Tliough I have heard them many a time, 
They never rang so sweet before. 
A silence rests ujion the hill, 
A listening awe pervades the air ; 
The very flowers are shut and still, 
And bowed as if in prayer. 

And in this hushed and breathless close, 
O'er earth and air and sky and sea, 
A still low voice in silence goes, 
Which speaks alone, great God, of thee. 
The whispering leaves, the far-off brook. 
The linnet's warble fainter grown. 
The hive-bound bee, the building rook, — 
All tlieso their Maker own. 

Now Nature sinks in soft repose, 
A living semblance of the grave ; 
The dew steals noiseless on the rose, 
The boughs have aln\ost ceased to wave ; 
The silent sky, the sleeping earth, 
Tree, mountain, stream, the humble sod. 
All tell from whom they had their birth, 
And cry, " Behold a God !" 



Young, a native of Edinburgh, was born about 1809. 
His father was a successful teacher, and Andrew followed 
the same occupation for a time. The following sacred 
song from his pen, composed early iu life, appears as 
anonymous in many collections. 



THE HAPPY LAND. 

There is a happy land. 

Far, far away, 
Where saiuts in glory stand, 

Bright, briglit as day. 
Oh, how they sweetly sing. 
Worthy is our Saviour King ; 
Loud let his praises ring — • 

Praise, praise for aye. 

Come to this happy land. 

Come, come away ; 
Why will ye doubting stand. 

Why still delay ? 
Oh, we shall hajipy be. 
When, from sin and sorrow free. 
Lord, we shall live with Thee — 

Blest, blest for aye. 

Bright in that hapjiy laud 

Beams every eye : 
Kept by a Father's hand. 

Love cannot die. 
On then to glory run ; 
Be a crown and kingdom won ; 
And bright above the sun. 

Reign, reign for aye. 



^Ici'txnlicr fjumt. 

Ilumc (1809-1851) was a native of Kelso, Scotland, tlic 
son of a respectable retail tradei-. His family moved to 
London, and in 1827 he got a situation in a brewery in 
Mark Lane. He published a volume of songs dedicated 
to Allan Cunningham ; married in 1837, and had six chil- 
dren. In 1845 a complete edition of his " Songs and 
Poems" was published in London. 



MY WEE, WEE WIFE. 

My wee wife dwells in yonder cot, 
My bounie bairnies three ; 

Oh ! happ.y is the husband's lot, 
Wi' bairnies on his knee. 



ALEXANDER HVME.—BlCHAIiU MUACKTON MUXES {LORD HOUGHTOS). 



659 



S[y woo, woo wife, my wee, wee wife, 

My lioiiuie bainiios tlireo, — • 
How liii^lit is (lay, liow sweet is lil'o, 

\Vliou lovo liglits lip the c'e ! 

Tlio king o'er me may wear .1 crown, 

Have millions bow tlio knee, 
lint lacks ho love to share his throne. 

How poor a king is he ! 
My ■wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife, 

My bonnio bainiics three, 
Let kings ha'o thrones, 'inaug warld's strife, 

Yonr hearts arc thrones to me. 

I've felt oppression's galling chain, 

I've shed the tear o' care. 
But feeling ay lost a' its pain. 

When my wee wife was near. 
My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife, 

My boiniie bairnies three, 
The chains wo wear are sweet to bear, — 

How sad could we go free! 



Uicljarb fllouckton illilncs 
(£orb f)oucil)ton). 

Milncs, who became Lord llouglilon in 180.3, was a na- 
tive of Yoiksliirc, and born in 1S09. lie published "Po- 

'ry for the People," in lf>40; "Palm Leaves," in 1S44; 

lited tlie "Life and Remains of .John Keats" in 184S. 

\ri edition of his complete poetical works appeared in 
1>70. He made two visits to tlie United Stales, where 
lie left many warm friends. He lias fully vindicated his 
claim to the name of poet. As a member of the House 
of Commons, and (1863) of the House of Peers, he has 
been the efficient supporter of all measures for social 
amelioration and reform. 



ALL THIXGS ONCE ARE THINGS FOREVER. 

All things once are things forever. 
Souls onco living live forever ; 
Hlamo not what is only once. 
When that onco endures forever! 
Love onco felt, tliongli soon forgot, 
Moulds the heart to good forever ! 
Once betrayed from chilly faith, 
Man is conscious man forever: 
Once the void of life revealed, 
It must deepen on forever. 
Unless God fill up the heart 
With himself for onco and over: 
Onco made God and man at once, 
God and man are one forever. 



Tin: WORTH OF HOURS. 

Believe not that yonr inner eye 

Can over in just nu'asuro try 

The worth of hours as they go by : 

For every man's weak self, alas! 

JIakoN him to see them while they pass. 

As through a dim or tinted glass. 

But if, with earnest care, you would 
Mete out to each its part of good. 
Trust rather to your after mood. 

Those surely are not fairly spent. 
That leave your spirit bowed and bout. 
In 'sad unrest and ill content. 

And more, though free from seeming barm 
You rest from toil of mind or arm, 
Or slow retire from pleasure's charm — 

If then a painful sense conies on 
Of something wholly lost and gone. 
Vainly enjoyed, or vainly done — 

Of something from your being's chain 
Broke oft", not to bo linked again 
By all mere memory can retain — 

L'^pon yonr heart this truth may rise — 
Nothing that altogether dies 
Suffices man's just destinies. 

So should wo live, that every hour 
May die as dies tlio natural llower, 
A self-reviving thing of power; 

That every tbonght and every deed 
Jlay hold within it.self the seed 
Of future good and future need; 

Esteeming sorrow, whoso employ 
Is to develop, not destroy. 
Far better than a b.arrcn joy. 



YOUTH AND MANHOOD. 

Youth, that pnrsnest with snob eager pace 

Thy even way, 
Thou pautcst on to win a mournful race; 

Thou stay ! oh, stay 1 



660 



CTCLOPjEDIA of BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Pause aud luxuriate in thy suniiy plain ; 

Loiter — enjoy ; 
Once iiast, thou uever wilt come bade again 

A second boy. 

The hills of manhood Tseav a noble face, 

When seen from afar ; 
The mist of light from which they take their grace, 

Hides what they are; 

The dark aud dreary ])ath those cliffs between 

Thou caust not kuow, 
And how it leads to regious uever green, 

Dead fields of snow. 

Pause, while thou uiay'st, uor deem that fate thy 
gain, 

Which, all too ftist, 
Will drive thee forth from this delicious plain 

A man at last. 



I WANDERED BY THE BROOK-SIDE. 

I wandered by the brook-side, 

I wandered by the mill, 
I could not hear the brook flow. 

The noisy wheel was still. 
There was no burr of grasshopper, 

No chirp of any bird; 
But the beating of my own heart, 

Was all the sound I hoard. 

I sat beneath the elm-tree, 

I watched the long, long shade. 
And as it grew still longer, 

I did not feel afraid; 
For I listened for a footfall, 

I listened for a word ; 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

Ho came not — no, he came not, — 

The night came on alone. 
The little stars sat, one by one, 

Each on his golden throne ; 
The evening air passed by my cheek, 

The leaves above were stirred ; 
But the beating of my owu heart, 

Was all the sound I heard. 

Fast, silent tears were flowing, 
When something stood behind, 



A baud was on my shoulder, 
I knew its touch was kiud ; 

It drew me nearer, nearer, 
We did not speak one word ; 

For the beating of our own hearts, 
Was all the sound we heard. 



FROM "THE LONG-AGO." 

On that deep-retiring shore 

Frecjueut pearls of beauty lie. 
Where the passion-waves of yore 

Fiercely beat aud mounted high : 
Sorrows that are sorrows still 

Lose the bitter taste of woe; 
Nothing's altogether ill 

In the griefs of Long-ago. 

Tombs where lonely love repines, 

Gha.stly teuemeuts of tears. 
Wear the look of happy shrines 

Through the golden mist of years : 
Death, to those who trust in good. 

Vindicates his harde.st blow; 
Oh, we would not, if we could. 

Wake the sleep of Long-ago! 

Though the doom of swift decay 

Shocks the soul where life is strong, 
Though for frailer hearts the day 

Lingers sad and overloug — 
Still the weight will fiud a leaven, 

Still the spoiler's hand is slow. 
While the future has its heaven, 

Aud the past its Long-ago. 



(!;i)C|ar 2llau |3oc. 

AMERICAN^ 

Poe is one of the small ehiss of poets whose posthu- 
mous furae lias largely exceeded lliat of their lifetime. 
It rests chiefly, in his case, on one striking poem, "The 
Raven," whicli seems to have done for him what the 
"Elegy in a Country Church-yurd" did for Gray. Poe 
was horn in Boston, Mass., on the 19th of January, 1809, 
sind died in Baltimore in 18-19. His father, David Poe, 
of Baltimore, while a law-student, fell in love with Eliza- 
beth Arnold, an English actress, married her, and went 
himself upon the stage. Edgar, a hright and handsome 
youth, at an early age lost his parents, and was adopted 
by Mr. and Mrs. John Allan, of Virginia, who, wealthy 
but childless, took him with them to England, and sent 
him to school at Stoke-Newingtou. Returning to Amcr- 



EDGAR ALLjy POE. 



Gfil 



ica in liis eleventh year, lie cntcrcJ the University of Vir- 
Sliiiin, where he became the foremost scliolur of his chiss. 
His unruly habits caused liiin to l)e expelled. lie then 
quarrelled « illi .Mr. Allan, and started for Europe to fight 
for the Greeks. But Greece lie never saw. He shaped 
his eoui'se northward instead of southward, and drifted 
as far as St. I'etersburg, where the ambassador of the 
L'niled States, Mr. Middleton, found him in a state of 
destitution, and provided him with the means of rcturn- 
inij home. Mr. Allan now procured for him an appoint- 
ment as cadet at West Point; but dislikinj; the routine 
of a military education. Foe soon qualitied himself for 
dismissal by just the ueeessary amount of insubordina- 
tion. Meanwhile his benefactor had married a young 
wife, and the wayward young man was cut off from all 
hopes of further pecuniary supplies from the quarter on 
which he had liilherto relied for help. 

In ISi'J be published, at Baltimore, a thin volume enti- 
tled "Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and otlier Poems:" it con- 
tains little of any enduring value. In 1833 he obtained a 
prize offered by the Baltimore Saturilni/ VisilorCor a sto- 
ry. This introduced him to John P. Kennedy, a well- 
known lawyer and man of letters, through whose good 
cifBces he became editor of the Literary Jfcxseiii/er, a re- 
-pectable monthly magazine published at Richmond ; but 
H itli this work his connection lasted only two years. At 
Kiclimond he married his cousin, Virginia Clemm,wlio 
died after a union of some ten years. Kemoving to Phil- 
adelphia, he edited lliirlvii's Magazine, and then Graham's 
Magazine. His " Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque " 
had meanwhile appeared. In 1844 he took up his resi- 
dence in New York, where the present writer was brought 
into frequent eommuuieation with him. Personally he 
was, as Willis called him, a "sad-mannered gentleman,'' 
s;rave and somewhat reticent. He had more the appear- 
ance and bearing of a sedate elergyman than of a writer 
of romance. While editing the .Veto World weekly, we 
bought and published some of his prose pieces, and, but 
for lack of means, would have been glad to engage him 
permanently as a contributor. Referring to our inabili- 
ty to oblige him on one occasion, he said, "If you could 
have done it, S., I would have immortalized you — yes, 
immortalized you, sir." Perhaps he was here wiser than 
he knew. We had done for him what wc could. Like 
Sliakspeare and otlier men of genius, he seems to have 
had previsions of a posthumous renown far exceeding 
what he could hope for in his lifetime. The movement 
for the erection of his statue in Central Park, New York, 
is one of the latest proofs of the veracity of his anticipa- 
tions. 

Foe's great poetical hit, "The Raven," appeared first 
in Colton's IlViiV/ liei'ieiti for February, 1845. The same 
year, in company with the late Charles F. Briggs, an 
estimable gentleman well known to us, he started The 
Ilroailteay Journal. The partnership soon ended, and Mr. 
Briggs's account of his experience in it is not flattering 
to his wayward associate. It corroborates the estimate 
of Poe's character given by James Russell Lowell, w ho 
knew him personally, and wrote of him : 

"Tbrcc-firilis of tiim ^euliia and two-flftliH sheer fudge, 
• ***«« 

Who has wrilloii some things qnltc the bcf't nf their kiml, 
lint the heart somehow eeems all sqaeezed out by the mind." 



Foe struggled on single-banded with his newspaper en- 
terprise for about a year, when it became extinct. He 
next wrote for Ooiley's Lady's £ook a series of random 
sketches of the New York literati, in which the bias of 
merely pei-sonal partialities is quite apparent. In lS47-'48 
he became affianced for a short lime to .Mrs. Whitman, 
of whom some account will be found on page 5iN5 of this 
volume. The present w liter, who had long knowu her 
through an intimate mutual friend, had frequent corre- 
spondence with her up to within a year of her death ; and 
perhaps the strongest point in Poe's favor is the loyal, 
enthusiastic attachment of this gifted lady, thoroughly 
sincere, clear-sighted, and cultivated as she was, to his 
memory. She could not tolerate a word prejudicial to 
bis honor. In opposition to the estimate of some of his 
male friends, she believed in his heart as well as in his 
bead. Poe was far from being habitually intemperate; 
his countenance at once contradicted the supposition. 
But he was almost morbidly sensitive to the effect of a 
very slight quantity of the lightest intoxicating drink. 
In the autumn of 1849, while in Baltimore, he fell into 
bad company, was templed, overcome, became a wander- 
er about the streets, and was finally taken to a hospital, 
where be died October 7th. 

Whatever dispute there may be as to his qualities as a 
man, there can be none as to his rare and unique genius 
as a poet. What lie has written is slight in quantity, and 
some of that of little value; but the dross is readily tol- 
erated in consideration of the release of so niucli pure 
gold. He had that force and vividness of imagination 
which made him for the moment keenly sensitive to the 
high-strung emotions to which he gave utterance in most 
harmonious verse. That these emotions were often fu- 
gitive dots not seem to have impaired his power of im- 
parting to them a rare beauty and intensity of expres- 
sion. While the fervor lasted he w,as sincere. His re- 
markable lines to S. W. (.Mrs. Whitman) are an example. 
Analyze them— throw off the first efl'ect— and they issue 
in a glitter of sensuous but poetical fancies, highly hy- 
perbolical, yet cold as icicles, and having hardly one touch 
of nature. The poem of "The Bells," while it shows the 
same power over the unreal, fails as a « oik of art in the 
frequent repetition of the word Ixlh, where the sibilant 
plural destroys all the metallic, onomatopoelic quality 
of sound that would have been appropriate. But Poe's 
poslhumoHs fame seems to be increasing rather than di- 
minishing. The best of his writings have been translated 
into all the principal European languages, and the pub- 
lic interest in his life and his literary productions seems 
to be unabated. That he anticipated the celebrity has 
already been suggested. 



TO S. II. \V. 

I saw thco once — once only — years ago : 

I must not say how many— but not many. 

II wn.s a July niiduiglit ; and from out 

A fnll-orljcd moon that, like thino own soul, Konring, 
Sought a preci)iitnnt juitlnvny up ttiroiigh heaven, 
Tliero fell a Kilvery-silkiMi veil of light. 
With quietade, and saltriness, and slumber, 



662 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Upon the upturued faces of a tbonsand 
Eoses that grew in an euchautecl garden, 
Where no wind daied to stir, nnless on tiptoe — 
Fell on the upturned faces of these roses 
That gave out, in return for the love-light, 
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death — 
Fell on the upturned faces of these roses 
That smiled and died iu this parterre, enchanted 
By thee and by the poetry of thy presence. 

Clad all in white, upon a violet hank 
I saw thee half reclining ; while the moon 
Fell on the faces of the upturned roses, 
Aud on thine own, upturned — alas! in sorrow. 

Was it not Fate that, on this July midnight — 
Was It not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow) 
That hade me pause before that garden-gate 
To breathe the incense of those slnmhering roses? 
No footstep stirred ; the hated world all slept. 
Save only thee and me. I paused — I looked — 
And in an instant all things disappeared, 
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!) 
The pearly lustre of the moon went out : 
The mossy banks and the meandering paths, 
The hapjiy flowers and the repining trees, 
AVere seen no more ; the very roses' odors 
Died iu the arms of the adoring airs ; 
All, all expired save thee — save less than thou : 
Save only the divine light in thine eyes — 
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes, 
I saw but them — they were the world to me. 
I saw hut them — saw only them for hours — 
Saw only them until the moon went down. 
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie euwritten 
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres ! 
How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope ! 
How silently serene a sea of pride! 
How daring an ambition! yet how deep — 
How fathomless a capacity for love ! 

But now, at length, dear Diau sank from sight 
Into a western couch of thunder-clond, 
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees 
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. 
They would not go^they never yet have gone. 
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night. 
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. 
They follow me, they lead me through the years. 
They are my ministers — yet I their slave. 
Their office is to illnmiue and enkindle — 
My duty, to be saved by their bright light, 
And purified in their electric fire— 
And sanctified in their elysian fire. 
They fill my soul with beauty (which is hope), 
Aud are far up in Heaven, the stars I kneel to 



In the sad, silent watches of my night ; 
While even in the meridian glare of day 
I see them still — two sweetly sciiitillant 
Veuuses, unextinguished by the sun ! 



THE BELLS. 
I. 
Hear the sledges with the bells — 
Silver hells ! 
What a world of merriment their melody foretells! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
With a cryst.alline delight ; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the tintiuabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— 
From the jingling aud the tinkling of the hells. 



Hear the mellow wedding-bells — 
Golden bells ! 
W^hat a world of happiness their harmony foretells! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight ! 
From the molten-golden notes. 

And all in tune. 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the tnrtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon ! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells. 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! 
How it swells ! 
How it dwells 
On the Future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! 

III. . 

Hear the loud alarum bells — • 
Brazen bells ! 
W^hat a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 
In the startled ear of night 
How thev scream out their afii-ight ! 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 



663 



Too muck horrified to speak, 
Tliey can only slirirk, sbriek, 
Out of tune, 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 
III a mad expostulation witli the deaf and frantic lire, 
Leapin;; higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire, 
And a resolute endeavor 
Now — now to sit, or never, 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
What a talc tluir terror tells 
Of Despair ! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 
What a horror they ontpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air! 
Yet the ear, it fully knows. 
By the twanging 
And the clanging, 
How the danger ebbs and flows; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
III the jangling 
And the wrangling. 
How th(( danger sinks and swells, [bells — 
Ily the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the 
Of the bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 



Hear the tolling of tbc bells — 

Iron bells ! [pels ! 

What a world of solemn thought their monody com- 
In the silence of the night, 
How wo shiver with aftVight 
At the melancholy men.aco of their tone : 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 

Is a giiian. 
And the people— ah, the people. 
They that dwell np in the steeple, 

All alone. 
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that mutlled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the liiiinaii heart a stone — 
They are neither man nor woman — 
They are neither brnte nor human — 
They are Ghouls ; 
And their king it is who tolls; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
Kolls 



A piean from the bells ! 
And his merry bosom swells 

With the pxan of the bells! 
And be dances, and he yells ; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Kuuic rhyme. 
To the pieaiis of the bells — 

Of the bells ; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 

To the throbbing of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells— 

To the sobbing of the bells; 
Keeping time, time, time. 

As he kuells, knells, knells. 
In a happy Runic rhyme. 

To tbe rolling of the hells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells ; 

To the tolling of the bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 



THE RAVEN. 

Once upon a midnight dreary, 
AVhilo I pondered, weak and weary. 
Over many a quaint and curious 

Vol nine of forgotten lore. 
While I nodded, nearly napping. 
Suddenly there came a tapping. 
As of some one gently rapping. 

Rapping at my chamber door. 
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, 

" Tapping at my chamber door — 

Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember. 

It was in the bleak December, 

And each separate dying ember 

Wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow ; 
Vainly I hart tried to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — 

.Sorrow for the lost Lenore — 
For the rare and radi.int maiden 

Whom the angels name J^enorc — 

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain 
Rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me — filled nie with fantastic 
Terrors never felt before ; 



664 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



So that now, to still the beating 
Of my Leart, I stood repeatiug, 
" 'Tis some visitor eutreatiug 

Entrance at my chamber door — • 
Some late visitor eutreatiug 

Entrance at my chamber door; 

This it is, and uothing more." 

Preseutly my soul grew stronger; 

Hesitatiug then no longer, 

" Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly 

Yonr forgiveness I implore ; 
But the fact is, I was uappiug. 
And so gently you came rapping. 
And so faintly you came tapping, 

Tapping at my chamber door. 
That I scarce was sure I heard you," — 

H^re I opened wide the door : 

Darkness there, and uothing more! 

Deep into that darkness peering. 
Long I stood there, wondering, fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 

Ever dared to dream before: 
But the silence was unbroken. 
And the darkness gave no token. 
And the only word there spoken 

Was the whispered word, " Lenore !" 
This / whispered, and an echo 

Murmured back the word, "Lenore!" 

Merely this, and uothing more. 

Then into the chamber turning. 
All my soul within me burning. 
Soon I heard again a tapping 

Somewhat louder than before. 
" Surely," said I, " surely that is 
Something at my window lattice ; 
Let me see, then, what thereat is. 

And this mystery explore — 
Let my heart be still a moment. 

And this mystery explore ; 

'Tis the wind, .and nothing more !" 

Open here I flung the shutter, 
Wlien, with many a flirt and flutter, 
In there stepped a stately Raven 

Of the saintly days of yore ; 
Not the least obeisance made he ; 
Not an instant stopped or stayed he ; 
But, with mien of lord or lady. 

Perched above my chamber door — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas 



Jnst above my chamber door — 
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling 

My sad fancy into smiliug, 

By the grave and stern decorum 

Of the countenance it wore, 
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 
Thon," I said, " art sure no craven. 
Ghastly grim and ancient Kaven, 

AVauderiug from the Nightly shore — 
Tell me what thy lordly name is 

On the Night's Plutonian shore!" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

Much 1 marvelled this ungainly 
Fowl to hear discourse so plainly. 
Though its answer little meaning — 

Little relevancy bore ; 
For we cannot help agreeing 
That no living human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing 

Bird above his chamber door — 
Bird or beast uiion the sculptured 

Bnst above his chamber door, 

With sufh iiaiue as "Nevermore." 

But the Raven sitting lonely 
On the placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in 

That one word he did outpour. 
Nothing further then he uttered — 
Not a feather then he fluttered — 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, 

" Other friends have flown before — 
On the morrow he will leave me, 

As my hopes have flown before." 

Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 

Startled at the stilluess broken 
By reply so aptly spoken, 
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters 

Is its only stock and store. 
Caught from some unhappy master 
Whom unmerciful Disaster 
Followed fast and f(dlowed faster 

Till his songs one burden bore — 
Till the dirges of his Hope the 

Melancholy burden bore 

Of ' Nevermore ' — of ' Nevermore.' " 

But the Raven still beguiling 
All my sad soul into smiliug. 



EDGAR ALLAX PUE.—JOBN STVAllT JU.ACKIE. 



665 



Straiglit I wliccled a cnsUioued seat in 
Front of liinl, iiiiil bust, and door ; 

Then npon the velvet sinking, 

I betook myself to linking 

I'ancy nnto fancy, thinking 

\Vli:it this ominous bird of yore — 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 
(iaunt and ominous bird of yore 
Meant in croaking, '■ Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, 

Kut no syllable expressing 

To the fowl whose licry eyes now 

Burned into my bosom's core ; 
This and more I sat divining, 
Willi my head at case reclining 
Oil the cushion's velvet lining, 

That the lamplight gloated o'er; 
But whose velvet violet lining 

With the lamplight gloating o'er, 

She shall press, ah, never more .' 

Then, mcthought, the air grew denser, 
I'crfuined from an Jinscen censer, 
Swung by angels whose faint footfalls 

Tinkled on the tufted tloor. 
"Wretcli," I cried, "thy God hath lent theo, 
I!y these angels he hath sent thee, 
Urspite — resjiite and nepenthe 

I'nun thy memories of Lenore ! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind ucpcntbc, 

Anil forget this lost Lenore!" 

(^nutli the IJaven, " Xevermore." 

■• I'rophet," said I, " thing of evil ! — 
I'riipbet still, if bird or devil! 
Whether tempter sent, or whether 

Tempest tossed thee here ashore, 
Hesolate yet all undaunted. 
On this desert land enchanted — 
On this homo by Horror haunted^ 

Tell me truly, I implore — 
Is there— i» there balm in Gilcadf 

Tell me — ti'U me, I imjdore !" 

t/uotli the Haven, "Xevermore." 

'•I'rophet!'' said I, "thing of evil — 

I'rophet still, if bird or devil ! 

]5y that heaven that bends above ns — 

liy that God we both adore — 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden 
If, within the distant Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden 



W'hom the angels name Lenore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden 
Whom the angels name' Lenore." 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

'•lie that word our sign of parting. 
Bird or liend !'' I shrieked, upstarting — 
"Get thee back into the tempest 

And the Night's Plutonian shore! 
Leave no black plume as a token 
Of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 
Leave my lonelii\ess unbroken ! — 

Quit the bust above my doov! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, 

And take thy form from off my door !'' 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

And tli(^ K'aven, never flitting. 
Still is sitting, still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas 

Just above my chamber door ; 
And his eyes have all the seeming 
Of a demon that is dreaming. 
And the lamplight o'er him streaming 

Throws his shadow on the floor ; 
And ray soul from ont that shadow 

That lies floating on the floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore! 



TO FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 

Thon wonldst be loved ? — then let thy heart 

From its present pathway part not ! 
Being everything which now thon art, 

Bo nothing which thou art not. 
So with the world thy gentle ways. 

Thy grace, thy more than beauty, 
.Shall be an endless theme of praise, 

And love — a simple duty. 



iol)u Stnavt Ijltukir. 

Blackie, the son of a ImiiUii, was born in Glasgow in 
1S09. He was educated partly at Aberdeen and partly at 
the University of Edinbini;!!. In 182it he went to the 
Continent, studied at Gottingen and Berlin, and passed 
fifteen months in Italy. In ISM appeared liis transla- 
tion of Goethe's "Faust." He contributed to various 
periodicals, and wrote a deeply earnest article on Jung 
Stillin;;, tlic German Spiritualist. In 1S.VJ lie was elect- 
ed to the chair of Greek in Edinburgh University. In 
1853 lie travelled in Greece, and learned to speak modem 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Greek fluently. In 1857 he published " Lays and Le- 
gends of Ancient Greeee, with other Poems;" in ISCl, 
"Lyrical Poems;" and in 1800 a translation of Homer's 
"Iliad." His "Natural History of Atheism" (1878) 
shows high culture, breadth, and insight. His volume 
entitled "Songs of Religion and Life" (1870) was repub- 
lished in New York. In versatility he stood conspicu- 
ous among the literary men of his day. His writings 
evince deep religions feeling, earnestness, and simplicity, 
united to great liberality of thought. 



THE HOPE OF THE HETERODOX. 

lu tbee, O blessed God, I hope, 

In Thee, iu Thee, iu Thee! 
TbongU banned by Presbyter and Pope, 

My trust i.s still in Thee. 
Thou wilt not c.ist thy servant out 

Becanse he chanced to see 
With his own eyes, and dared to doubt 

What praters preach of Thee. 
Oh no ! no ! no ! 

For ever and ever and aye, 

(Though Pope and Presbyter bray), 

Thou wilt not cast away 
All honest soul from Thee. 

I look around on earth and sky, 

And Thee, and ever Thee, 
With open heart and open eye 

How can I fail to see 1 
My ear drinks iu from field and fell 

Life's rival floods of glee : 
Where finds the priest his private hell 

Wlieu all is full of Thee? 
Oh no ! no ! uo ! 

Though flocks of geese 

Give Heaven's high ear no peace : 

I still enjoy a lease 

Of happy thoughts from Thee. 

My faith is strong; out of it.self 

It grows erect and free ; 
No Talmud on the Rabbi's shelf 

Gives amulets to me. 
Small Greek I know, nor Hebrew much, 

But this I plainly see : 
Two legs without the Bishop's crutch 

God gave to tbee aud me. 
Oh no ! no ! no ! 

The Church may loose and bind, 

But Mind, immortal Mind, 

As free as wave or wind. 

Came forth, O God, from thee ! 



O pious quack ! thy pills are good ; 

But mine as good may be, 
And healthy men ou healthy food 

Live ■without you or me. 
Good lady ! let the doer do ! 

Thought is a busy bee, 
Nor honey less what it doth brew, 

Though very gall to thee. 
Oh no ! no ! uo ! 

Though Councils decree and declare, 

Like a tree iu open air. 

The soul its foliage fair 

Spreads forth, God, to Thee .' 



BEAUTIFUL WORLD. 

Beautiful world ! though bigots condemn thee, 
My tongue finds no ^^•ords for the graces that gem 

thee! 
Beaming with sunny light, bountiful ever, 
Streamiug with gay delight, full as a river I 

Bright world ! brave world ! let cavillers blame 

thee! 
I bless thee, and bend to the God who did frame 
thee ! 

Beautiful world ! bursting around me, 
Manifold, million-hued wonders confound me ! 
From earth, sea, and starry sky, meadow and moun- 
tain, 
Eagerly gushes life's magical fountain. 

Bright world! bravo world! though witliugs may 

blame thee. 
Wonderful excellence only could frame thee ! 

The bird in the greenwood his sweet hymn is trolling, 
The fish iu blue ocean is spouting aud rolling! 
Light things ou airy wing wild dances weaving. 
Clods with new life in spring swelling aud heaving! 
Thou quick-teeming world ! though scoifers may 

blame thee, 
I wonder, aud worship the God who could frame 
thee! 

Beautiful world! what poesy measures 

Thy strong - flooding passions, thy light - trooping 

pleasures ? 
Mustering, marshalling, striving and strainiug, 
Conquering, triumphing, ruling and reigning! 
Thou bright - armied world, so strong, who can 

tame thee ? 
Wonderful power of God only could frame thee ! 



JOnX S. BLACKIE.— JOSEPH A. ALEXANDER.— ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. 



067 



lieautiriil world ! while gotUiko I deem tbee, 

No cold wit shall move me with bile to blaspheme 

thee ! 
1 have lived in thy light, and when Fate ends my 

story, 
May I leave on death's clond the trail of life's glory ! 
Wondnins old world I no ages shall sliame thee! 
Ever blight with new light from the God who did 
frame thee ! 



TO THE MEMOUY 01' SYDNEY DOBELL. 

And thou, too, gone ! one more bright soul away 
To swell the mighty sleepers 'ueath the sod ; 
One less to honor and to love, and say, 
Who lives with thee doth live half-way to God ! 
My chaste-sonled Sydney ! thou wast carved too tine 
I'or enaise observance of the general eye ; 
Hut who might look into thy soul's fair shrine 
Saw bright gods there, aud felt their presence nigh. 
Oh! if we owe warm thanks to Heaven, 'tis when 
In the slow progress of the struggling years 
Our touch is blessed to feel the pulse of men 
Who walk in liglit and love above their peers 
White-robed, aud forward point with guiding baud, 
Breathing a beavon around them whore they stand ! 



.Joscpl) vliibiGon dlcfaiibcr 

AMERICAN. 

A native of Pliilailelpliia, Alexander {1S09-1SG0) be- 
came a Professor in the Theological Seminary at Prince- 
ton ; his specialty being in Oriental literature, lie was 
accomplislied in almost every department of letters, was 
master of seven languages, and near to licing a proficient 
in many more. His articles in the Princeton Review re- 
main an evidence of his varied powers and attainments. 
His elaborate work on the Prophecies of Isaiah (18W-'47) 
Vas republished in Glasgow. 



THE POWER OF SHORT WORDS. 

Think not that strength lies in the big round word. 

Or that the brief and plain must needs bo weak. 
To whom can this be trno who once has heard 

The cry for hidp, the tongue that all men speak. 
When want, or woe. or fear is in the throat. 

So that each word gasped out is like a shViek 
Pres-sed from the sore heart, or a strange, wild note 

Sung by some fay or fiend T There is a strength 
Whirh dies if stretched too far or spun too fine. 

Which has more height than breadth, more depth 
than length. 



Let but this force of thought and spcecli be mine. 
Ami he that will may take the sleek fat phrase 

Which glows aud burns not, though it gleam and 
shiue ; 
Light, but not heat — a flash, but not a blaze ! 

Nor mere strength is it that the short word boasts: 

It serves of more thiin light or storm to tell — 
The roar of waves that clash on roek-bound coasts. 

The crash of tall trees when the wild winds swell. 
The roar of guns, the groans of men that die 

On blood-stained fields. It has a voice as well 
For them that far off on their sick-beds lie ; 

For them that weep, for them that mourn the 
dead ; 
For them that laugh, and dance, and clap the hand ; 

To Joy's quick step, as well as Grief's slow tread. 
The sweet, plain words we learn at first keep time ; 

And though the thenm bo sad, or gay, or grand. 
With each, with all, these may be made to chime, 
In thought, or speech, or soug, in prose or rhyme. 



(f:liuibctlj Savrctt Croiimincj. 

Miss Barrett was born in London in 1809, married Rob- 
ert Browning, the poet, in 184(j, and died at Florence in 
18(jl. Iler fatlier was a wcallliy London merchant, and 
she had the advantage of a superior education. Slie be- 
gan to write both in prose aud verse at the age of ten, 
and at seventeen published a volume of poems. In 18:W 
appeared her translation of the "Pronietlicns Bound" of 
^^sehylus. In l(vJ8 she put forth " The Serapliim, aud 
other Poems," which was followed by "The Romaunt 
of the Page," 18:59. About tliis time the breaking of a 
blood-vessel kept her for some years a prisoner to licr 
room. In 1844 she sent forth a collected edition of her 
poems in two volumes. In ia50 and 18.53 new editions 
appeared. In 18.51 she published " Casa (iuidi AVindows," 
a poem which reviews the state of Italy. In 18.56 "Au- 
rora Leigh," the longest of her poems, appeared. It is 
rather a novel in blank verse than a poem, and is of very 
unequal merit. In 1800 "Poems before Congress" were 
published— suggested by the political events of the time. 
This was the last work from her pen. Her delicate con- 
stitution gave way, and, to the grief of a large circle of 
friends and admirers of her genius, she died. Her re- 
mains were interred in the Protestant cemetery at Flor- 
ence. All her works show intellectual power of the high- 
est order, and will compare favorably with the best pro- 
ductions of masculine genius. She was a Spiritualist in 
the modern sense of the word, having salistled herself of 
the genuineness of certain phenomena, which were suffl- 
cicnt for her convictions as to spiritual realities. "Such 
is the Influence of her manners," wrote Miss Mitford, 
" that those who know her best are apt to lose sight of 
her learning and her genius, and to think of her only as 
the most charming person that they have ever met." 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



SONNET: CHEERFULNESS TAUGHT BY REA- 
SON. 

I tbiuk we arc too ready ■nith coraiiUiint 

lu this fair world of God's. Had we no hope 

Indeed heyoud the zeuith and the slope 

Of yon gray blank of sky, we might he faint 

To lunse upon eternity's eoustraiut 

Round our aspirant souls. Bnt since the scope 

Must widen early, is it well to droop 

For a few days consumed in loss and taint ? 

Oh, pusillanimous Heart, he comforted, — 

And, like a cheerful traveller, take the road, 

Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread 

Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod 

To meet the flints? — At least it may be said, 

"Because the way is short, I thank theCjGod!" 



COWPER'S GRAVE. 

It is a place where poets crowned may feel the 

heart's decaying: 
It is a place where happy saints may weep amid 

their praying: 
Yet let the grief and hnmldeuess, as low as silence, 

languish ! 
Earth surely now nuiy give her calm to whom she 

gave her anguish. 

O poets! from a maniac's tongue was iioured the 

deathless singing ! 
O Christians ! at your cross of hope, a hopeless hand 

was clinging! 
O men! this man in brotherhood your weary paths 

beguiling, 
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died 

while ye were smiling! 

And now, what time ye all may read through dim- 
ming tears his story. 

How discord <ui the music fell, and darkness on 
the glory ; 

And how, when one by one, sweet sounds and wan- 
dering lights departed, 

He wore no less a loving face because so broken- 
hearted : 

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vo- 
cal ioTi ; 

And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker 
adoration ; 



Nor ever shall be be, in praise, by Wise or good 

forsaken. 
Named softly, as the household name of one whom 
God hath taken. 

With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think 

upon him. 
With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose 

heaven hath wou him — 
Who suffered once the madness-cloud to His own 

love to blind him, 
But gently led the bliud along where breath aud 

bird could lind him. 

And wrought within his shattered brain such quick 

poetic senses 
As hills have language for, and stars, harmonious 

inlJuences! 
The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within 

its number. 
And silent shadows from the trees refreshed him 

like a slumber. 

Wild, timid hares were di'awu from woods to share 
his home-caresses, 

Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tender- 
nesses ; 

The very world, by God's constraint, from false- 
hood's ways removing. 

Its women and its meu became, beside him, true 
and loving. 

And though iu blindness he remained unconscious 
of that guiding. 

And things iirovided came without the sweet sense 
of providing. 

He testified this solemn trutli, while frenzy deso- 
lated : 

Nor man nor nature satisfy, whom only God created ! 

Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother 

while she blesses 
And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of 

her kisses ; 
That turns his fevered eyes around, — "My mother! 

Where's mj' mother?" — 
As if such tender words and looks could come from 

any other ! — 

The fever gone, with leaps of heart he .sees her bend- 
ing o'er him. 

Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary 
love she bore him ! — 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROITXIXG. 



669 



Thus woke tbo poet from the dream Iiis life's long 

ffviT jjave liiiii, 
Bcnentli tliosc ileeit patlietic Eyes, which closed iu 

death to save liim ! 

Thus? Oh, not lhitn.' no type of earth can image 

that a%Yakin;;, 
Wherein lie scarcely heard the chant of scraplis 

ronnd him hreakinj;, 
• •r felt tlie new immortal throb of soul from body 

parted. 
Dot felt those eyes alone, and knew, "jVy Savionr! 

Hot deserted !'' 

Deserted! who hath dreamed that when the cross 
in darkness rested. 

Upon the Victim's hidden face, no love was mani- 
fested f 

What frantic hands ontstretchcd have e'er the aton- 
ing drops averted ? 

What tears have washed them from the soul, that 
one should be deserted f 

Descrte<i: God could separate from His own es- 
sence rather : 

And Adam's sins haic swept between the righteous 
Son and Father; 

Yea, once, Immauuel's orphaned cry his universe 
hath shaken — 

It went npsingIe,echoless, "My God,Iam forsaken!" 

It went np from the Holy's lips amid his lost 

creation. 
That of the lost no sou should use those words of 

desolatiou : 
That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, sliouhl 

mar not hope's fruition. 
And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture 

in a vision ! 



THE SLEEP. 
" Ue giveth liis Ijclovcd elcep."— Psaltn cxxvii. 2. 

Of all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar, 

Along the Psalmist's music deep — 
Now till me if that any is, 
For gift or grace surpassing this — 

" He giveth His helovdd sleep f" 

Wliat would wo give to our beloved f 
The hero's heart, to bo unmoved. 



The poet's star-tnncd harp, to sweep. 
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse. 
The monarch's crown, to light the brows f — 

'■ He giveth His helovdd sleep." 

What do wo give to our beloved f 
A little faith, all undisproved, 

A little dust, to overweep. 
And bitter memories, to make 
The wliole earth blasted for our sake. 

" Ho giveth Sis helovdd sleep." 

"Sleep .soft, beloved!" wo sometimes say, 
I5ut have no tuno to charm away 

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep 
But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber, when 

" He giveth His belovdd sleep." 

O earth, so full of dreary noises! 
O men, with wailing iu your voices! 
O delvdd gold, the wallers heap ! 

strife; O curse, that o'er it fall! 
God makes a silence through you all. 

And "giveth His beloved sleep." 

His dews drop mutely on the hill, 
His cloud above it saileth still, 

Though on its slope men sow and reap. 
More softly than the dew is shed, 
Or cloud is lloated overhead, 

" Ho giveth His bclovdd sleep." 

Yea! men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man. 

Confirmed, in such a rest to keep ; 
But angels say — and through the word 

1 think their happy smile is heard — 
" He giveth His belovdd sleep." 

For me, my heart that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show, 

That sees throngh te.-irs the jugglers leap,— 
Would now its wearied vision close. 
Would childlike on His love repose. 

Who "giveth His belovdil sleep!" 

And. friends, dear friends, — when it shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me, 

And round my bier ye come to weep, 
Let one, most loving of you all. 
Say, "Not a tear must o'it her fall — 

He giveth His bclovdd sleep." 



670 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH A^'D AMERICAN POETRY. 



A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 

Do you know yon have asked for the costliest tbiug 

Ever made by the hand above — 
A woman's heart and a woman's life, 

And a woman's wonderful love? 

Do you know you have asked for tljis priceless 
thing 

As a child might ask for a toy ? 
Demanding what others have died to win, — 

With the reckless dash of a boy. 

You have written my lesson of duty out, 
Man-like yon have questioned me — 

Now stand at the bar of my woman's soul, 
Until I shall question thee. 

You require your mutton shall always be hot, 
Your socks and your shirts shall be whole; 

I require your heart to be true as God's stars, 
And piire as heaven your soul. 

You require a cook for your mutton and I>cef; 

I require a far better thing; 
A seamstress you're wanting for stockings and 
shirts — 

I look for a mau and a king : — 

A king for a beautiful realm called home, 

And a num that the maker, God, 
Shall look upon as he did the first. 

And say, " It is very good." 

I am fair and young, but the rose will fade 
From my soft, young cheek one day — 

Will you love then, 'raid the falling leaves, 
As you did 'mid the bloom of May? 

Is your heart an ocean so strong and dcej) 

I may launch my all on its tide? 
A loving woman finds heaven or hell 

On the day she is made a bride. 

I require all things that are grand and true, 

All things that a man should l)c ; 
If you give this all, I would stake my life 

To be all you demand of me. 

If you cannot do this — a laundress and cook 

You can hire with little to pay ; 
But a woman's heart and a woman's life 

Are not to be won that way. 



SONNET: FUTUKITY. 

And, oh beloved voices, upon which 

Ours passionately call, because ere long 

Ye brake off in the middle of that song 

We sang together softly, to enrich 

The poor world with tlio .sense of love, and witch 

The heart out of things evil, — I am strong, — 

Knowing ye are not lost for aye among 

The hills, with last year's thrush. God keeps a niche 

In heaven to hold our idols : and albeit 

He brake them to our faces, and denied 

That our close kisses should impair their white, — 

I know we shall behold tlieni raised, complete, — 

The dust shook from their beauty, — glorified 

New Meniuons singing in the great God-light. 



SONNET : INSUFFICIENCY. 

When I attain to utter forth in verse 

Some inward thought, my soul throbs audibly 

Along my pulses, yearning to be free, 

And something farther, fuller, higUer, rehe.arse. 

To the individual, true, and to the universe. 

In consummation of right harmony. 

But, like a wind-exposed, distorted tree, 

We are blown against forever by the curse 

Which breathes through nature. Oh, the world is 

weak — 
The effluence of each is false to all; 
And what we best conceive, we fail to speak. 
Wait, soul, until thine ashen garments fall ! 
And then resume thy broken straius, and seek 
Fit peroration, without let or thrall. 



SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 

ITiuler the title of "Sonnets from the Portngnese," Mrs. 
Browning wrote a series of forty-ttiree original love -poems 
addressed to Kobert Hrowniii;^. her future hnsbnud. Of these 
remarkable productions we give four specimens. 

VI. 

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand 
Henceforward iu thy shadow, nevermore 
Alone upon the threshold of my door 
Of individual life, I shall command 
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
Serenely in the sunshine as before. 
Without the sense of that which I forbore,— 
Thy touch upon my palm. The Widest land 
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart iu mine 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.— LADT DUFFERIN. 



671 



AVitU iiulses that beat double. Wliat I do 
And what I droam include thee, as tlie wiiio 
Must tasto of its own {;ra))es. And when I sue 
God for uiysolf, ho hears that name of thine, 
And sees within my eyes the tears of two. 



If thoti must love me, let it be for nanght 
Except for love's sake only. Do not say 
"I lovo her for her smile ... her look ... her way 
Of speaking gently, ... for a trick of thought 
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 
A sense of pleasant ea,se on such a day" — 
For these tliin]L:s in themselves, l}elov<!d, may 
lie changed, or change for thee — and love so wrought, 
May be unwronglit so. Neither lovo mo for 
Thine own dear i)ity's wiping my cheeks dry, 
Siuco one might well forget to weep who bore 
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby, 
r.iit love me for love's sake, that evermore 
Thou may'st love on through love's eternity. 



I never gave a lock of hair away 
To a man. Dearest, except this to thee. 
Which now upon my lingers thoughtfully 
I ring out to the full brown length, and say, 
•Take it." My day of youth went yesterday; 
My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee ; 
Xor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree, 
As girls do, any more. It only nuiy 
Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears, 
Taught drooping from the head that bangs aside. 
Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral-shears 
Would take this first, but Love is justified, — 
Take it thou,— finding pure, from all those years, 
The kiss my mother left hero when sho died. 



I lived with visions for my company 

Instead of men aud women, years ago. 

And found them gentlo mates, nor thought to know 

A sweeter music than they played to me. 

Hut soou their trailing purple was not free 

of this world's dust, — their lutes did silent grow, 

.\nd I my.self grew faint and blind below 

Their van i.shing eyes. Then Tlioi- didst como ...to be, 

liclovcd, what they mfinnl. Their shining fronts, 

Their songs, their splendors ... (better, yet tho same, 

As river-water hallowed into fonts ...) 

Met in thee, and from out theo overcame 

My soul with satisfaction of all wants — 

Because God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame. 



£abi) Puffcrin. 



Helen Scllna Sheridan, tlaui;litcr of Thomas Sheridan, 
granddaughter of Kichaid Biinsley Sheridan, and sister 
of Mrs. Norton, married the Hon. Price Blackwood, only 
son of the fourth Lord UutVerin, and became Lady Duf- 
ferin on the death of her Imsband's father. Her son, 
Frederick Temple Blackwood, Earl of Dnfforin (born 
182G), is known as an accomplished statesman, llic author 
of " Letters from High Latitudes," and otlicr works. He 
was for a time Governor-general of Canada. Lady Duf- 
ferin (1807-1807) first published I' The Lament of the 
Irish Emigrant" about the year IS.'JS, when she was the 
" Hon. Mrs. Price Blackwood." It is one of the most 
teudcrly beautiful idyls in tlie language. It was set to 
an appropriate melody by Wni. R. Dempster, a Scottish 
vocalist aud composer well known in the United States. 



LAMENT OF THE HUSH EMIGRANT. 

I'm sittin' on tho stile, Mary, 

Where we sat side by side, 
On a bright May mornin', long ago. 

When first you were my bride ; 
Tho corn was springin' fresh and green, 

Aud tho lark sang loud and high ; 
And the red was on your lip, Mary, 

And tho love-light in your eye. 

The place is little changed, Mary, 

The day is bright as then. 
The lark's loud song is in my car, 

And the corn is green again : 
But I miss tho soft clasp of your hand. 

And your breatli warm on my cheek ; 
And I still keep listenin' for tho words 

You never more will speak. 

'Tis but a step down yonder lane, 
And tho little church stands near, — 

Tho church where wo wore wed, Mary ; 
I see the spire from here. 

But tho graveyard lies between, Mary, 
And my step might break your rest, — 

For I've laid you, d.arling, down to sleep. 
With your baby on your breast. 

I'nr very lonely, now, Mary, — 

For the poor make no new friends ; 
But, oh ! they love the belter still 

The few our Father sends! 
And you were all I had, Mary — 

My ble.ssin' and my pride : 
There's nothing left to care for now, 

Since my poor Mary died. 



672 



CTCLOPJiDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEKICAN POETRT. 



Yours was the good, brave heart, Marj-, 

That still kept hoping on, 
When the trust in God had left my soul, 

And uiy arm's young strength was goue ; 
There was comfort ever ou your lip. 

And tlie kind look on your brow, — 
I bless yon, Mary, for that same. 

Though you cauuot hear me now. 

I thank you for the jiatieut smile 

When your heart was fit to break, — 
When the hunger paiu was guawiu' there. 

And you hid it for my sake ; 
I bless you for the iileasaut word. 

When your heart was sad aud sore, — 
Oh, I'm thaukful you are gone, Mary, 

Where grief cau't reach you more ! 

Tm bidding you a long farewell. 

My Mary, — kind aud true ! 
But I'll uot forget you, darling, 

lu the land I'm going to ; 
They say there's bread and work for all, 

Aud the sun shines always there, — 
But I'll not forget old Ireland, 

Were it fifty times as fair! 

And often in those grand old woods 

I'll sit, aud shut my eyes. 
And my heart will travel back again 

To the place where Mary lies ; 
Aud I'll think I see the little stile 

Where we sat side by side. 
And the springiu' corn, and the bright May morn. 

When first you were my bride. 



Halpl) Ijoiit. 



Hoyt (180.^-1878) was a native of the city of New York. 
He studied for tlie ministry, took orders (1S4:3), and be- 
came Rector of the Episcopal " Cluu'ch of the Good 
Shepherd." He published in 1844 " The Chant of Life, 
and other Poems ;" and, in 1.859, " Sketches of Life and 
Landscape." His poetic vein is x^eculiar and original, 
but some of the best of Ids poems would be improved by 
abrida,ment. 



STANZAS FROM "NEW." 

Still sighs the world for something new. 
For something new ; 



Imploring me, imploring you, 

Some Will-o'-wisp to help pursue : 

Ah I hapless world, what will it do ? 
Imploring me, imploring yon. 
For something new ! 

Each pleasure, tasted, fades away, 

It fiides away : 
Nor you nor I can bid it stay, — 

A dew-drop trembling ou a spray ! 
A rainbow at the close of day ! 
Nor you nor I can bid it stay ; — 
It fades away. 

The rose, once gathered, caunot please, — 

It caunot please : 
Ah ! simple maid, a rose to seize 

That only blooms to tempt and tease, 
With thorns to rob the heart of ease ; — 
Ah 1 simple maid, a rose to seize — 
It cannot please ! 

So pants for change the fickle fair. 

The fickle fair : 
A feather floating in the air. 

Still wafted here, and wafted there, — ■ 
No charm, no hazard worth her care ! 
A feather floating in the air, — 
The fickle fair! 

How sad his lot, the hapless swaiu, — • 

The hapless swaiu ! 
With care and toil, iu heat aud rain. 

To speed the plough or harvest-wain ; 
Still reaping only fields of grain, 

With care and toil, in heat and rain, — • 
The hapless swain ! 

Youth, weary youth, — 'twill soou bo past, — 

'Twill soou be past ! 
His manhood's happiness shall last ; 

Renown aud riches, far and fast. 
Their potent cbarnis .shall round him cast; 
His manhood's happiness sh.all last — 
'Twill soon be past ! 

The dream fulfilled, — rank, fortune, fame — 

Rank, fortune, fame ! — 
Vain fuel for celestial flame ! 

He wins aud wears a glittering name; 
Yet sighs his longing soul the same ! 
Vain fnel for celestial flame, 
Rank, fortnue, fame ! 



IIALPH UOYT.— WILLIAM BARNES.— SAMUEL WILLIAM rAIlTSIDOE. 



G73 



ludiilgeut He.ivcii, oli grant but this, — 

Oh grant but this, — 
The boon shall bo enough of bliss : 

A home, with true atVeetion's kiss. 
To mend whate'er may lui)) amiss, — 
The boon shall bo enough of bliss : 
Oh grant but this! 

The Eden won : — insatiate still ; 

Insatiate still ! 
A wider, fairer range ho will; 

Some mountain higher than his hill ; 
Some prospect Fancy's map to fill ; — 
A wider, fairer range ho will — 
Insatiate still ! 

Still sighs the world for something new,- 

For something new : 
Imploring me, imploring you, 

Some Will-o'-wisp to help pursue ; 
Ah! hapless world, what will it do? 
Imploring nio, imploring you. 
For somilhiug new! 



lllilliam Corncs. 

Barnes, clergyman, poet, and phik)logist, was born in 
1810. He is the aatlior, among other works, of " Poems 
of Rnral Life in the Dorset Dialect," "A Grammar and 
Glossary of tlie Dorset Dialect," "An Anglo-Saxon De- 
lectus." An edition of the " Hnral Poems," with illus- 
trations by Ilammatt Billinss, an Anieiican artist, was 
published in Boston in \>ili'X 



PLORATA VEKIS LACHRYMIS. 

()\\ now, my true and dearest bride, 
siuce thou ha.st left my lonely side. 
My life has lost its hope and zest. 
The sun rolls on from east to west, 
I5nt brings no more that evening rest, 
Thy loving-kindness m.adc so sweet, 
And time is slow that once was fleet. 
As May by day was waning. 

The last sad day that showed thee lain 
Heforc me, smiling in thy pain, 
The sun soared high along his way 
To mark the longest snmnuT day, 
And show to mo the latest play 
Of thy sweet smile, and thence, as all 
The days' lengths shrunk from small to small. 
My joy began its waning. 
43 



And now 'tis keenest pain to see 
Whate'er I saw iu bliss with thee. 
The softest airs that ever blow. 
The fairest days that ever glow, 
Uufelt by thee, but bring uu'- woe. 
And sorrowful I kneel in prayer. 
Which thou no longer now canst share, 
As day by day is waning. 

How can I live my lonesome days? 
How can I tread my louesome ways? 
How cau I take my lonesome mealf 
Or how outlive the grief I feel f 
Or how, again, look on to weal ? 
Or sit, at rest, before the heat 
Of winter lires, to miss thy feet, 

When evening light is waning. 

Thy voice is still I loved to hear. 

Thy voice is lost I held so dear. 

Since death unlocks thy hand from mine, 

Ko love awaits nie such as thine: 

Oh ! boon the hardest to resign ! 

But if we meet again at last 

In heaven, I little care how fast 

My life may now be waning. 



SOXXET: RURAL NATURE. 

Where art thou loveliest, O Nature, tell ! 

Oh, where may he thy Paradi.se? Where grow 

Thy happiest groves ? Aud down what woody dell 

Do thy mo.st fancy-winning waters tlow ? 

Tell where thy softest breezes longest blow ? 

And where thy ever blissful monutaius swell 

Upon whose sides the cloudless sun may throw 

Eternal summer, while the air may quell 

His fury. Is it 'neath his morning car, 

Where jewelled palaces, and golden thrones. 

Have awed the Eastern nations through all time f 

Or ocr the Western seas, or where afar 

Our winter sun warms up the southern zones 

Willi summer? Where can be the happy climes? 



Samuel lllilliam IJarliiiigc. 

Partridge is a native of London, bom November 8Sd, 
1810. He became a publisher, having his establishment 
in Paternoster Row. His little poem, " Not to Myself 
Alone," has been wonderfully popular. It has been oft- 
en quoted from the palpit, and has found a place in many 



674 



CXCLOP^DIA OF BltlTlSH JXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



of the school reading-books of the United States. It oc- 
curs in " Our English Months, a Poem on the Seasons iu 
England." Partridge is also the author of a collectioa 
of poems entitled " Voices from the Garden, or the Chris- 
tian Language of Flowers." 



" NOT TO MYSELF ALONE." 

" Not to myself aloue,'' 
The little opening Flower, transported, cries, 
"Not to iiiy.self aloue I biul and bloom ; 
With fragrant breath the breezes I perfnnic, 
Ami gladdeu all things with \ay rainbow dyes : 
The bee comes sipping, every eventide, 

His dainty fill ; 
The butterfly within my cup doth hide 
From threatening ill." 

'■ Not to myself alone," 
The circling Star, with honest pride, doth boast ; 
" Not to myself alone I rise aud set : 
I write upon night's coional of jet 
His power aud skill who formed our myriad host: 
A friendly beacon at heaven's open gate, 

I gem the sky. 
That man might ne'er forget, in every tiite. 
His home on high." 

" Not to myself alone," 
The heavy-laden Bee doth murmuring hum, — 
" Not to myself alone from flower to flower, 
I rove the woods, the garden and the bower, 
And to the hive at evening weary come : 

For man, for man, the luscious food I pile 

With busy care. 
Content if this repay my ceaseless toil — 
A scanty share." 

" Not to myself alone," 
The K<iaring Bird with lusty pinion sings, 
" Not to my.self alone I raise my song : 
I cheer the drooping with my warbling tongue, 
And bear the mourner on my viewless wings ; 
I bid the hymnless churl my anthem learn, 

And God adore ; 
I call the worldling from his dro.ss to turn. 
And sing and soar." 

" Not to myself alone," 
The Streamlet whispers on its pebbly way, 

" Not to myself alone I sparkling glide ; 

I scatter health and life on every side, 
And strew the fields with herb and floweret gay. 



I sing unto the common, bleak and bare, 

My gladsome tune ; 
I sweeten and refresh the languid air 

In droughty June." 

Not to myself alone, — 
O Man, forget not thou — earth's honored priest ! 
Its tongue, its soul, its life, its pulse, its heart — 
In earth's great chorus to sustain thy part. 
Cbiefest of guests at Love's ungrudging feast. 

Play not tlie niggard; spurn thy native clod. 

And self disown : 
Live to thy neighbor, live unto thy God, 
Not to thyself alone. 



2q\]\\ Jrancis lllailcr. 

Waller (born 1810), for many years editor of The Dub- 
lin Vniversitij JMagadne, has published "Tlje Slingsby Pa- 
pers" (1853), " Poems "(1&54), "Pictures of English Lit- 
erature," etc. (1870). He has contributed largely to pe- 
riodical literature, and was editor of "The Imperial Dic- 
tiouary of Universal Biography." 



KITTY NEIL. 

"Ah! sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel, 

Y'our neat little foot will be weary with spinning ; 
Come trip down with me to the sycamore-tree ; 

Half the parish is there, and the dance is be- 
ginning. 
The sun is gone down, but the full harvest-moon 

Shines sweetly and eool on the dew-whitened val- 
ley ; 
While all the air rings with the soft loving thing.s 

Each little bird sings in the green-shaded alley." 

With a blush and a smile Kitty rose wp the while, 
Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, glan- 
cing ; 
'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues, 

So she couldn't but choose to go oft' to the dauciug. 
And now on the green the glad groups are seen, 
Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choos- 
ing! 
And Pat without fail leads out sweet Kitty Neil. 
Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of re- 
fusing. 

Aud Felix Magee put his pipes to his knee. 

And with flourish so free sets each couple in mo- 
tion : 



JOBN FIUXCIS WALLER.— MRS. LOUISA S. McCORD. 



675 



With a cheer and a boiiiul the lails patter the ground, 
The iiiaiils move aroinul jnst like swans on the 
ocean. 
CliecUs bright as the rose, feet liglit as the doe's, 

Now coyly retirin;;, now boldly advancing: 
Search the world all aronnd fnmi the sky to the 
ground, 
No such sight can be found as an Iii^h lass dan- 
cing. 

Sweet Kate, who conld view your bright eyes of deep 
blue. 
Beaming linmidly through their dark lashes so 
mildly, 
Your fair tunK'd arm, heaving breast, rounded form, 
Xor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb 
wildly f 
Voung I'at feels his heart, as In; gazes, depart. 
Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet 
love : 
The sight leaves liis eye as ho cries, with a sigh, 
" Dance light, for my heart it lies under yonr feet, 
love I" 

iUrs. Couisa 5. lUiCovb. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. MeCord (1810-1879) wns the daughter of Langdon 
Chevcs, a distinguisliod lawyer and Blatesman, who as 
member of Congress helped Clay and CiiUioun to carry 
the declaration of war in 1812. She inherited much of 
litr father's intellectual vigor, and wrote al)ly on polities 
:nul political economy, translating Bastian's well-known 
work. She married a prominent lawyer, the well-known 
author of" McCord's Reports." Her first essay in poe- 
try was a little volume entitled " My Dreams," published 
in HMS. Tliis was followed in 18.51 by " C':iius Gracchus," 
a tragedy in five acts, abounding in striking passages, 
full of noble thought aptly expressed. Though not writ- 
ten for the stage, it has many flashes of dramatic power. 
Born to affluence, literature was to her, however, a pas- 
time rather than a pursuit. A devoted daughter of the 
State of licr birth, proud of its history, and sensitive to 
its honor, she generously gave her aid to the South in 
its struggle for independence, sincerely believing she was 
on the side of right. Her only son, Chevcs McCord, fell 
gallantly in battle. To the mother's heart it was a fatiil 
blow. She was a large contributor, both in money and 
personal ellort, to the hospitals and other institutions, 
and she lived to be cheered by the dawn of brighter 
prospects for South Carolina. 



WHAT USED TO BE. 

Happiness that ne'er was fading. 
Dreams that darkness ne'er was shading. 



Flowers that were not born to wither; 

These are things I used to see ! 
Fancy, ayo the future wooing, 
Hope, her heavenward course pursuing. 
Pluming each unrnflled feather; 

These are things that used to be! 

But alas! their transient being. 

To tho future's night was fleeing; 

And when brightest they were fading, — 

Those bright things I used to see! 
Life, no more such pleasures giving; 
Memory, with our present striving, 
All her stock of joys unlading, 

Points us to what used to be. 

lint doth not this past deceive >is. 
Cheating thus, with joys that leave U8, 
Souls which have a higher duty 

Thau those things I used to see t 
These were toys for youthful folly ; 
Life has duties high and holy, 
Kobed in Truth's, not Fancy's, beauty, 

Like those things that used to be. 

Duties holy — duties binding — 
"Where tho soul, its errors finding, 
Kcason's light from Truth deriving, 
• Learns, those things it used to see 
Were but beacon-lights, to guide us 
Where life's battle-fields betide us; 
Where, in nobler efforts striving. 
We forget what used to be. 



TIIV WILL BE DONE. 

Thy will be done! Almighty Ood, 
Our weakness knows no other prayer 

But this: "God's will bo done!" 
We cannot shape our future good ; 
To mark thy mercy's bounds wo fe.ar: 

Father! thy will be douu! 

Still to our weakness clinging fast, 
Willi naught to point or guide our way. 

We cry "God's will be done!" 
Aud 'mid the storm of life, — tho bl.a.st 
or warring tempest, still we say, 

' I'ather! thy will be done!'' 

And this the surest charm to lull 
The tempest in its ragiug might, 



676 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Great God! thy ■svill be tloue ! 
Should uinversal nature fall 
To wreck aud ruin, — 'luid its Night, 

Father! tliy 'will be done! 

We know that Thou caust guide ns best; 
Aud if we live, or if we die, 

Thy will, oh God ! be doue ! 
Our weakuess seeks on thee to rest, 
It loves to cling to thee and cry, 

"Father! thy will be done!'" 



PASSAGES FROM "CAIUS GRACCHUS." 

OFJCm OF GHEAT THOUGHTS. 

From head and heart alike great thoughts are born ; 

The truly noble cannot sever them : 

I'd shun the mau who at his nature scoffs. 

And, trampling on his own divinity. 

Feels not the consciousness of human greatness. 

THE PEOPLE'S HEAUT. 

It is a noble duty to awake 
The heart of truth, that slumbers in them still. 
It is a glorious right to rouse the soul, 
The reasoning heart that in a nation sleeps! 
Aud Wisdom is a laggard at her task. 
When but in closet speculations wrapped 
She doth forget to share her thought abroad, 
Aud make mankind her heir. 

TRUTH TIIIiOUGH STRUGGLE. 

Each dirty rivulet its ripple brings. 

Which in the sweeping current miugling, drops 

Its dust and dross. Its purer part goes on, 

Aud on, aud on, — until at last the whole, 

I!y the great alchemy of reasou, flows 

Pure — as it must be, from its origin ! 

Thought sprang from God; aud all bestaiued with 

earth. 
Struggling and creeping still, at last the truth 
Is forced upon the day! The world's great uiiud. 
Though stumbling oft in error, must at last 
Work out its vexdd ijroblem, aud perfection. 
Wrought from reflected deity iu nuiu, 
Burst suu-liko from the mist of error forth. 

NO GOOD EFFORT V.\IN. 

f For the right, 
Man, even iu despair, should ever strive : 
The very effort, howsoever vain, 

To the great work 



It warms the blood of the world which wrestles on 
Still against failure, like the strong man struggling, 
Until the end of truth at last is reached. 



DEDICATION OF "CAIUS GRACCHUS." 

TO MY SON. 

Too young thou art to read a mother's heart ; 
Too young to guess that quenchless fount of love 
Which ever gushes forth iu joy and woe, 
Limitless, always ! If care-worn and sad, 
By want or sickness bowed almo.st to earth, — 
Or yet if triumphing in life's success. 
Flattered, beloved, admired, — the mother finds 
(Be she true woman with a true woman's heart) 
No moment when that heart can idly I'est 
From the loug love which ever fetters it 
Iu bondage to her child ! — My boy, thine eye 
Some day perchance may fall upon these lines, 
And, catching here the shadow of my love, 
Thy soul may, guess its fulness, aud may feel. 
Through every struggle in this changing life, 
That, like a guardian angel lioveriug round, 
To comfort, check, — to pity, or to blame, — 
To chide, to hope, to pray, — it watching stands. 
But never to condemn! — A mother's heart 
Might throb itself away in patient woe, — 
Might break to end its pang, — but never, never, 
Could deem her child a thijig of vice or shame. 
God bless thee, boy! and make thee .stainless, jiurc. 
Upright, aud true, e'en as my tlionght doth jiaint 
thee ! 



inargaret jTullcr. 



S.irah Margaret Fuller (1810-18.50) is bettor known by 
her niaiiU'u name, though she became, by marriage at 
Rome in 1S4T, the Marchioness Ossoli. She was born iu 
Camhridge, Mass., May 33cl. Educated by her father, 
she became eminent for her rapid attaiuments iu litera- 
ture, her acquirement of languages, her general learning, 
and her brilliant conversational powers. In 1840 she 
edited T/ie Dial; iu 1844, became connected with the A'ew 
Joi7r; Tribune; and in 1846 went to Italy as tlie corre- 
spondent of that journal. In May, 18.50, she embarked 
Willi her husband aud infant son at Leghorn, in the ship 
Elizabeth, iot New York, aud perished with them in the 
wreck of that vessel on Fire Island. Her life was writ- 
ten by Ralpli AValdo Emerson, William Henry Clianning, 
and James Freeman Clarke, each contrihutiug his indi- 
vidual view of her character. She was a woman of de- 
cided gcuins, hut had so confident an estimate of her own 
powei's, that her manner was at times too supercilious 



MARGARET FULLER.— JAMES FREEMAX CLARKE. 



G77 



toward inferior or undeveloped minds. Slic wrote but 
little poetry ; but wliat she wrote is marked by the idl- 
osyncnisies of an independent tliiiilcer. She published 
"Sum Micron the Lakes" (1S43I, "At Home and Abroad" 
(1S46), and several minor works. She laekcd personal 
attractions, but in spite of this defect won the admira- 
tion of some of the most gifted of lier contemporaries. 



SONNETS. 



I. OliPHEUS. 



Kiich Orpheus must to the depths descend, 

l"or only thus tho poet cau be ■wise, — 

Must make tho sad Porsej)hon(5 his friend, 

.\nd buried lovo to second lifo arise ; 

Again his lovo must lo.so through too much love, 

.Must loso his lifo by living lifo too true. 

For what ho sought below is passed above. 

Already done is all that he would do ; 

Must tune all being with his single lyre, 

Must melt all rocks free from their primal pain, 

Must search all Nature with his one soul's fire, 

Must bind anew all forms iu heavenly chain. 

If he already sees what he must do, 

Well may ho shade his eyes from the far-shining view. 

H. BEETHOVEN. 
.Most intellectual master of tho art, 
Which, best of all, teaches the mind of man 
The universe in all its varied jdau — 
Wliat strangely mingled thoughts thy strains impart! 
Here the faint tenor thrills the inmost heart. 
There the rich bass tho Reason's balance shows; 
Hero breathes tho softest sigh that Love e'er knows ; 
There sudden fancies, seeming without chart, 
I'loat into wildest breezy interlndes; 
The past is all forgot — hopes sweetly breathe, 
And our whole being glows — ^when lo! beneath 
Tho llowery brink, Despair's deep sob concludes! 
Startled, we strive to free us from the chain. 
Notes of high triumph Bwcll,and we are thine again! 



ON LEAVING THE WEST. 

Farewell, ye soft and sumptuous solitudes! 

Ye fairy distances, ye lordly woods. 

Haunted by paths like those that Poussin knew, 

When al'ler his all gazers' eyes ho drew: 

1 go — ami if I never more may steep 

An eager heart iu your enchantments deep. 

Yet ever to itself that heart may say, 

lie not exacting — thou hast lived cue day — 



Hast looked on that which matches with thy mood. 
Impassioned sweetness of full being's flood, 
Where nothing checked the bold yet gentlo wave. 
Where naught repelled the lavish lovo that gave. 

A tender blessing lingers o'er tlie scene 
Like some young mother's thought, fond, yet serene. 
And through its lifo new-born our lives have been. 
Once moro farewell — a sad, a sweet farewell; 
And if I never must behold you more. 
In other worhls I will not cease to tell 
Tho rosary I here have numbered o'er; 
And bright-haired Hope will lend a gladdened ear. 
And Lovo will free him from tho grasp of Fear, 
And Gorgon critics, while the tale they hear, 
Shall dew their stony glances with a tear. 
If I but catch one echo from your spell: 
And so farewell — a grateful, sad farewell ! 



Panics i^iccman (Clarke. 



Clarke was born iu ISIO, iu Hanover, X. II., where his 
parents, residents of Boston, were accidentally on a visit. 
Ho graduated at Harvard College in 1829, and at the Cam- 
bridge Divinity School iu 1833. He was pastor of a So- 
ciety in Louisville, Ky., from 1833 to 1840. He then re- 
turned to Boston, where he became highly popular as a 
preacher. He is the author of several volumes of ser- 
mons, which have had a wide circulation. He has writ- 
ten original poems of high merit as well as translations, 
very happily executed. On his seventieth birthday (April 
4, 1880), in reckoning up the personal friends to whom 
he had been intellectuallj' indebted, Jlr. Clarke remark- 
ed : " I am especially thankful to Margaret Fuller. From 
her I learned the power that is in us all, the mighty pow- 
ers of the human soul. She roused me to the value of 
life ; she taught mc how to live for an end, and a good 
one." See the poem by Holmes (page 0.55) on Clarke's 
birthday. 



PRAYER OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 

WRITTEN IX IIEI: BOOK OF DEVOTIONS JUST BEFOIiE 
HER EXECUTION. 

"O Diimhic Densl eperavi iu tc; 
O care mi Jesa ! nnnc libera me. 
In dnra cntciiu, in iniecra posart, 

Dcsidero tc. 
Lan^jucndo, gemendo, et gcnuflcctendo, 
Adoro, iinpluro, ut liberes ine I'' 

Oh Master and M:ikcr! my hope is iu thee. 
My Jesus, dear Saviour! now set my soul free. 
From this my hard prison, my spirit upri.sen. 

Soars upward to thee. 
Thus moaning, and groaning, and bending the knee, 
I adore, and implore that thou liberate me. 



678 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE RULE WITH NO EXCEPTION. 

After the German of Goethe. 

Tell me, friend, — as you are bidden, — 
What is hardest to be liiddeu ? 
Firo is Lard. The smolio betrays 
Its jilace, by day — by night, its blazo. 
I will tell, as I am bidden, — 
FlKB is hardest to be hidden. 

I will tell, as I am bidden! 
Love is hardest to be hidden. 
Do your best, you can't conceal it ; 
Actions, looks, and tones reveal it. 
I will tell, as I am bidden, — 
Love is hardest to bo bidden. 

I will tell, as I am bidden! 

Poetry cannot be hidden. 

Fire may smoulder, love be dead ; 

But a Poem must be read. 

Song intoxicates the Poet ; 

He will sing it, ho will show it. 

Ho must show it, he must sing it. 
Tell the fellow then to bring it ! 
Though he knows you can't abide it, 
'Tis impossible to hide it. 
I will tell, as I am bidden, — 
Poems never can be hidden. 



WHITE-CAPPED WAVES. 

White-capped waves far round the Ocean, 
Leaping in thanks or leaping in play. 

All your bright faces, in bappy commotion, 
Make glad matins this summer day. 

The ro.sy light through the morning's portals 
Tinges your crest with an August hue, 

Calling on us, thought-prisoned mortals. 
Thus to live in the moment too. 

For, graceful creatures, you live by dying, 
Save your life when you fling it awny. 

Flow through all forms, all forms defying, 
And in wildest freedom strict rule obey. 

Show us your art, oh genial daughters 
Of solemn Ocean, thus to combine 

Freedom and force of rolling waters 
With sharp observance of law divine. 



A REMINISCENCE. 

"C'etait eu Aviil, le Dimauche."— Ed. Paii.leron. 

'Twas April; 'twas Sunday; the day was fair, — 

Yes! sunny and fair. 

And how happy was I ! 
You wore the white dress you loved to wear; 
And two little flowers were hid in your hair — 

Yes ! in your hair — 

On that day — gone by ! 

Wo sat on the moss; it was shady and dry; 

I'es ! shady and dry ; 

Autl we sat in the shadow. 
We looked at the leaves, we looked at the sky ; 
We looked at the brook which bubbled near by,- 

Yes! bubbled near by. 

Through the quiet meadow. 

A bird sang on the swinging vine, — 

Y'es ! on the vine, — 

And then, — sang not; 
I took your littlo white hand in mine; 
'Tw.as April ; 'twas Sunday ; "twas warm sunshiuc,- 

Ycs! warm suushine: 

Have you forgot ? 



A SHELTER AGAINST STORM AND RAIN. 

" Wer Wenig suchl, der fludet Viel." 
After the German of Rlckert.' 

Only .1 shelter for my head I sought, 

One stormy winter night; 
To nie the blessing of my life was brought, 

Making the whole world bright. 
How shall I thank thee for a gift so sweet. 

Oh dearest Heavenly Friend? 
I sought a resting-place for weary feet, 

And found my journey's end. 

Only the latcbet of a friendly door 

My timid fingers tried ; 
A loving heart, with all its precious store. 

To me was opened wide. 
I asked for shelter from a passing shower, — 

My snu shall always shine! 
I would have .sat beside the hearth an hour,-- 

AnJ the whole heart was mine! 

' For this crnceful version, Mv. Clarke was indebted to liis 
daughter Lilian. 



JAMES r. CLARKE.— WILLIAM H. CHAyXIXG.—EDMUXD H. SEAItS. 



07H 



THK PERFECT WHOLE. 

After the Glkman of (iEiBF.L, 

I,ivo ill that Wliolo to wliicli all parts beloiif;; ; 
rims lifaiity, Action, Tnitb, shall be tliy dower. 
( iimposo thyself in God, and so be strong, 
.since only in life's fulness is its power. 
As, in a plant, leaves, flowers, and frnils ninst <;r<)W 
Ont of one germ, each centied in the whole, — 
l^i) must Love, Tliiin^ilit. and Deed forever flow 
I'urtli from one fountain in the linnian soul. 



lUilliam Ijcnrn (Cljanuiug. 

AMERICAN. 

Channing, tlie ncplicw and bio<;rapher of the cele- 
brated divine. Dr. William Ellery Channiii!^, and the son 
of Francis Uana Cluinnin;;, was born in Boston, May '£M\, 
1810. His bioi^raphy of bis uncle is written with mark- 
ed ability. His translations from the German are render- 
ed with treat skill. Cbaniiinij was settled for some time 
over a Unitarian Church in Liverpool ; then became n 
resident of London. In 1880 he revisited his native 
country, and forwarded the movement for a memorial 
eliureh at Newport, R. L, in commemoration of bis uncle. 
His daughter is the w ife of Edwin Arnold, the gifted Eng- 
lish poet. 



MIGNON'S SONG. 

FaOU GOETOE. 

Know'sl thou the land where flowers of citron blooniT 
The golden orange glows through leafy gloom f 
Eroni the blue heavens the breezes float so bland T 
The myrtles still, and tall the laurels stand? 
Kuow'st thou the land ? 

Oh there, — ob there I 
I.oved one, with tbeo I long to wander there. 

Know'st lliou Ihehousef Its roof tlie columns bear, — 
Tho polished floors, the balls so bright and fair, 
Where marble figures standing look on inc ; 
"Thon poorest child, what have they done to thecf" 
Know'st thou the house f 

Oh there, — ob there! 
With thee, kind guardian, oh could I be there!"' 

Know'st thou tho monntaiu peak f the airy bridge, 
Where loaded mules climb o'er the misty ridge f 
In hollows dwell tho si'rpent's ancient brood; 
The rent erag rushes down the foamiug flood : 
Kuow'st thon tli(^ mount ? 

Oh there, — oh there 
Leadcth our way — O father, lead us there! 



Qrbimint) l)ainilton Scars. 

AMERICAN. 
Sears (1810-1876) was a native of Berksliiie, Mass. lb- 
graduated at Union College, Scheuectady, N. Y., in 1834, 
and at the Theological School in Cambridge in 18;57. lie 
became a Unitarian miuister, and preached at Wayland, 
Jfass.,till 186.5, when he became pastor over the Society 
in Weston. He was the author of •' Athanasia, or Fore- 
gleams of Immortality," a work highly esteemed both 
in England and America ; also, " The Fourtli Gospel the 
Heart of Christ." He visited England in 1S7.J, where he 
was received with much kindness in religious circles. 
O. W. Holmes, the poet, pronounces the hymn we quote 
to be "one of the finest and most beautiful ever written." 



CHRISTMAS SONG. 

Calm (in the listening ear of night 

Come Heaven's melodious strains. 
Where wild Jndea stretches far 

Her silver-mantled jdaius; 
Celestial choirs from courts above 

Shed sacred glories there ; 
And angels with their sparkling lyres 

Make music on the air. 

The answering hills of ralestiue 

Send back the glad reply. 
And greet from all their holy heights 

The day-spring from on high : 
O'er the blue depths of Galileo 

There comes a holier calm. 
And Sharon w.avcs, in solemn praise, 

Her silent groves of palm. 

"Glory to God!'' The lofty strain 

The realm of ether fills : 
How sweeps the song of solemn joy 

O'er Jndah's sacred hills! 
"Glory to God!" The sounding skies 

Loud with their anthems ring: 
" Peace on the earth ; good-will to men. 

Prom Heaven's eternal King!" 

Light on thy hills, Jerusalem ! 

The Saviour now is born : 
More bright on Bethlehem's joyons plains 

Breaks the firet Christmas morn ; 
And brigliter on Moriab's brow. 

Crowned with her temple-spires. 
Which first proclaim tho new-born light. 

Clothed with its Orient fires. 

This day shall Christian lips be mute. 
And Christian hearts be cold f 



680 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Oil, catch the autheui that from heaveu 
O'er Jndah's mouutains rolled ! 

When nightly hurst from scraph-harps 
Tlie high and solemn lay, — 

" Glory to God ! ou earth he peace ; 
Salvation comes to-day !" 



THE ANGELS' SONG. 

It came npou the midnight clear, 

That glorious song of old, 
From angels hending near the earth 

To touch their harps of gold : 
"Peace to the earth, good-will to men 

From Heaven's all-gracious King :" 
The world in solemn stillness lay 

To hear the augels sing. 

Still through the cloven sky they come, 

With peaceful wings unfurled ; 
And still their heavenly music floats 

O'er all the weary world : 
Ahove its sad and lowly plains 

Tbey hend on heavenly wing. 
And ever o'er its Bahel sounds 

The hlcss<5d angels sing. 

Yet with the woes of siu and strife 

The world has suffered long ; 
Beneath the angel strain have rolled 

Two thousand years of wrong ; 
And men, at war with men, hear not 

The love-song which they hring : 
Oh ! luLsh the noise, ye men of strife, 

And hear tlio angels sing ! 

And ye, beneath life's crnshiug load 

Whose forms are hending low. 
Who toil along the climbing way 

With painful steps, and slow, — 
Look now ! for glad and golden hours 

Come swiftly on the wing : 
Oh ! rest beside the weary road. 

And hear the angels sing! 

For lo ! the days are hastening on. 

By prophet-hards foretold. 
When with the ever-circling years 

Comes round the age of gold ; 
When Peace shall over all the e.arth 

Its ancient splendors fling, 
And the whole world send back the song 

Which now the angels sing. 



^Ifrcb Qlcunjison. 

The third son of tlie Rev. George Clayton Tennyson, 
D.D., Alfred, was born in the parsonage of Somersby 
(near Spilsby), in Lincolnshire, in 1810. He received his 
early education at the school of his native town. From 
thence both he and his elder brothers, Frederic and 
Charles, proceeded to Cambridge, entering at Trinity 
College when Dr. Whewell was tutor. In 1839 Alfred 
won the Chancellor's Medal for his poem in blank verse, 
entitled " Timbuctoo." While at Cambridge, Charles 
(who subsequently took the name of Turner) and Alfred 
published privately a small volume of poems, which was 
favorably noticed by Coleridge. In 1830 Alfred put forth 
a volume entitled "Poems, chiefly Lyrical." It con- 
tained, among other pieces, "Claribel," the "Ballad of 
Oriana," "Lilian," and "The Merman." It commanded 
no immediate success, tbongh the discerning few saw in 
it the promise of a new and original poet. 

In 183.3 another volume appeared, and from that time 
Tennyson's fame began to broaden and flourish. It was 
greatly increased by the appearance in 1842 of a collec- 
tion of his smaller pieces, with the addition of "Locksley 
Hall," "Godiva," "Lady Clara Vere de Vere," the "Lord 
of Burleigh," the "Two Voices," "Dora," "St. Simon 
Stylites," etc. His position among contemporary poets 
was now established. Whatever has appeared siuce has 
only extended and counrmcd bis reputation. In 1847, 
"The Princess" was published; in 1850, the author's 
genius culminated in "In Memoriam," the most mem- 
orable of all his works, and tlie best sustained poem of 
the kind in all literature. It was a tribute to the memo- 
ry of his college chum, Arthur Hallam, son of the histo- 
rian, and betrothed to the poet's sister Emily. Charlotte 
Bronte characterized the work as " beautiful but monot- 
onous ;" but the poet's skill is shown in making his one 
theme so replete with interest and with profound reflec- 
tions on the destiny of man. Wordsworth died in 1850, 
and the office of Poet-laureate was conferred upon Ten- 
nyson, with a pension of £r200 per annum. In 1853 ap- 
peared his "Ode on the Death of the Duke of Welling- 
ton." In 1855, "Maud" was published; in 1858, the 
"Idyls of the King;" in 1804, "Enoch Arden ;" in 1875 
and 1876, his dramas of "Queen Mary" and "Harold." 

For many years Tennyson has lived in the midst of his 
family in retirement at Freshwater, in the Isle of Wight, 
not wholly secure, however, from the intrusive curiosity 
of tourists and visitors to tlie island. 



EDWARD GRAY. 

Sweet Emma Moreland, of yonder town, 
Met me walking ou yonder way, 

"And have you lost yonr heart?" she said; 
"And are you married yet, Edward Gray?" 

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to mo : 
Bitterly weeping I turned away : 

" Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 



ALFRED TEyNTSON. 



681 



" Ellcu Adair slio loved me well. 

Against lier lather's anil iimtlier's will : 

To-day I sat for an hour and wept 
By EUeu's grave, ou the windy hill. 

"Shy she was, and I thonjjht her cold; 

Thought her proiul, aii<l lied over the sea : 
Filled I was with lolly and spite, 

When KlKn Adair was dying for me. 

" Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 

Crnelly came tliey back to-day : 
'You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 

' To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' 

" There I put my face in the grass — 
Whispered, 'Listen to my despair: 

I repent mo of all I did : 
Speak a little, EUeu Adair !' 

" Then I took a pencil, and wrote 

On the mossy stone, as I lay, 
' Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; 

And heio the heart of Edward Gray !' 

" Love may come, and love may go. 
And fly, li'Ke a bird, from tree to tree : 

But I will love no more, no more, 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 

" Bitterly wept I over the stone : 
Bitterly weeping I turned away: 

There lies the body of Ellcu Adair I 
And there the heart of Edward Gray!" 



GO XOT, HAl'l'Y DAY. 

FnoM '* Maud." 

Go not, liapjiy day. from the shining fields. 

Go not, happy day, till the maiden yields. 

Rosy is the West, rosy is the South, 

Roses are her cheeks, and a rose her mouth. 

When the happy Yes falters from her lips, 

I 'ass and blush the news o'er the blowing ships. 

I )ver blowing sea.-), over seas at rest, 

I'ass the happy news, blnsh it through the West, 

Till the red man dance by liis red cedar-tree. 

And the red man's babe leap, beyond the sea. 

Blush from West to East, blush from East to West, 

Till the West is East, blnsh it through the West. 

Uosy is the West, rosy is the South, 

Uoscs are her checks, and a rose her mouth. 



WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. 

JI.\nClI 7tb, 18C3. 

Sea-king's daughter from over the sea, 

Alexandra! 

S.axoi\ and Norman and Dane are we. 

But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee, 

Alexandra ! 

Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet! 

AVelcomo her, thundering cheer of the street! 

Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet, 

Scatter the blossom under her feet! 

Break, happy land, into earlier flowers ! 

Make music, O bird, in the new-budded bowers! 

Blazon your mottoes of blessing and prayer! 

Welcome her, welcome her, all that is ours! 

Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare! 

Flags, flutter out upon turrets and towers! 

Flanu's, ou the windy headland flare! 

Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! 

Clash, yo bells, in the merry March air! 

Flash, yo cities, in rivers of fire ! 

Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and higher 

Melt into the stars for the land's desire ! 

Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice. 

Roll as the ground-swell dashed on the strand. 

Roar as the sea when ho welcomes the laud, 

And welcome her, welcome the land's desire. 

The se.a-king's daughter, as happy as fair. 

Blissful bride of a blissful heir. 

Bride of the heir of the kings of the sea — 

O joy to the people and joy to the throne, 

Come to us, lovo us, and make us your own ; 

For Saxon or Dane or Norman wc, 

Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, 

^Ve are each all Dane in our welcome of thee, 

Alexandra ! 



ASK SIE NO MORE. 
From " Tue Princess : A Medley."* 

Ask me no more : tlio moon may draw the sea ; 
Tlie cloud may stoop from heaven and take! the 

shape, 
With fold to f(dil. of mountain or of cape ; 
But O too fond, when have I answered theef 
Ask me so more. 

1 "The PcinccM" is n ctoi-y of a prince and princess cnn- 
trnctcd by ttiuir pi»rcnT» wiiliont hiiving t-ecii e.icli ottier. The 
I:i(ty rcpmliatcs the nllinncc : hnl nflor rt Keries ot ndventnre.H 
and incidenl-.Hitmowhal impmlinhlr :ind iiicolicrL'nt.slic relciit.-* 
nnd ^arrendertt. The niixtnie of modern iilen;* with those of 
the age of chivalry makes "The Princess" truly a mtdleg. 



682 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Ask mo no more ; what answer slionkl I give ? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die! 

Ask nie no more, lest I shonld bid thee live ; 
Ask nie no more. 

Ask me no more ; thy fate and mine are sealed : 
I strove against the stream, and all in vain ; 
Let tlie great river take me to the main ; 

No more, dear love, for at a tonch I yield ; 
Ask me no more. 



TO , 

AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. 

"Cursed be he that moves my bouee." 

Sliakspeare's Epitaph. 

You might have won the Poet's name — 
If such ho worth the winning now — 
And gained a laurel for your brow, 

Of sounder leaf thau I cau claim : 

But you have made the wiser choice — 
A life that moves to gracious ends 
Through troops of unrecording friends — 

A deedful life, a silent voice ! 

And you have missed the irreverent doom 
Of those that wear the Poet's crown : 
Hereafter neither knave nor clown 

Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 

For now the Poet cannot die, 
Nor leave his music as of old, 
But round him ere he scarce he cold 

Begins the scandal aud the cry : 

" Proclaim the faults he would not show ! 

Break lock and seal ! betray the trust ! 

Keep nothing sacred : 'tis but just 
The many-headed beast should know." 

Ah, shameless ! for he did but sing 

A song that pleased us from its worth ; 
No public life was his on earth. 

No blazoned statesman he, nor king. 

Ho gave the people of his best ; 

His worst he kept, his best he gave, 

My Shakspeare's curse on clown aud kuave 

Who will not let his ashes rest! 



Who make it seem more sweet to be, 
The little life of bank aud brier. 
The bird that pijies his lone desire, 

Aud dies unheard within his tree, 

Than he that warbles long and loud 
Aud drops at Glory's temple-gates, 
For whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear his heart before the crowd! 



GARDEN SONG. 
I. 
Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, niglit, has flowu ; 
Come into the garden, Maud, 

I am here at the gate alone ; 
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
Aud the musk of the roses blown. 



For a breeze of morning moves, 

Aud the planet of Love is on high, 

Beginuiug to faint in the light that she loves, 
On a bed of daffodil sky, 

To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
To faint iu the light, aud to die. 



All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
All night has the casement jessaraiue stiiTed 

To the dancers dancing iu tune ; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 

Aud a hush with the setting moon. 



I said to the lily, "There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone? 

She is weary of dauce and play." 
Now half to the setting moou are gone, 

Aud half to the rising day; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 



I said to the ro.sc, "The brief night goes 

In babble aud revel and wine, 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 

For one that will never be thine? 
But mine, but mine," so I swarc to the ro.so, 

" For ever and ever, miue." 



ALFRED TEXXTSOX 



6S$ 



And tlie soul of tlio rose wcut into my lilood, 

As the music clashed in the ball ; 
And long by the garden lake I stood, 

For I hoard yonr rivulet fall 
1 loni the lake to the meadow, and on to the wood, 

Our wood that is dearer than all; 



I'roni the meadow your walks have left so sweet 
That, whenever a March-wind sighs, 

lie sets the jewel-print of yonr feet 
lu violets bine as yonr eyes, 

To the w^oody hollows in which wo meet, 
And the vallevs of Paradise. 



The slender acacia wonid not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
l!nt the rose was awake all night for yonr sake, 

Knowing your promise to me; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 

They sighed for the dawn and thee. 



Qneen rose of the rose-hud garden of girls, 
Come hither, tin; dances are done, 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls. 
Queen lily and rose in one; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with cnrls. 
To the flowers, and ho their sun. 



There has fallen .a s|>Iendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear; 

She is coming, my life, my fate; 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near ;'' 

.\nd the white rose weeps, "She is late;" 
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear," 

And the lily whispers, "I wait." 



She is coming, my own, my sweet ; 

Were it ever so airy a tread 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed; 
My dust would hear her and heat, 

Had I l.'iin for a century dead ; 
Would start and tremble under her feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 



DE PKOFUNDIS. 

Out of the Deep, my child, out of the Deep : 
Where all that was to be in all that was 
Whirled for a million a;ons through the vast, 
Waste dawn of multitudinous eddying light — 
Out of the deep, my child, out of the Deep ! 
Through all this changing world of changeless law. 
And every phase of ever heightening life. 
And nine long months of ante-natal gloom. 
With this last moon, this crescent — her dark orb 
Touched with earth's light — thou comcst. Darling 

Boy: 
Our Own; a babe in lineaiuent aud limb 
Perfect, and prophet of the perfect man ; 
Whose face and form are hers and mine in one, 
Indissolubly married, like our love ; 
Live and be hapjiy in thyself, aud servo 
This mortal race, thy kin, so well that men 
May bless thee, as wo bless thee, O young life. 
Breaking with laughter from the dark ; and may 
The fated channel where thy motion lives 
Be prosperously shaped, and sway tli,v course 
Along the years of haste aud random youth 
L'nshattered — then full current through full man ; 
And last, in kindly curves, with geutlest fall. 
By quiet fields, a slowly dying power. 
To that last Deep where we and thou are still. 

ISSO. 



BUGLE SONG. 



From "The TaiscEss.' 



The splendor falls on castle walls. 

And snowy summits old in story; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 

And the wild cataract leaps iu glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying; 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying! 

Oh hark, oh hear! how thin and clear. 
And thinner, clearer, farther going! 

Oh sweet and far, from cliff and scirr. 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 

Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying; 

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying! 

Oh love, they die in yon rich sky; 

They faint on hill, or field, or river : 
Onr echoes roll from soul to sonl. 

And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dyiug, dying! 



684 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BHITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



THE FOOLISH VIRGINS. 

From " Idyls of the King."i 

Late, late, so late! aud dark the night and chill! 
Late, late, so late ! but we cau euter still. 
Too late, too late ! ye cauuot euter uow. 

No light had wo : for that we do repeut ; 
Aud learuiug this, the Bridegroom will relent. 
Too late, too late ! ye cauuot euter uow. 

No light : so late ! aud dark and chill tho night ! 
Oh let us in, that wo may flud the light! 
Too late, too late! ye cauuot enter uow. 

Have we not heard the Bridegroom is so sweet ? 
Oh let us in, though late, to kiss his feet! 
No, uo, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 



CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 

Half a league, half a league. 
Half a league ouward, 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
" Forward the Light Brigade ! 
Charge for the guns !" he said : 
Into tho valley of Death 

Rode the sis hundred. 

"Forward tho Light Brigade!" 
Was there a man dismayed ? 
Not though the soldier knew 

Some one had hluudered : 
Theirs not to make reply. 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs hut to do and die, — 
Into the valley of Death 

Eode the sis hundred. 

Cannon to right of them. 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon in front of them, 

Volleyed and thundered; 
Stormed at with shot and .shell, 
Boldly they rode aud well ; 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 

^ This Arthiirinn romiiiice, pnbli-^hecl in 1S5S. consists of four 
poems (Enid, Vivien, Ehiine, and Gninevie), written in pure, 
flowing; l)lank verse, and dedicated to the memory of Prince 
Albert in some noble lines. 



Flashed all their sabres bare, 
Flashed as they turned iu air, 
Sabring the guuuers there. 
Charging an army, while 

AH the world wondered : 
Plunged in the battery-smoke, 
Kight through the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the sabre-stroke. 

Shattered and sundered : — 
Then they rode back — but not, 

Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Caunon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volleyed aud thundered: 
Stormed at with shot aud shell, 
While horse aud hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came through the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them. 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade? 
Oh, the wild charge they made! 

All tho world wondered ! 
Honor the charge they made! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred! 



TURN, FORTUNE, TURN THY WHEEL. 

From '' Idyls of the King." 

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the jn'oud; 
Turn thy wild wheel through sunshine, storm, anil 
cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. 

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frowu ; 
With that wild wheel we go not up or down ; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. 

Smile, and wo smile, the lords of many lands ; 
Frown, and we smile, the lords of our own hands; 
For man is man, aiul master of his fate. 

Turn, turu thy wheel above the staring crowd; 
Thy wheel aud thou are shadows in the cloud; 
Thy wheel aud thee we neither love uor hate. 



ALFRED TENNFSOX. 



685 



STANZAS' FROM "IX MEMORIAM." 

I tiny not in any moods 

The captive void of noble rage, 
Tlio linnet l)orn within the cage, 

That never knew the summer woods; 



' Tennyson has mnde the Sinnzn of "In Memoriam" so pc- 
calinrly his own, IhiU the vert»ea of other poets who employ it 
now seem like imitations. But the Stanza was nscd by IJeu 
Jiinson. It also appears in the following remarkable poem, 
taken from the Lnttrcll Collection of Broadsides. There is no 
indication of dale or authorship: but the general lone of the 
composition, the allusions to the national desire for n/ree Par- 
liament, the mention of a commonwealth, and the absence of 
any reference t<i royalty, show that they must have been writ- 
ten by a IJcpnblican in the spring of ICGO, during the temporary 
dictatorship of General Monk: — 

EKOLAND'S VOTE FOR A KliKE ELECTION AND A FUKE 
I-AItLIAMEST. 

Great God of Xations, and their Right, 
By whose high Ansi)ice BHttaiii stands 
S<» long, though tlrst 'twas built on Sands, 

And oft had sunk hut for Thy might: — 

In her own Mainland-storms and Seas, 

Be present to her now as then. 

And let not proud and factiotis men 
Oppose thy will with what they please. 

Our Free full Senate's to be made: 

O, put it to tlic publick voice 

To make a legal worthy choice. 
Excluding such us would invade 

The Commonwealth. Let whom we name 
Have Wisdomc, Foresight, Fortitude, 
Be more with Faith than Face endued: 

And study Ctiusciencc above Fame; — 

Such, as not seek to get the Start 
In State, by Faction, Power, or Bribes, 
Ambition's Bauds. But move the TribM 

By Virtue, Modesty, Desert :— 

Such as to Justice will adhere. 
Whatever great one it offend : 
And from the embraced Truth not bend 

From Euvy, Hatred, Gifts, or Fear :— 

That hy their Deeds will make it known 

Whose Dignity they do sustain; 

And Life, Slate, Glory, all they gain, 
Conut it Great Briitaia's, not their own. 

Such the old Bmli, Decii were 
Tliir Cippi, Curtii, who did give 
Themselves for Home: and would not live, 

As men, good only for n year. 

Such were the great Camilll loo, 
The Fabii, Scipios ; that still thought 
Xn work :ii price euough was honght, 

Tbul for their country Iboy could do: 

And to her honour so did knit, 

As all their Acta were understood 

The Sinews of the Publick Good, 
Add they themselves one soul with it 

These men were truly Magistrates; 
These neither practised Force, nor Forme, 
Xor did they leave the helm in storms. 

And such they are make happy States. 



I envy not the beast that takes 
His license in the field of time, 
rnfetteied by the sense of crime, 

To wliiim a conscience never wakes: 

Nor, what may count itself as blest, 
The heart that never plighted troth, 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth, 

Nor any want-begotten rest. 

I hold it true, whate'er befall; 

I feel it when I sorrow most ; 

'Tis better to have loved and lost 
Thau never to have loved at all. 

thou that after toil and storm 

May.st seem to have reached a purer :iir. 
Whoso faith has centre everywhere, 
Nor cares to fix. itself to form, 

Leave thou thy sister, when she prays. 
Her early Heaven, her liappy views ; 
Nor tliou with shadowed hint coufuso 

A life that leads mclodions days. 

Her faith through form is i)Hro as thine, 
Her hands are quicker unto good. 
Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood 

To which she liuks a truth divine! 

See thou, that couutesl; reason ripe 

In Iidlding by the law within. 

Thou fail not in a world of sin. 
And ev'u for want of such a type. 

Do we indeed desire the dead 

Should still be near us at our side f 
Is there no baseness we would hidef 

No inner vileuess that we dread? 

Shall he for wlrose api)laiisc I strove, 
I h.id snoli revereuce for his blame. 
See with clear eye some hidden shame, 

And I bo lessened in his love f 

1 wrong tlio grave with fears untrue: 
Shall love bo blamed for want of faith f 
There must bo wisdom with great Death : 

The de.id shall look me through and through. 

lie near us when we climb or f;tll : 
Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours 
Willi larger, other eyes than ours, 

To make allowauce for us nil. 



686 



CTCLOPJSDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Oh, yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill, 
To pangs of nature, sins of will, 

Defects of doubt, and taiuts of blood. 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
That not one life shall be destroyed, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void, 

When God hath made the pile complete ; 

That not a worm is cloveu iu vain ; 
That not a moth with vaiu desire 
Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire. 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold ! we know not anything ; 
I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far oif — at last, to all. 

And every winter change to spring. 

So ruus my dream : but what am I ? 
An infant crying in the night: 
An infant crying for the light : 

And with no language but a cry. 

# * * * ^ - 

Tiie wish that of the living whole 
No life may fail beyond the grave, — 
Derives it not from what we have. 

The likcst God within the soul ? 

Are God and Nature thou at strife, 
That Nature lends such evil dreams ? 
So careful of the type she seems. 

So careless of the single life. 

That I considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning in her deeds, 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

Slie often brings but one to bear — 

I fiilter where I firmly trod; 

And, falling with my weight of cares 
Upon tlie great world's altar-stairs. 

That sloiio through darkness up to God. 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and gropo, 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all, 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 
* * * j^ * 

Dip down upon the northern shore, 
O sweet new-year, delaying long : 
Thou doest expectant nature wrong ; 

Delaying long, delay no more. 



What stays thee from the clouded noons? 

Thy sweetness from its proper place ? 
Can trouble live with April days. 
Or sadness iu the summer moons? 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, 
The little speedwell's darling blue. 
Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew, 

Laburnums, dropping- wells of fire. 

thou, new-year, delaying long, 
Delayest the sorrow iu my blood. 
That longs to burst a frozen bud. 

And flood a fresher throat with song. 

1 shall not see thee. Daro I say 
No spirit ever brake the band 
That stays him from the native land 

Where first he walked when clasped iu clay ? 

No visual shade of some one lost, 
But he, the Spirit himself, may come 
Where all the nerve of sense is numb ; 
, Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. 

Oh, therefore from thy sightless range 
With gods in unconjectured bliss. 
Oh, from the distance of the abyss. 

Of tenfold-complicated change, 

Descend, and touch, and enter ; hear 

The wish too strong for words to name; 
That in this blindness of the frame, 

My Ghost may feel that thine is near. 

How pure at heart and sound iu head. 
With what divine aft'ections bold. 
Should be the man whose thought would hold 

An hour's communion with the dead! 

In vain shalt thou, or any, call 
The spirits from thoir golden day, 
Except, like them, thou too canst say, 

My spirit is at peace with all. 

They haunt the silence of the breast, 

Imaginations calm aiul fair, — 

The memory like a cloudless air, 
The conscience as a sea at rest ! 

But when the heart is full of din, 
And doubt beside the portal waits, 
They can but listen at the gates, 

And hear the household jar within. 



ALFRED TEXNTSOy. 



687 



Yon Bay, but with no touch of scorn, 

Sweet-lieartcti, you, wlioso li<;''t-1)liie eyes 
Are tciuler over drowninj; liies, — 

You tell ino doubt is Devil-bom. 

I kuow not : ono indeed I kucw 
lu many a subtile (luestiou versed, 
Wlio touched a jailing lyre at first, 

lint ever strove to iiiako it true: 

Perplexed in faith, but pure in deeds. 

At last he beat his music out. 

There lives more faith in honest doubt. 
Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

Ho fought his doubts, and gathered strength, 
He would not make his judgment blind, 
He faced the spectres of the mind. 

And laid thein : thus ho came at length 

To liud a stronger failli his own ; 

And Power was with him in the night, 
Which makes the darkness and the light, 

And dwells not in the light alone, 

Hilt in the darkness and the cloud. 
As over Sinai's peaks of old, 
While Israel made their gods of gold, 

Although the trumpet blew so loud. 

King out, wild bells, to tho wild sky, 
The Hying clouds, the frosty light: 
The year is dying in the night; 

King out, wild bells, and let him die. 

King out the <dd, ring in the new, — 
King, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go; 

King out the false, ring in the true. 

King out the grief that saps the mind, 
l-'iir those that here wo see no nmre ; 
King out the fend of rich and poor. 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause. 
And ancient funiis r)f party strife ; 
King in the nobler modes of life. 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 
The faithless coldness of tho times ; 
King out. ring out, my mournful rhymes. 

Hut ring the fuller minstrel in. 



King out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite ; 
Ring in the love of truth and right. 

Ring in tho cdiniuon love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease. 
Ring out the narrowing Inst of gold ; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and fice, 
Tho larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out tho darkness of the land ; 

Ring iu tho Christ that is to be. 

That which wo dare invoke to bless ; 

Onr dearest faith, our ghastliest doubt ; 

He, Tbey, One, All ; within, without ; 
The power in darkness whom we guess ; 

I found Him not in world or sun. 
Or eagle's w iug, or insect's eye ; 
Nor throngli the questions men may try, 

Tho petty cobwebs wo have spun : 

If e'er, when faith had fallen asleep, 
I heard a voice, " Helieve no more," 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled in tho Godless deep ; 

A wannth within the bre.nst would melt 
The freezing reason's colder part, 
And like a man in wrath, tho heart 

Stood up and answered, "I have felt.'' 

Xo, like a child in doubt and fear: 
Hilt that blind clamor made me wise; 
Then was I as a child that cries, 

Hnt, crying, knows his father near; 

And what I am beheld again 

What is, and no man understands ; 
And out of darkness came the hands 

That reach through nature, moulding men. 

Thy voice is on the rolling air; 

I hear thee where the waters run; 

Thou slandcst in the rising sun, 
And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou thenf I cannot guess; 
But though I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee some difl'iisivo power, 

I do not therefore lovo thee less. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



My love involves the love before ; 

My love is vaster passion now ; 

Though mixed wilh God and Nature thou, 
I seem to lo\e thee more and more. 

Far ott' fliou art, but ever nigh; 
I have thee still, and I rejoice : 
I prosper, circled witli thy voice; 

I shall not lose thee, thongh I die. 



TEARS, IDLE TEARS. 
From '* TiiE Princess." 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean ; 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
lu looking ou the happy autumn fields, 
And thinking of the days that ai'o no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering ou a sail. 
That brings our friends up from the underworld. 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all wo love below the verge; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad aud strange as in dark summer dawus 

The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 

So sad, so strauge, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by helpless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love. 
Deep as first love, aud wild with all regret, 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more ! 



FROM "THE GOLDEN YEAR." 

Wo sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move ; 
The Sun Hies forward to his brother Sun ; 
The dark Earth follows wheeled in her ellipse ; 
And human things returning on themselves 
Mox-e onward, leadiug up the golden year. 

Ah, though the times when some new thought eau 

bud 
Are but as poets' seasons when they flower. 
Yet seas that daily gain upon the shore 
Have ebb and flow conditioning their march, 
Aud slow and sure comes up the golden year, — 



When wealth no more shall rest in mounded heaps, 

But smit with freer light shall slowly melt 

In many streams to fatten lower lands, 

Aud light shall spread, and mau be liker man. 

Through all the seasons of the golden year. 

Shall eagles not be eagles ? wrens be wrens ? 
If all the world were falcons, what of that ? 
The wonder of the eagle were the less. 
But ho not less the eagle. Happy days 
Roll onward, leading up the golden year! 

Fly, happy, happy sails, and bear the Press — 
Fly, happy with the mission of the Cross: 
Knit land to laud, and, blowing havenward. 
With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll. 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 

But we grow old. Ah, when shall all men's good 
Be each man's rule, aud universal peace 
Lie like a shaft of light acro.ss the laud, 
Aud like a lane of beams athwart the sea, 
Through all the circle of the golden vear ? 



James fjanbastib Jicrkius. 

AMERICAN. 

Perkins (1810-1849), a native of Boston, was l)red to 
mercantile pursuits, but not finding tliera congenial, went 
to Cincinnati and studied law. Tliis he forsook for lit- 
erature, edited varicnis publications, and contributed to 
reviews .ind magazines. He finally accepted tbe office 
of minister-at-largp iu Cincinnati, and gave a practical 
direction to the charities of the city. He w.as the first 
President of the Cincinnati Historical Society (1844). 
Of a highly sensitive temperament, he was thrown into 
a state of nervous .agitation by the supposed loss of his 
ehiklrcu, aud, while thus depressed, leaped from a ferry- 
boat into the river, and was drowned. 



ON LAKE MICHIGAN. 

Sink to my heart, bright evening skies! 

Ye waves that round me roll, 
With all your golden, crimson dyes ; 

Sink deep into my sonl ! 
Aud ye, soft-footed stars, — that come 

So silently at eveu, 
To make this world awhile your home. 

And briug us nearer he.aven, — 
Spe.ak to my spirit's listening ear, 

With your calm tones of beauty, 
And to my darkened mind make clear 

My errors and my duty. 



JAMES BAXDASYD PEREIXS.— THEODORE PARKER. 



Siuk to my heart, sweet evening skies ! 

\'v (liirkeuiii"; waves that roll 
Aroiiiul me, — ye departing (lyes, — 

Sink to my inmost soul ! 
Teach to my heart of hearts the trnth. 

Unknown, tliongh known so well, 
That in each feeling, act, and thonght 

Cioil works by miracle. 
And ye, soft-footed stars, that come 

So quietly at even, 
Teach mo to use this world, ray home, 

So as to make it heaven ! 



THE UPRIGHT SOUL. 

Late to our town there came a maid, 
A noble woman, true and pure. 

Who in the Utile while she stayed 
Wrought works that shall endure. 

U was not anything she said — 

It was not anything she did : 
It was the movement of her head, — 

The lifting of her lid; — 

Her little motions when .she spoke, — 
The presence of an upright soul, — 

The living light that from her broke, — 
It was the perfect whole I 

We saw it in her floating hair, 
We saw it in her laughing eye ; 

For every look and feature there 
Wrought works that cannot die. 

For she to many spirits gave 

A reverence for the true, the pure, 

The perfect, — that has power to save, 
And make the doubting sure. 

She passed — she went to other lands. 

She knew not of the work she did; 
The wondrous product of her hands 

From her is ever hid. 

Forever, did I say? Oh, no! 

The time must come when she will look 
Upon her pilgrini.lge below ; 

And find it iu God's book, — ■ 

That, as she trod her path aright, 
Power from her very garmeuta stole; 
44 



For such is the mysterious might 
God grants the upright soul. 

A deed, a word, our careless rest, 

A simple thought, a common feeling. 

If He be present in the breast, 
Has from Him powers of healing. 

Go, maiden, with thy golden tresses. 
Thine azure eye and changing cheek, 

Go, and forget the one who blesses 
Thy presence (Iiioiigh the week; — 

Forget him : ho will not forget, 
IJut strive to live and testify 

Thy goodness, when Earth's sun has set, 
And Time itself rolled bv. 



iiljcoLiorc Parker. 



Known rather as a preacher than a poet, Parker (1810- 
ISGO) gave evidence of rich poetic sensibility not only in 
his discourses but iu some few poems that he left. lie 
was a native of Lexington, Mass., passed a year at Har- 
vard Colkire, and entered the Cambridge Divinity School 
in 18:34. He was a great linguist, an ardent reformer, and 
one of the most eloquent of tlie advocates of a simple 
theism in religion. His lar^e collection of books — over 
13,000 volumes— was given by him to the Boston Public 
Litirary. 



THREE son>t:ts. 

I. TIIH W.VV, THE TltlTlI. THE LIFE. 

O Thou great Friend to all the sons of men, 

Who once appear'dst in humblest guise below, 

Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's chain. 

To call thj' brethren forth from want and woe ! — 

Thee wonld I sing. Thy trnlh is still the light 

Which guides the nations groping on their way, 

Stunililing and falling in disastrous night, 

Yet hoping ever for the perfect day. 

Yes, thou art still the life ; thou art the way 

The holiest know, — light, life, and way of heaven ; 

And they who dearest hope and dce|)est pray 

Toil by the trnth, life, way, that thou hast given ; 

And in thy name aspiring mortals trust 

To uplift their bleeding brothers from the dust. 

11. THE SAViorR's gospel. 

O Brother, who for us didst meekly wear 

The crown of thorns about thy ra<liant brow, — 



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CTCLOPMDIA OF SlilTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



What gospel from the Father didst thou bear, 
Our hearts to cheer, makiug us haiJi)y uow ? 
" 'Tis this aloue," the immortal Saviour cries : 
" To fill thy heart with ever-active love, — 
Love for the wicked as iu siu he lies. 
Love for thy brother here, thy God above, — 
Aud thus to fnid thy earthly, heavenly prize. 
Fear uothiug ill; 'twill vanish in its day: 
Live for the good, taking the ill thou must ; 
Toil with thy might ; with manly labor pray ; 
Living and loving, learn thy God to trust, 
And he will shed upon thy soul the blessings of the 
just." 

m. THE HIGHER GOOD. 

Father, I will not ask for wealth or fame, 
Though once they would have joyed my carnal 

sense : 
I shudder not to bear a hated name, 
Wanting all wealth, myself my sole defence. 
But give me. Lord, eyes to behold the truth ; 
A seeing sense that knows the eternal right ; 
A heart with pity filled, and gentlest ruth ; 
A manly faith that makes all darkness liglit : 
Give me the power to labor for mankind ; 
Make me the mouth of such as cannot spe.ak ; 
Eyes let me be to groping men, aud blind ; 
A couscience to the base ; and to the weak 
Let me be h.ands and feet; and to the foolish, mind ; 
And lead still farther on such as thy kingdom seek. 



II Y M N . 

In darker days and nights of storm. 
Men knew thee but to fear thy form ; 
And in the reddest lightning saw 
Thino arm avenge insulted law. 

In lu-ighter days we read thy love 
In flowers beneath, in stars above ; 
And in the track of every storm 
Behold thy beauty's rainbow form. 

And in the reddest lightning's path 
We see no vestiges of wrath, 
But always wisdom, — perfect love, 
From flowers beneath to stars above. 

See, from on high sweet influence rains 
On palace, cottage, mountains, plains ; 
No hour of wrath shall mortal fear, 
For thou, the God of Love, art here. 



livaiis (Paijlorir (Jllark. 

AMERICAN, 
Clark (1810-1841) was regarded as quite a poetical ce- 
lebrity in his day. He was twin brother of Lewis Gay- 
lord Clark, editor for nearly tliirty years of the Knicker- 
bocker Magazine, and who died in 1873— a delightful com- 
panion .ind amiable man, whose specialty was a quick, 
discriminating humor, rising oflcn into wit. They were 
born at Otisco, N. Y. Willis settled in Philadelphia, 
where he edited the Gazette, and wrote poems, a complete 
edition of which was published iu New York in 1S47. 
He also contributed a series of literary miscellanies, un- 
der the title of" Ollapodiana," to his brother's magazine. 
These were collected into a volume, aud published in 1844. 



" THEY THAT SEEK ME EARLY SHALL FIND 
ME." 

Come, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest, 

Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze ; 
Come, while the restless heart is bounding lightest, 

And joy's pure sunbeam trembles iu thy ways; 
Come, while sweet thoughts, like summer buds un- 
folding. 

Waken rich feelings iu the careless breast; 
While yet thy hand, the ephemeral wreath is holding, 

Come aud secure iuterminable rest. 

Soon will the freshness of thy days be over. 

And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown ; 
Pleasure will fold her wing — and friend and lover 

AVill to the embraces of the worm have gone ! 
Those who now love thee will have passed forever — 

Their looks of kindness will be lost to thee ; 
Thou wilt need balm to heal thy spirit's fever. 

As thy sick heart broods over years to be! 

Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing, 

Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die; 
Ere the gay spell, which earth is round thee throwing. 

Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky. 
Life is but shadows — save a iiromise given 

That lights the future with a fadeless ray; 
Come, touch the sceptre — win a hope in Heaven — 

Aud turn thy spirit from this world away. 

Then will the shadows of this brief existence 

Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul — 
And, shadowed brightly in the forward distance. 

Will, of thy patient race, appear the goal ; 
Home of the weary, where in glad reposing. 

The spirit liugers iu unclouded bliss, 
While o'er his dust the curtained grave is closing : — 

Who would not earlij choose a lot like this? 



JAMICS ALDKlCff.—MAHTIX FJSQUMAR lUPPER.— ROBERT MILLER. 



691 



2(xw\t5 ^nibricl). 



AMERICAN 

AldiicU (181(M85C) was a native of Suffolk County, 
N. Y. He engaged early in mercantile pursuits, but left 
tbcm for literature, and was employed as a writer for 
various periodicals. Gentle, amiable, and relincd, lie was 
much esteemed socially, as well as for his delicate wit 
and keen sense of humor. 



A DEATH-BED. 

Her suflfcring ended with the day, 

Yet lived she at its close, 
And breathed the long, long night away, 

In statue-like repose. 

Hut when the snn iu all his state 

Ilhiiued the eastern skies. 
She passed through Glory's morning-gate, 

And walked in Paradise. 



TO ONE FAR AWAY^. 

Swifter far than swallow's flight 
Homeward o'er the twilight lea, 

Swifter than the morning light, 
Flashing o'er the pathless sea, — 

Dearest! in the lonely night. 
Memory Hies away to thee! 

Stronger far than is desire. 
Firm as truth itself can he, 

Deeper than earth's central fire, 
Uonndle.ss as the circling sca,r- 

Yet as mute as broken lyre 
Is my love, dear wife, for thee ! 

Sweeter far than miser's gain, 
Or than note of fame can bo 

Unto ono who long in vain 
Treads the path of chivalry. 

Are my dreams, in which again 
My fond arms encircle thee ! 



fllartin /arquljar aujipcr. 

Tapper was born in London in 1810, and hod n collegi- 
ate education at Oxford. He tried the law, but gave it 
up for literature. He wrote " Proverbial Philosophy," 
which first appeared in 183-S; but supplements to it ap- 
peared in 1&13 and 1867. Its success was remarkable. 



In the United States alone the sale of the first two scries 
reached five hundred thousand copies. Suddenly the 
wind shifted, and Tupper was as unjustly depreciated as 
he had been praised. He became the butt of the news- 
papers, English and American. lie made two visits to 
the United States. W. C. Bryant, the poet, stood his firm 
friend to the last. We give one of the best of the pas- 
sages we find in "Proverbial Philosophy." 



CARPE DIEM. 

Oh, bright presence of To-day, let mc wrestle with 

thee, gracious angel ! 
I will not let thee go except thou bless me ; bless 

me, then, To-day! 
Oh, sweet garden of To-day, let mo gather of thee, 

precious Eden ; 
I have stolen bitter knowledge, give me fruits of 

life To-day. 
Oh, true temple of To-day, let mc worship in thee, 

glorious Zion ; 
I find none other place nor time than where I am 

To-day. 
Oh, living rescue of To-day, let me run into thee, 

ark of refuge ; 
I see none other hope nor chance, but standeth in 

To-day.- 
Ob, rich banquet of To-day, let me feast upon thee, 

saving manna ! 
I have none other food nor store but daily bread 

To-day. 



Robert iHUlcr. 

A native of Glasgow, Scotland, and educated for the 
legal profession. Miller (lSlO-1834) contributed verses to 
the periodicals, but did not live to collect them into a 
volume. He did not reach the age of twenty-five. 



WHERE ARE THEY I 

The loved of early days. 

Where are they T — where T 
Not on the shining braes. 

The mountains bare ; — 
Not where the rcg.il streams 

Their foam-bells cast — 
Where childhood's time of dreams 

And sunshine passed: — 

Some in the mart, and some 

In stalely halls, 
With the ancestral gloom 

Of ancient walls ; 



C9a 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Some where tlie tempest sweeps 

The desert waves ; 
Some where the myrtle weeps 

On Eomau graves ! 

Aud pale young faces gleam 

With solemn eyes : 
Like a remembered dream 

The dead arise ; 
In the red track of war, 

The restless sweep ; 
In sunlit graves afar, 

The loved ones sleep. 

The hraes are dight with flowers. 

The mountain streams 
Foam past me iu the showers 

Of sunny gleams; 
But the light hearts that cast 

A glory there, 
In the rejoicing past, 

Where are they ? — where ? 



lUilliam illillcr. 

Miller (1810-1872) was a native of Glasgow, Scotland. 
At sixteen he was apprenticed to a wood-turner, and be- 
came quite an accomplished artist. In 1803 be publish- 
ed "Scottish Nursery Songs, and otlier Poems," of which 
Robert Buchanan says : " I can scarcely conceive a pe- 
riod when Miller will be forgotten : certainly not until 
the Scotch Doric is obliterated, and the lowly nursery 
abolished forever." 



WILLIE AVINKIE. 

Wee Willie Wlukie 

Rins through the tonn, 
Up-stairs aud doun-stairs 

In his uicht-gouu ; 
Tiding at the window, 

Crying at the lock, 
"Are the weans in their hed, 

For it's now ten o'clock ?" 

" Hey, Willie Winkle, 

Are yo comin' hen ? 
The cat's singing gay thnims 

To the sleeping hen ; 
The dog's speldered on the floor, 

Aud disua gie a cheep : 
But here's a waukrife laddie 

That winua fa' asleep." 



Onything but sleep, you rogue ! 

Glowering like the moon, 
Rattling in an airn jng 

Wi' an airn spoon, 
Ruuiblin', tnmbliu', round about, 

Crawing like a cock, 
Skirlin' like a keuna-what, 

Waukuin' sleepiug folk. 

Hey, Willie Wiukie — 

The wean's in a creel! 
Wamhlin' aff a body's knee 

Like a very eel ; 
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, 

Rav'llin' a' her thrums — 
Hey, Willie Wiukie— 

See, there he comes ! 

Wearied is the mither 

That has a stoorie wean, 
A wee stumpie stousie, 

That canna rin his lane. 
That has a battle aye wi' sleep, 

Before he'll close an e'e — 
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips 

Gies strength anew to me. 



fjcnrji ^IfovLi. 

Alford (1810-1871) was a native of London. He was 
the author of " Poems and Poetical Fragments " (1831) ; 
"The School of the Heart, and other Poems" (1835); 
also of many minor pieces in verse. His Life, written 
by his widow, appeurcd in 1873. As a divine aud a schol- 
ar his reputation w.as high. 



A MEMORY. 

The sweetest flower that ever saw the light. 
The smoothest stream that ever wandered by. 
The fairest star upon the brow of night, 
Joying and sparkliug from his sphere on high. 
The softest glances of the stockdove's eye, 
The lily pure, the mary-bud gold-bright, 
The gush of song that floodeth all the sky 
From the dear flatterer mounted out of sight, — 
Are not so pleasure-stirring to the thought. 
Not to the wounded soul so full of balm, 
As cue frail glimpse, by painful straining caught 
Along the past's deep mist enfolded calm, 
Of that sweet face, not visibly defined, 
But rising clearly ou the inner mind. 



ISAAC McLELLAN.—BOBEET niXCKLET MESSTXGER. 



C93 



5saac ilTcCcllan. 

AMERICAN, 

Boni in Portland, Maine, in 1810, McLellan was edu- 
cated at Bowdoin Colleirc, where lie was graduated in 
1820. lie studied law in Boston, but never engaged ac- 
tively in the profession. In 1S30 be published "The Fall 
of the Indian;" in 1832, "The Tear, and other Poems;" 
and in 1844 a third volume of miscellaneous pieces. He 
has been for some j'cai-s a resident of Long Island. 



THE NOTES OF THE BIRDS. 

Well do I love those various harmonies 
That ring so gayly in spring's budding woods, 
Ami in the thicket.s, and green, quiet haunts, 
And lonely copses of the sunmKT-tinie, 
.Villi in red niitninn's ancient solitudes. 

If thou art pained with the world's noisy stir, 
Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weighed down 
With any of the ills of human life, — 
If thou art sick and weak, or moiirii'st the loss 
of lirothreu gone to that far di.stant land, 
To which wo all do pa.vi, gentle and poor, 
Tlio gayest and the gravest, all alike, — 
Then turn into the peaceful wood.s, and hear 
Tlio thrilling music of the forest-birds. 

How rich the varied choir! The unquiet finch 
Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren 
Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times. 
And the thrush mourneth where the kalniia hangs 
Its crimson-spotted cups, or chirps half-hid 
Amid the lowly dog-wood's snowy flowers. 
And the blue jay Hits by, from tree to tree. 
And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear 
With its .shrill-sounding and unsteady cry. 

With the sweet airs of spring the robin comes, 
.\nd ill her simple song there seems to gush 
A strain of sorrow when she visiteth 
Her last year's withered nest. I$ut when the gloom 
Of the deep twilight falls, .she takes her perch 
Upon the red-stemmed hazel's slender twig, 
That overhangs the brook, and suits her song 
To the slow rivulet's inconstant chime. 

In the last days of autumn, when the corn 
Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest-field. 
And the gay company of reapers binil 
The bearded wheat in sheaves, — then peals abroad 
The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear, 
Hold plunderer, tli.v mellow burst of song 
Float from thy watili-|>laco on the mossy tree 
Close at the cornfield's edge. — Lone whip-poor-will, 
There is much sweetness in thy litful hymn. 
Heard in the drowsy watches of the night. 



Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out, 
And the wide air is still, I hoar theo chant 
Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes 
His lodging in the wilderness of woods, 
And lifts his anthem when the world is still. 



Uobert Ijincklcij iHcssiiioicr. 

AMERICAN. 

Messinger (1SU-1S74), a native of Boston, Mass., was 
educated at the Latin and High Schools. He entered 
the counting-house of his brother, a New York iner- 
cliaiit, and was associated with him several ye;irs. Hav- 
ing literary and artistic tastes, he became a man of va- 
ried accomplishineiits, and a favorite in the choicest so- 
ciety. His often-quoted poem, "Give Mc the Old," ap- 
peared first in the Xcm York Amermm of April 20th, 1838, 
then edited by Charles King, afterward President of Co- 
lumbia College. In all American collections, e.\cept the 
present, the poem is marred by the omission of the last 
four lines, which wc have restored. Messinger never 
aspired to be more than an amateur in poetry. He nev- 
er published a volume, and his verses were all put forth 
anonymously. The friends to whom he refers in the 
poem we quote were Walter and William Weynian.of 
New York; Captain Frederick A. Smith, of the United 
States Corps of Engineers; and Stuart Maitland, of Scot- 
land, the "aito-^o," who resided at the time in New York. 



A WINTER WISH. 

"Old wiue to driuk, old wood to burn, old books to read, and 
old friends to converse with."— -4 //oiizo o/ Catlile. 

Old wine to drink ! 
Ay, give the slippery juice. 
That drippeth from the grape thrown loose. 

Within the tun ; 
Plucked from beneath the cliff 
Of sunny-sided Teneritro, 

And ripened 'iieath the blink 
Of India's sun ! 
Peat-whiskey hot, 
Tempered with well-boiled water ! 
These make the long night shorter,-!- 

Forgetting not 
Good stout old English porter! 

Old wood to liiirii I 
Ay, bring the hill-side beech. 
From where the owlets meet and screech, 

And ravens croak ; 
The crackling pine, and cedar sweet I 
Bring, too, a clump of fragrant peat, 
Dug 'neatli the fern ! 
The knotted oak ! 



694 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



A fagot too, iierhaji, 
Whose bright flame danciug, ■winkiug, 
Shall light us at our driuking ; 

While the oozing sap 
Shall make sweet music to our thinking ! 

Old books to read ! 
Ay, bring those nodes of wit, 
The brazen-clasped, the vellura-writ. 

Time-honored tomes ! 
The same my sire scanned before, 
The same my graudsire thumbed o'er, 
The same his sire from college bore — 
The well-earned meed 

Of Oxford's domes; — 
(Old Homer blind. 
Old Horace, rake Anaereon, by 
Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lie,—) 
Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie; 
Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay, 
And Gervase Markham's venerie ! 

Nor leave behind 
The Holye Booke by which we live and die ! 

Old friends to talk ! 
Ay, bring those chosen few, 
The wise, the courtly, and the true, 

So rarely found ! 
Him for my wine, him for my stud, 
Him for my easel, distich, bud 
In mountain walk ! 

Bring AValter good. 
With soulful Fred, and learned Will ; 
And thee, my alter ego (dearer still 

For every mood !) — 

These add a bouquet to my wine ! 

These add a sparkle to my pine ! 

If these I tine,' 

Can books, or fire, or wine be good ? 



JTranccs ^nnc Hemble. 

A daughter of Charles Kemble, tlie actor, and niece 
of the more distinguished Mrs. Siddons and John Philip 
Kemble, Fanny, as she was called, was born in London 
in 1811. Slic became an actress, and made quite a hit 
as Bianca in Milnian's *' Fazio;" also in the Julia of 
Knowlcs's "Hunchback." In 1832 she visited the United 
States with her fatlicr, and brouglit out tliese and other 
plays at the principal theatres with success. She mar- 
ried Pierce Butler, of Philadelphia; but in 1849 was di- 
vorced, and resumed her family name. She has written 

1 In Scotch, to tiiie is to lose. See its use by Richard Gall, 
page 331. 



plays, poems, and hooks of travel ; and late in life an 
interesting account of her own career and varied expe- 
riences. She has shown superior talents in her varied 
productions. 



LINES WRITTEN IN LONDON. 

Struggle not with thy life ! — the heavy doom 
Resist not, it will bow thee like a slave : 

Strive not! thou shalt not conquer; to thy tomb 
Thou shalt go crushed and ground, though ne'er 
so brave. 

Complain not of thy life! — for what art thou 
More than thy fellows, that thou should'st not 
weep ? 

Brave thoughts still lodge beneath a furrowed brow. 
And the way-wearied have the sweetest sleep. 

Slarvel not at thy life ! — patience shall see 
The perfect work of wisdom to her given; 

Hold fast thy soul through this high mystery, 
And it shall lead thee to the gates of heaven. 



WRITTEN AFTER LEAVING WEST POINT. 

The hours are past, love, 
Oh, fled they not too fast, love ! 
Those happy hours, when down the mountain-side 
Wo saw the rosy mists of morning glide. 
And, hand-in-hand, went forth upon our way. 
Full of young life and hope, to meet the day. 

The hours are past, love, 
Oh, fled they not too fast, love ! 
Those sunny hours, when from the mid-day heat 
We sought the water-fall with loitering feet. 
And o'er the rocks that lock the gleaming jiool 
Crept down into its depths, so dark and cool. 

The hours are past, love ; 
Oh, fled they not too fast, love ! 
Those solemn hours, when through the violet sky. 

Alike without a cloud, without a ray, 
The round red autumn moon came glowingly, 
While o'er the leaden waves our boat made way. 

The hours are past, love ; 
Oh, fled they not too fast, love ! 
Those blessed hours when the bright day was past, 

And in the world we seemed to wake alone. 

When heart to heart beat throbbingly and fast. 

And love was melting our two souls in one. 



ARTHUR HENRY BALLAM. — WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 



695 



^rtljtir ^enrt) f)alloin. 

naIlam,wlio was born iu London in ISll.nnd died in 
Vienna in 1833, was a son of tlio eminent historian, Ueu- 
ly Uallain. lie distiniiuislied himself at Eton, and at 
Trinity Collciie, Cambridi^e ; and was tlie author of sev- 
eral essays and poems full of promise, which were eol- 
Iccted and published by his father in 1834. Betrothed to 
Emily Tennyson, a sister of the three poets, be was the 
subjeet of Alfred's " In Menioriam." He had been one 
of Coleridge's favorites, and at Abbotsford became known 
to Sir Walter Scott. LocUhart says of him : "Mr. Hal- 
lam had with him his son Arthur, a youn^ gentleman of 
extraordinary ability, and as modest as able." Politics, 
literature, philosophy, he discussed with a metaphysical 
eabtlety marvellous in one so young. His father, who 
was devotedly attached to him, and in whose arms he 
died, said, " He seemed to tread the earth as a spirit 
from some better world." Arthur had a brother, Henry 
Fitzmaaricc Hallam, who also died young. 



SOXXETS. 

blessing and delight of my young heart, 
Maiden, who wast so lovely and so pure, 

1 know not ill what region now thou art. 
Or whom thy geutlo eyes in .joy assure. 

Not the old hills on which wo gazed together, 
Not the old faces which we hoth did love, 
Not the old hooks wheuco knowledge we did gather. 
Not these, but others now thy fancies move. 
I would I knew thy present hopes and fears, 
All thy companions with their i>leasant talk, 
And the clear a.sjicct wliicli thy dwelling wears; 
So, though iu body absent, I might walk 
With thee in thought and feeling, till thy mood' 
Did sanctify my own to peerless good. 



Still here — thou hast not faded from my siglit, 
Nor all the music round thee from niino car : 
Still grace (lows from thee to the brightening year. 
And all the birds laugh out in wealthier light. 
Still am I free to close my happy eyes, 
And naint upon the gloom thy mimic form, 
That soft white neck ; that cheek in beauty warm, 
And brow half hidden where yon ringlet lies: 
With, oh! the blissful knowledge all the while 
That I can lift at will each curvi5d lid, 
.Vnd my fair dream most higlily realize. 
The time will come, 'tis ushered by my sighs, 
Wlien I may shape the dark, but vainly bid 
True light restore that form, those looks, that smile. 



Lowly and sweetly as be6ts the hour. 
One to another down tlic grassy walk. 
Hark I the laliurnuni from his opening flower. 
This cherry creeper greets in whisper light, 
While the grim fir, rejoicing iu the night, 
Ho.arse mutters to the nnirmnring syeanu)rc. 
What shall I deem their converse ? Would they hail 
The wilil gray light that fronts yon massive cloud, 
Or the half bow, rising like the pillared firet 
Or are they sighing faintly for desire 
That with May dawn their leaves may be o'erflowed. 
And dews about their feet niav never fail ? 



The garden trees are busy with the shower 
That full ere sunset: now methiuks they talk, 



TO ALFRED TENNTi'SON. 

Alfred, I would that you beheld mo now, 

Sitting beneath a mossy, ivied wall 

On a quaint bench, which to that structure old 

Winds an accordant curve. Above my head 

Dilates immeasurable a wild of leaves, 

Seeming received into the blue expanse 

That vaults this summer noon.. Before me lies 

A lawn of English verdure, smooth and bright. 

Mottled with fainter hues of early hay, 

Whose fragrance, blended with the rose-perfume 

From that whito (lowering bush, invites my sense 

To a delicious madness, — and faint thoughts 

Of childish years are borne into my brain 

Hy unforgottcn ardors waking now. 

I'eyond, ,i gentle slope leads into shade 

Of mighty trees, to bend whose eminent crown 

Is the prime labor of the pettish winds, 

That now in lighter mood are twirling leaves 

Over ray feet, or hurrying butterllies. 

And the gay humming tilings that summer loves, 

Through the warm air, or altering the bound 

W'here yon elm-shadows in majestic line 

Divide dominion with the abundant light. 



lllillitim lUakcpcacc (LljacKcraji. 

Thackeray (1811-1S<W), eminent as n novelist and a 
humorist, was a native of Calcutta. With his widowed 
mother he came to England in 1817, was educated at 
Trinity College, Cambridge, and subsequently studied at 
Weimar. He inherited a small fortune, but lost most 
of it in bad investments. He was also lavish in dona- 
tions to the needy. At one time he gave the impecuni- 
ous Dr. Maginn five hundred pounds. Thackeray first 
became known through his contributions to Franer'i 
.Vapiuine, uniler the pseudonyme of Michael Angclo Tit- 
marsh. He had llrst aspired to be an artist, but his draw- 
ings lack the right touch. In 1847 appeared his noTcl of 



696 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



"Vanity Fair," and tills was followed by others equally 
popular. In 1851 he appeared as a lecturer, and in 1855- 
'56 repeated his lectures successfully in the United States 
and Canada. For two years (1860-'0:3) he conducted Tlie 
CornhUl Magazine; but his many litei-ary schemes were 
frustrated by his sudden death in 1803. Thackeray is en- 
titled to distinct fame as a poet. In some of his poems 
he shows jjenuine power, tenderness, and pathos. He 
was a man of noble impulses, benevolent, charitable, and 
affectionate — a generous foe and a devoted friend. He 
died in bed, alone and unseen, struggling, as it appeared, 
with a violent spasmodic attack which had caused an 
effusion on the brain. 



LITTLE BILLEE. 

There were three sailors of Bristol city 

Who took a boat and went to sea, 
But first with beef and captain's biscuits 

And pickled pork tbey loaded she. 

There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, 
And the youngest, be was little Billee. 

Now, when they got as far as the equator, 
They'd nothing left but one split pea. 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 

"I am extremely hungaree." 
To gorging Jack says gnzzling Jimmy, 

"We've nothing left, us must eat we." 

Says gorging Jack to gnzzling Jimmy, 
" Witb one anotber we shouldn't agree ! 

There's little Bill, be's young and tender, 
We're old and tougb, so let's eat he." 

" Oh, Billy, we're going to kill and cat you. 
So undo the button of your ehcraie." 

When Billy received tbis information. 
He used bis pocket-bandkercbie. 

"First let me say ray catechism. 

Which my poor mammy taught to me." 

" Make haste, make haste," says gnzzling Jimmy, 
While Jack pulled out bis sniekersee. 

So Billy went up to the main-top-gallant mast, 
And down he fell on bis bended knee. 

Ho scarce bad come to the twelfth commandment, 
When up be jumps: "There's land I see: 

"Jerusalem and Madagascar, 

And North and South Amerikee : 
There's the British flag a-riding at anchor, 

With Admiral Napier, K.C.B." 



But when tbey got aboard of the admiral's, 
He banged fat Jack aiul flogged Jimmee ; 

But as for little Bill, he made him 
The captain of a seventy-three. 



AT THE CHURCH GATE. 

Although I enter not, 
Yet, round about the spot 

Ofttimes I hover. 
And near the sacred gate, 
Witb longing eyes I wait. 

Expectant of her. 

The minster bell tolls out 
Above the city's rout, 

And uoi.se and humming ; 
They've bu.sbed the minster bell. 
The organ 'gins to swell — 

She's coming — comiug! 

My lady comes at last. 

Timid and stepping fast, 
And hastening hither. 

With modest eyes downcast; 

She comes — she's here — she's past- 
May heaveu go with her! 

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint. 
Pour out your praise or plaint 

Meekly and dnly; 
I will not enter there. 
To sully your pure prayer, 

Witb thoughts unruly. 

But sutler me to pace 
Round the forbidden place. 

Lingering a minute. 
Like outcast spirits who wait, 
And see, through heaven's gate, 

Angels within it. 



THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 

A street there is in Paris famous. 

For which no rhyme our language yields. 
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is — ■ 

The New Street of the Little Fields. 
And here's an inn, not rich and splendid. 

But still iu comfortable case ; 
The which in youth I oft attended. 

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE TBACKERAY. 



697 



This Bouillabaisse a uoblo tlish is — 

A sort of soup, or brotli, or brew, 
Or botclipotcli of all sorts of lislies, 

That Grcouwicli never could outdo: 
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, sallrou. 

Sides, onions, garlie, roaeli, and daee ; 
All these yon eat at Terre's tavern, 

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed, a rieh and savory stew 'tis; 

And true philosophers, niethinks, 
Who love all sorts of natural beauties, 

Should love good victuals and good drinks. 
And Cordelier or Benedictine 

Mifjlit gladly, sure, his lot embrace, 
Nor liud a fast-day too afllicting 

AVhich served Lini up a Bouill.abaisse. 

I wonder if tlie house still there ist 

Yes, here the lamp is, as before; 
The smiling red-clieeked (^eaillere is • 

Still opening oysters at the door. 
Is Ti:i;re still alive and able? 

I recollect his droll grimace : 
Ilc'd come and smile before your table. 

And hope yon liked your Bouillabaisse. 

We enter — nothing's changed or older. 

" How's Monsieur Tkrki5, waiter, pray ?" 
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder — 

" Monsieur is dead this many a day." 
"It is the lot of saint and sinner — 

So honest TKrutE's run his race!'' 
"What will Monsieur re(|uire for dinner?" 

" Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse f" 

"O, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; 

"Quel via Monsieur d<?sire-t-il f" 
"Tell me a good one." — "That I can, sir: 

The C'hanibertiu with yellow seal." — • 
" So Tkri!e's gone," I say, and sink in 

My old accustomed corner-place ; 
" He's done with fea.sting and with drinking, 

With liurgiindy and Bouillabaisse." 

My old accustomed roruer hero is, 

The tabic still is in the nook ; 
Ah! vanished many a busy year is, 

This well-known chair since last I took. 
When first I saw ye, cari hinijhi, 

I'd scarce .a beard upon my face, 
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, 

I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 



Where are you, old companions trusty. 

Of early days here met to dinef 
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty — 

I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 
The kind old voices and old faces 

Jly nu'mory can quick retrace; 
-Vround the board they take their places, 

And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 

There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage ; 

There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; 
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage, 

There's poor old Fred in the Gawtk; 
On James's head the grass is growing: 

Good Lord! the world has wagged apace 
Since hero we set the claret flowing. 

And drauk, and ate the Houillabaisse. 

Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! 

I mind mo of a time that's gone. 
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, 

In this same place — but not alone. 
A fair young form was nestled near me, 

A dear, dear face looked fondly up. 
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me, 

— There's no one now to share my cup. 

I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes: 
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it 

In memory of dear old times. 
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is; 

And sit you down and say your grace 
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. 

— Hero comes the smoking Bouillabaisse ! 



THE MAHOGAXY-TKEE. 

Christm.as is here: winds whistle shrill. 

Icy and chill, little care we: 
Little we fear weather without. 

Sheltered about the Mahogany-tree. 

Once on the boughs, birds of rare plume 
Sang in its bloom; night-birds are we: 

Here wo carouse, singing like them. 

Perched round the stem of the jolly old tree. 

Hero let us sport, boys, as wo sit ; 

Laughter and wit flashing so free. 
Life is but short — when we are gone, 

Let them sing on, round the old tree. 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Evenings we knew, happy as tbis; 

Faces we miss, pleasaut to see. 
Kind liearts ami true, gentle and just, 

Peace to your dust! we sing round the tree. 

Care, lilie a dun, lurlcs at the gate; 

Let the dog wait; happy we'll be! 
Drink, every one; pile up the coals, 

Fill the red bowls, round the old tree ! 

Drain we the cup. — Friend, art afraid ? 

Spirits are laid in the Eed Sea. 
Mantle it up; empty it yet; 

Let us forget, round the old tree. 

Sorrows, begone! Life and its ills. 
Duns and their bills, bid we to flee. 

Come with the dawu, blue-devil sprite, 
Leave us to-night, round the old tree. 



^Ici'itnbcr illaclacian. 

Maclai;an was born at Perth, Scotland, April 3d, ISU. 
He attended school hi Ediubiirgh, and at twelve years of 
age was apprenticed to a plumber. In 1839 he contrib- 
uted pieces to tlie Literary Journal, and his poetical tal- 
ents were recognized by John Wilson, James Hogg, and 
Lord Jeffrey. Volumes of poems from his pen appeared 
in 18il, 18.54, and 1803 ; and in ISTl ho was enabled to 
publish, in an illustrntcd quarto, "Balmoral; Songs of 
the Higlilands, and other Poems." 



"DINNA YE HEAR IT?" 

'Mid the thunder of battle, the groans of the dying. 

The wail of weak women, the shouts of brave men, 

A poor Highland maiden sat sobbing and sighing, 

As she longed for the peace of her dear native gleu, 

But there came a glad voice to the ear of her heart, 

The foes of auld Scotland forever will fear it : 
" We are saved ! we are saved !" cried the bravo 
Highland maid, [itf 

" 'Tis the Highlanders' slogan ! Oh dinna ye hear 
Diuna ye hear it? dinna ye hear it? 
High o'er the battle's din, diuua ye hear it ? 
High o'er the battle's din, hail it and cheer it! 
'Tis the Highlanders' slogan ! Oh, diuna ye hear 
it? 

A moment the tempest of battle was hushed, 
But uo tidiugs of help did that moment reveal ; 

Again to their shot-shattered ramparts they rushed ; 
Again roared the cannon, again flashed the steel ! 



Still the Highland maid cried, " Let us welcome the 
brave ! 
The death-mists are thick, but their claymores will 
clear it ! [ing!' 

The war-pipes are pealiug 'The Campbells are com- 
They are charging and cheering! Oh dinna ye 
hear it?" 
Dinna ye hear it? dinna ye hear it ? etc. 

Ye heroes of Lucknow, fame crowns you with glory ; 
Love welcomes yon home with glad songs in your 
praise ; 
And brave Jessie Brown, with her soul-,stirring story. 

Forever will live iu the Highlanders' lays. 
Long life to our Queen, and the hearts who defend 
her! 
Success to our flag ! and when danger is near it, 
May our pipes be heard playing " The Campbells arc 
coming!" 
And an angel voice crying, " Oh dinna ye hear it ?" 
Dinna ye hear it? dinna ye hear it? etc. 



33avtl)oloniciu Simmons. 

Simmons {circa 1811-18.50) was born in Kilworth, Coun- 
ty Cork, Ireland. Ho obtained a situation in the Excise 
Ofiicc in London, which he held till his death. He con- 
tributed, between 1838 and 1848, some spirited poems to 
BlackwooiTs ilaqazinc, tlic editor of which says, "Sim- 
mons on the theme of Napoleon excels all our great 
poets. Byron's lines on that subject are bad ; Scott's, 
poor ; Wordswortli's, weak. Loekhart and Simmons may 
be bracketed as equal ; theirs are good, rich, strong." 



SONG OF A RETURNED EXILE. 
I. 

Sweet Corrin !' how softly the evening light goes, 
Fading far o'er thy summit from ruby to rose, 
As if loth to deprive the deep woodlands below 
Of the love and the glory they drink iu its glow : 
home-looking Hill! how beloved dost thou rise 
Once more to my sight through the sliadowy skies ! 
Shielding still, in thy sheltering grandeur unfurled. 
The landscape to me that so long was the world. 
Fair evening — blessed cveniug! one moment delay 
Till the tears of tlie pilgrim arc dried in thy ray — 
Till ho feels that through years of loug absence not 

one 
Of his friends — the lone rock and gray ruin, is gone. 

' The picturesque mountnin of C«nrtu is the termiuation of ft 
Itmo^ rancce of hills which encloses the vnlley of tlie BlacUwater 
aud the Fuucheon iu the County of Cork, Irel.iud. 



UA li THOL OME W SIMMOXS. 



C99 



Not one: — as I wind tlic sliocr fastnesses tliroiigli, 
TIio valley of boyhood is briglit in my view ! 
Ouco again my glad spirit its fetterless tliglit 
May wing tlirongh n sphere of nueloiided delight. 
O'er one maze of bright orchard, greeu meadow, and 

slope — 
From wlioso tints I onco pictnred the pinions of 

hope ; 
Still the hamlet gleams white — still the church yews 

are weeping, [ing ; 

Where the sleep of the peaceful ray fathers arosleep- 
The vane tells, as nsual, its fib from the mill, 
Bnt the wheel tumbles loudly and merrily still, 
And the tower of the Koches stands lonely as ever, 
With it3 grim shadow rusting the gold of the river. 



My own pleasant River, bloom-skirted, bchulil. 
Now sleeping in shade, now refulgently rolled. 
Where long through the landscape it trampiilly 

Hows, 
Scarcely breaking, fUen-eoorah, thy glorious repose I 
By the Park's lovely pathways it lingers and shines, 
Where the cushat's low call, and the ninnnur of 

pines, 
And the lips of the lily seem wooing its stay 
'Mid their odorous dells ; — bnt 'tis ofi' and away, 
Rnshing out through the clustering oaks, in whose 

sliadr. 
Like a bird in the branches, an arbor I made, 
Where the blue eye of Eve often closed o'er the 

book, 
While I read of stout Siubad, or voyaged with Cook. 



Wild haunt of the Harper! I stand by thy spring. 
Whoso waters of silver still sjiarkle and lling 
Their wealth at my feet, — and I catch the deep 

glow. 
As in long-vanished hours, of the lilacs that blow 
By the low cottage-poreli — ami the same crescent 

moon 
That then ploughed, like a pinnace, the purple of 

June, 
Is white on Glcn-dnif, and all blooms .is unchanged 
As if years had not passed since thy greenwood I 

ranged — 
As if ONE were not fled, who imparted a soul 
Of diviuest enchantment and grace to the whole. 
Whose being was bright as that fair moon above. 
And all deep and all pure as thy waters her love. 



Thou long-vanished Angel ! whose failhf'iilness threw 
O'er my gloomy existence one gbnilied hue ! 
Dost thou still, as of yore, when the evening grows 

dim, 
And the blackbird by Douglass is hushing its hymn, 
Kiniember th(^ bower by the I'nueheon's blue side, 
Wln're the whispers were soft asthe kissof the tide? 
Dost thou still think, with pity and peace on thy 

brow, 
Of him who, toil-harassed and time-.shaken now. 
While the last light of day, like his hopes, has de- 
parted. 
On the turf thou hast hallowed sinks down weary- 
hearted, 
And calls on thy name, and the night-breeze that 
sighs [that replies? 

Tliron";!! the boughs that onco blessed thee is all 



Bnt thy summit, far C'orrin, is fading in gr.ay. 
And the moonlight grows mellow on lonely Clough- 

lea ; 
And the laugh of the young, as they loiter about. 
Through the elm-shaded alleys rings joyously out : 
Happy souls! they have yet the dark ch.alico to taste, 
And like others to wander life's desolate waste — 
To hold wassail with sin, or keep vigil with woe; 
But the same fount of yearning wherever they go. 
Welling up in their heart-depths to turn at the last 
(As the stag when the barb in his bo.som is fast) 
To their lair in the hills on their childhood that rose, 
And find the sole blessing I seek for — ijkpose. 

1840. 



FROM "STANZAS ON THOMAS HOOD." 

Take back into thy bosom. Earth, 

This joyous. May-eyed morrow, 
The gentlest child that ever Mirth 

Gave to be reared by Sorrow ! 
'Tis hard — while rays half green, half gold. 

Through vernal bowers are burning. 
And streams their diamond mirrors hold 

To Snmmer's face returning. — 
To say we're; thankful that his sleep 

.Shall never nu)ro be lighter, 
In whose sweet-tongued companionship 

Stream, bower, and beam grew brighter! 

Dear worshipper of Diau's face 
In solitary places! 



700 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Shalt thou no more steal as of yore 

To meet her wbito embraces f 
Is there uo purple iu the rose 

Henceforward to thy senses ? 
For thee have dawu and daylight's close 

Lost their sweet influences ? 
No ! — hy the meutal sight untamed 

Thou took'st to Death's dark portal, — 
The joy of the wide universe 

Is now to thee immortal! 



FROM "THE MOTHEK OF THE KINGS." 

In the Lnndfyn Keepsake for 1837, Lady Eraeliue Stuart Wort- 
ley describes a visit to Madame Letitia, mother of Napoleon, 
then in lier eighty-fourth year. She was on her bed, and her 
room was hung around with large, full-length portraits of the 
members of her illustrious family. 

Strange looked that lady old, reclined 

Upon her louely bed 
In that vast chamber, echoing not 

To page or maiden's tread ; 
And stranger still the gorgeous forms, 

In portrait, that glanced round 
From the high walls, with cold bright looks 

More eloquent than sound. 

They were her children: — never, yet. 

Since, with the prinuil beam. 
Fair painting brought on rainbow wings 

Its own immortal dream, 
Did one fond mother give such race 

Beneath its smile to glow 
As they who now, back on her brow, 

Their pictured glories throw. 

Her dangliters there — the beautiful! 

Looked down in dazzling sheen: 
One lovelier than the Queen of Love — 

One crowned an earthly queen ! 
Her sons — the proud — the Paladins ! 

With diadem and plume, 
Each leaning on his sceptred arm. 

Made empire of that room ! 

Bnt right before her conch's foot. 

One mightiest picture blazed — 
One form angnst, to whicli her eyes 

Incessantly were raised ; — 
A monarch's too ! — and monarch-like, 

The artist's hand had bound him 
With jewelled belt, imperial sword, 

And ennined purple round him. 



One well might deem, from the white flags 

That o'er him flashed and rolled. 
Where the puissant lily laughed 

And waved its bannered gold, 
And from tlie Lombard's iron crown 

Beneath his hand which lay. 
That Charlemagne had burst death's reign 

And leaped again to-day I 

How gleamed that awful countenance. 

Magnificently stern ! 
In its dark smile and smiting look, 

W^hat destiny we learn! — 
The laurel simply wreathes that brow. 

While nations watch its nod, 
As though he scofifed all pomp below 

The thunder-bolt of God. 

Such was the scene — the noontide hour — 

Which, after many a year. 
Had swept above the memory 

Of his meteor-like career — ■ 
Saw the mother of the mightiest — 

Napoleon's mother — lie 
With the living dead around her. 

With the past before her eye ! 



fUrs. 3ant Cross Simpson. 

Mrs. Simpson was born in Glasgow in ISll; a daughter 
of James Bell, advocate, and a sister of Henry Glassford 
Bell, the lawyer-poet. Slie published in 183S a volume 
of poems, entitled "April Hours;" and is the author of 
the well-known hymn, "Go when the morning shineth," 
claimed for various authors, but contributed by her to 
the Edinburgh Literary Juurnal of Fcbiaiary 2GUi, 1S31, 
where it is sitrncd "Gertrude." 



GO WHEN THE MORNING SHINETH. 

Go w'hen the morning shineth, 

Go when the noon is bright. 
Go when the eve declineth, 

Go'in the hush of night; 
Go with pure mind and feeling, 

Fling earthly thonght away, 
And in thy chamber kneeling. 

Do thou in secret pray. 

Remember all who love thee. 
All who are loved by thee ; 

Pray too for those who hate thee, 
If anv such there be. 



AISS. JAXE CROSS SIMPSOX.— ALFRED BILLIXGS STREET. 



701 



Then for thyself, iu meekness, 

A blessing humbly chiiin ; 
And link with each petition 

The great Kedecnier's uarae. 

Or if 'tis eVr denied theo 

In solitude to jnay, 
.Should holy thoughts come o'er thee 

When friends are round thj' way, — 
Even then the silent breathing 

Of thy spirit raised above, 
May reach His throne of glory, 

Who is mercy, truth, and love. 

Oh ! not a joy or blessing 

With this can we compare, 
The power tli.it ITe hath given us 

To pour our hearts in prayer I 
Wlicue'er thou pin'st in sadness, 

Before His footstool fall. 
And remember, in thy gladness. 

His grace who gave thee all. 



vllfrciJ Cillincis Street. 



street was born in Pouslikcepsic, N. Y., in ISll. lie 
etudlcd law, l)ut in ISS'J removed to .Albany, and accepted 
the place of State Librarian. His first volume of poems 
appeared in 1843. Uc is n close and accurate observer 
of natural scenery. A landscape-painter mii^lit, with 
little aid from the imagination, find in his descriptions 
material for many a picture. His strength lies in de- 
tails, however, rather than in bold generalizations that 
flash a scene upon the mind's eye bj' a few wcU-clioscn 
phrases. His poems will be read with pleasure by stu- 
dents of natural scenery and sylvan effects. Ilis longest 
work, "Frontcnac" (1S49), is a narrative poem, being a 
tale of the Iroijuois. His other works are : "The Burn- 
ing of Schenectady, and other Poems;" "Drawings and 
Tintings" (1H44I: "Fugitive Poems" (l.Slfi); "Woods 
and Waters" (ISIi'J); "Forest Pictures in the Adiron- 
dac8"(18tH); " Poems" (ISCfi). 



THE NOOK IX Tin: FOREST. 

A nook witliiti the forest: overhead 

The branches arch, and shape a plca.sant bower, 

lircaking white cloud, blue sky, and snushiiie bright 

Into pure ivory and sapphire spots, 

.\nd flecks of gold ; a soft, cool emerald tint 

Colors the air, as though the delicate leaves 

Kmitted self-born light. Wliat splendid wall.s, 

.\nd what a gorgeous roof, carved by the hand 



Of glorious Nature ! Here the spruce thrusts in 
Its bristling phi me, tipped with its pale-green points; 
The hendock sliows its borders freshly fringed ; 
Tlie smoothly scalloped beech-leaf, and the birch, 
Cut into ragged edges, interlace : 
While here and there, through clefts, the laurel haugs 
Its gorgeous chalices half-brimmcd with dew. 
As though to hoard it for the haunting elves 
The moonlight calls to this their festal hall. 
A thick, rich grassy carpet clothes the earth 
Sprinkled with autumn leaves. TIio fern displays 
Its tinted wreath beaded lieneath witli drops 
Of richest brown; the wild-ro.se si>reads its breast 
Of delicate pink, and the o'erhauging lir 
H.as dropped its dark, long cone. 

.Such nooks as this are common in the woods: 
And all these sights and sounds the commonest 
In Nature when she wears her summer jiriine. 
Yet by them pass not lightly : to the wise 
They tell the beauty and the harmony 
Of e'en the lowliest things that God hath made ; 
That this familiar earth and sky arc full 
Of his ineft'able power and majesty; — 
That iu the humble objects, seen too oft 
To be regarded, is such wondrous grace, 
The art of man is vain to imitate ; — 
That the low flower our careless foot treads down 
Is a rich shrine of incense delicate. 
And radiant beauty ; and that (Jod hath formed 
All, from the mountain wreathing round its brow 
The black cars of the thunder, to the grain 
Of silver sand the bubbling spring casts up, — 
With deepest forethought and severest care. 
And thus these noteless, lowly things are types 
Of his perfection and divinity. 



A FOREST WALK. 

A lovely sky, a clondless sun, 

A wind that breathes of leaves and flowers. 
O'er hill, through dale, my steps have won 

To the cool forest's shadowy bowers ; 
One of the paths .all round that wind, 

Tr.aced by the browsing herds, I choose, 
And sights iind sounds of human kind 

In n.ature's lone recesses lo.se : 
The beech displays its marbled bark, 

The spruce its green tent stretches wide, 
While scowls the hemlock, grim and dark, 

The maple's scalloped dome beside : 
All weave on high a ver<lant roof. 
That keeps the very sun aloof. 



702 



CYCLOFMDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Makiug a twilight soft ami green 
Witliiu the colunmcd, vaulted sceue. 

Sweet forest-odors Lave their birth 

From the clothed boughs aud teeming earth ; 

Where piue-coues dropped, leaves i>iled aud dead, 
Long tufts of grass, aud stars of fern, 
Witli many a wild flower's fairy iiru, 

A thick, elastic carpet spread : 
Here, with its mossy pall, the trunk, 
Resolving into soil, is sunk ; 
There, wrenched but lately from its throne 

By some fierce whirlwind circling past. 
Its huge roots massed with earth and stoue, 

Oue of the woodland kings is cast. 

Above, the forest-tops are bright 
With the broad blaze of sunny light ; 
But now a fitful air-gust parts 

Tlie screening branches, aud a glow 
Of dazzliug, startling radiance darts 

Down the dark stems, aud breaks below : 
The mingled shadows off are rolled. 
The sylvan floor is bathed in gold ; 
Low sprouts and herbs, before unseen, 
Display their shades of brown aud green : 
Tints brighten o'er the velvet moss, 
Gleams twiukle on the laurel's gloss ; 
The robin, brooding in her nest. 
Chirps as the quick ray strikes her breast ; 
And, as my shadow prints the ground, 
I see the rabbit upward bound. 
With pointed ears au instant look, 
Theu scamper to the darkest nook. 
Where, with crouched limb and staring eye, 
He watches while I saunter by. 

A narrow vista, carpeted 

With rich green grass, invites my tread : 

Here showers tlie light in golden dots. 

There sleeps the shade in ebon spots, 

So blended that the very air 

Seems net-work as I enter there. 

The partridge, whose deep-rolling drum 

Afar has sounded on my ear. 
Ceasing his beatings as I come, 

Whirs to the sheltering branches near; 
The little milk-snake glides away, 
The brindled marmot dives from day ; 
And now, between the boughs, a space 
Of the blue, laughing sky I trace : 
On each side shrinks the bowery shade ; 
Before nie spreads au emerald glade ; 



The sunshine steeps its grass and moss, 
That couch my footsteps as I cross ; 
Merrily hums the tawuj' bee. 
The glittering humming-bird I see ; 
Floats the bright butterfly along. 
The insect choir is loud in song; 
A spot of light and life, it seems, — 
A fairy haunt for fancy's dreams! 

Here stretched, the jileasant turf I press. 
In luxury of idleness : 
Sun-streaks, and glancing wings, and sky, 
Spotted with cloud-shapes, charm my eye ; 
W^hile murmuring grass, and waving trees- 
Their leaf-harps sounding to the breeze — 
And water-tones that tinkle near, 
Blend their sweet music to my ear ; 
Aiul by the changing shades alone 
The passage of the hours is known. 



THE BLUEBIRD'S SONG. 

Hark, that sweet carol ! With delight 

We leave the stifling room ; 
The little bluebird meets our sight, — 

Spring, glorious Spring, has come ! 
The south-wind's balm is in the air. 
The melting snow-wreaths everywhere 

Are loapiug off in showers ; 
Aud Nature, in her brightening looks. 
Tells that her flowers, aud leaves, and brooks, 

And birds, will soon be ours. 



MUSIC. 

Music, how strange her power ! her varied strains 
Thrill with a magic spell the human heart. 
She wakeus memory — brightens hope — the paius, 
The joys of being at her bidding start. 
Now to her trumpet-call the spirit leaps ; 
Now to her brooding, tender tones it weeps. 
Sweet music ! is she portion of that breath 
With which the worlds were born — on which they 

wheel ? 
Oue of lost Eden's tones, clndiug death. 
To make man what is best witliiu him feel! 
Keep open his else sealed-up depths of heart. 
And wake to active life the better part 
Of his mixed nature, being thus the tie 
That links us to our God, and draws us toward the 

sky! 



JOHN OSBORXE SAIIGEST. — WILLIAM JAMKS LISTOX. 



703 



i?ol)n (Dsbornc Sargent. 



Born in Gloucester, Mass., in 1811, Sargent, while yet 
a child, removeii to Boston with liis familj'. At cig;ht 
years of age he entered the Public Latin Sdiool, and was 
graduated at Harvard College in 1830. He studied law, 
was admitted to the Bar, and practised his profession in 
New Yorlv and Washington. In the time of the Whig 
party, he was well known as a political writer and speak- 
er. After ISTji he passed sevenil yeai-s in Europe. Re- 
turning home, he fi.\ed his winter residence in New York, 
passing his summers on his farm in Lenox, Mass. While 
in London, in ISTO, he published "The Last Knight, A 
RomanceUarland, from the German of Anastasius Griin " 
(the poetical pseudonyme of Count Anton Alexander von 
Auersperg, born 1800;. An American edition appeared 
in Boston in 1871. 



DKATH OF IIKXKY WOIILLEB. 
Fiiosi "The L.\st Knight." 

On the field in front of Frasteuz, drawn np in liat- 

tle array, 
Slrctclied spear on spear in a crescent, the German 

army lay ; 
Behind a wall of hncklers stood hosoms steeled 

with pride. 
And a stiff wood of lances that all assaults defied. 

Oh why, yo men of Switzerland, from your Aljiino 
snmniits sally, 

And armed with clnbs and axes descend into the 
valley f 

"The wood just grown at Frastenz with our a.xes 
we would fell, 

To build homesteads from its branches where Lib- 
erty may dwell." 

The Swiss on the German lances rush with impet- 
uous shock ; 

It is spear on spear in all ([uartcrs — they arc dashed 
like waves from a rock. 

His teeth then gnashed the Swilzer, and the mock- 
ing German cried, 

" .See how the snout of the greyhound is pierced 
by the hedgehog's liidc !" 

Like a song of resurrection, then Ronndid from the 
ranks: 

■lllustrions shade. Von Winkelried! to thee I ren- 
der thanks: [low mo!" 

Thon beckonest, I obey thee ! Up, Swi.ss, and fol- 

Thus the voice of Henry Wohlleb from the ranks 
rang loud and free. 



From its shaft lie tore the banner, and twined it 

round his breast, 
A»id hot with tlic lust of death on the serried 

lances pressed ; 
His red eyes from tlieir sockets like llaniing torches 

glare. 
And in front, in place of the banner, wave the locks 

of his snow-white hair. 

The spears of six knights together — in his hand 
he seizes all — 

And thereon thrusts his bosom — there's a breach 
in the lances' wall. 

With vengeance fired, the Switzcrs storm the bat- 
tle's perilous ridge, 

And the corpse of Henry Wohllcb to their ven- 
geance is the bridge. 



lUilliam Panics Cintou. 

Poet and artist, Lintun was boru in England in ISlli. 
A vigorous writer both of prose and verse, he had also 
won high reinitation as a draughtsman and an engraver 
on wood. Early in life he gave his best efforts to the 
cause of Liberalism in England. In ISCt he published 
" Claribcl, and otiicr Poems" (London: SimpUin, Mar- 
shall & Co.), a volume of SCO pages,- tastefully embel- 
lished witli his own original designs and engravings. 
He is also the author of a " History of Woodengrav- 
ing," a " Life of Thomas Paine," and various writings 
on art. In 1878 lie edited and published in London a 
volume of the "Poetry of America." His wife, Eliza 
Lynn Linton (born 1832), is a successful novelist and 
miscellaneous writer. His poetry revciils the true artist, 
as well as the earnest, sincere thinker. Ho has resided 
many yeiirs in the United States, and his address (1880) 
was New Haven, Conn. 



FRO.M " DEFIXITIOXS." 

DEFEAT. 
One of the stairs to heaven. Halt not to count 
What you have trampled on. Look np, and mount I 

VICE. 
Blasphemy 'gain.st thyself: a making foul 
The Holy of Holies even in thine own soul. 

PLEASURE. 
A flower on the highway-side. Enjoy its grace ; 
But turn not from thy roiid, nor slacken pace ! 

LOVE. 

Pure worship of the Beautiful — the True — 
Under whatever form it comes to you. 



704 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



TATRlOTISM. 

Not the mere liokliug ii great flag unfiirleil, — , 
But making it the goodliest in tlie world. 

CONSISTENCY. 
Last night I wore a cloak ; this morning not. 
Last night was cold ; this morning it was hot. 

DISINTERESTEDNESS. 
Selling for glory ? lending to the Lord ? 
I will not ask even Couscieuce for reward. 

PRIDE. 
Due reverence toward thyself. Doth God come 

there ? 
Make thou the house well worthy His repair. 

III'MILITY. 

Self, seen in a puddle : lift thee toward the sky, 
And proudly thank God for eternity. 



REAL AND TRUE. 

Only the Beautiful is real ! 

All things of which our life is full. 

All mysteries that life inwreathe, 

Birth, life, and death, 
All that we dread or darkly feel, — 
All are hut shadows, and the Beautiful 

Alone is real. 

Nothing hut Love is true ! 

Earth's many lies, whirled upon Time's swift wheel, 

Shift and repeat their state, — 

Birth, life, and death. 

And all that they hequeath 

Of hope or memory, thus do alternate 
Continually ; 
Love doth anneal. 
Doth heauteously imbue, 
Tbe wine-cups of the archetyp.al Fate. 

Love, Truth, and Beauty, — all are one! 

If life may expiate 
The wilderings of its dimness, death be known 

But as the mighty ever-living gate 
Into the Beautiful — 

All things flow on 
Into one Heart, into one Melody, 
Eternally. 



LABOR IN VAIN. 

Oh not in vain ! Even poor rotting weeds 

Nourish the roots of fruitfiillest fair trees : 

So from thy fortune-loath(5d hope proceeds 

The experience that shall base high victories. 

The tree of the good and evil knowledge needs 

A rooting-place in thoughtful agonies. 

Failures of lofty essays are the seeds 

Out of whoso dryness, when cold night dissolves 

Into the dawning Spring, fertilities 

Of healthiest promise leap rejoicingly. 

Therefore hold on thy way, all undismayed 

At the bent brows of Fate, untiringly ! 

Knowing this — past all the woe our earth involves 

Sooner or later Truth must be obeyed. 



POETS. 

True Poet ! — Back, thou Dreamer ! Lay thy dreams 
In ladies' laps ; — and silly girls delight 
With thy inane apostrophes to Night, 
Moonshine, and Wave, and Cloud ! Thy fancy teems ; 
Not genius. Else some high heroic themes 
Should from tliy brain ijroceed, as wisdom's migbt 
From head of Zeus. For now great Wrong and Right 
Afl'ront each other, and War's trumpet screams, 
Giddying the earth with dis.sonauce. Oh, where 
Is He voiced godlike, unto those who dare 
To give more daring with the earnest shout 
Of a true battle-hymn ? We fight without 
The music which should cheer us in our light, — • 
WhUe "poets" learn to i>ipe like whihiiug streams. 



A PRAYER FOR TRUTH. 

God ! tbo Giver of all which men call good 
Or ill, the Origin and Soul of Power ! 

1 pray to thee as all must in their hour 
Of need, for solace, medicine, or food, 
Whether aloud or seci'etly — understood 

No less by Thee. I pray : but not for fame, 
Nor love's best happiness, nor place, nor wealth. 
I ask Thee only for that spiritual health 
Which is perception of the True — the same 
As in Thy Nature : so to know, and aim 
Tow'rd Thee my thought, my word, my whole of life. 
Then matters little whether care, or strife. 
Hot sun, or cloud, o'erpass this earthly day : 
Night Cometh, and my star climbeth Thy heaven- 
wav. 



WILLIAM EEXRY BURLEIGH. 



705 



llVilliam f)cnrj) Uiuicicil). 



Biirkisli ( lSli-lS71) was a native of Woodstock, Conn. 
He wuiit to the district scliool.and manifested, even in 
early youtli, liis taste for poetry and love of nature. He 
espoused willi great zeal tlic antislavery cause and the 
temperance reform. He was connected with several 
newspapers as editor, and, while residing at Albany, 
N. Y., received an appointment as Harbor-master of New 
York. He li.xed his residence at Brooklyn, wliere he died. 
He was an eloquent writer and speaker, and produced, 
during his busy career, various poems, rich iu elevated 
thouglit and devout feelin;;. His wife, Mrs. Celia Bur- 
leigh, published a collection of his poems with a memoir. 
Of his life and character it might be said, as Antony 
says of Brntus : 

**Ilis life was gentle, and the elements 
So mixed ia him that Nature might stand np 
And say to all the world, 'This was a man.' " 



THE HARVEST-CALL. 

Abide not in tho land of dreams, 
O raan, liowever fair it seems, 
Wliero drowsy airs tliy liowors repress 
Iu languors of sweet idleness. 

Nor lingi'r in the misty p:ist, 
Entranced in visions vague and vast; 
But with clear eye the present .scan, 
And bear tbo call of God and man. 

That call, though many-voiced, is one, 
With mighty meanings iu each tone ; 
Through sob and laughter, shriek and i)raycr, 
Its summons meet thee everywhere. 

Think not in sleep to fold thy hatids. 
Forgetful of thy I-ord's coiniuands ; 
From duty's claims uo life is free, — 
Behold, to-day liath need of thee. 

Look np! the widi; extended i)laiu 
Is billowy with its ripeni'd grain, 
And on the snuimer winds are rolled 
Its waves of emerald and gold. 

Thrust iu thy sickle, nor delay 
The work that calls for thee to-day ; 
To-morrow, if it como, will bear 
lis own demands of toil and caro. 

Tho present hour allots thy task : 
For present strength and patience ask, 
45 



.\nd trust His love whose sure supplies 
Jleet all thy needs as they arise. 

Lo ! tho broad lields, with harvests white, 
Thy hands to strenuous toil invite; 
AikI lie who labors and believes. 
Shall reap reward of ample sheaves. 

Up! for the time is short; and soon 
The moruiug sun will climb to iioou. 
Up ! ere the herds, with trampling feet 
Oiitruuning thine, shall spoil tho wheat. 

While tho day lingers, do thy best! 
Full soon the night will bring its rest; 
And, duty done, that rest shall bo 
Full of beatitudes to thee. 



SONNET: RAIN. 

Dashing iu big drops on tho narrow p.aue, 
And making mournful music for the mind. 
While plays his interlnde the wizard Wind, 
I hear the ringing of the frequent rain : 
How doth its dreamy tone the spirit hill. 
Bringing a sweet forgetfulness of pain. 
While busy thought calls up tho past again, 
And lingers 'mid the pure and beautiful 
Visions of early childhood ! Sunny faces 
Meet us with looks of love, and iu the moans 
Of the faint wind we hear familiar tones, 
And tread again in old familiar places! 
Such is thy power, oh Rain ! the heart to bless, 
Wiling the soul away from its own wretchedness. 



SOLITUDE. 

Tho ceaseless bnm of men, tho dusty streets, 
Crowded with multitudinous life ; the din 
Of toll and fratlie, and the woe and sin. 
The dweller in the populous city meets: 
These have I left to seek tho cool retreats 
Of the untrodden forest, where, iu bowers 
Biiilded by Nature's hand, inlaid with flowers. 
And roofed with ivy, on tho mossy seats 
Reclining, I can while away the hours 
In sweetest converse with (dd books, or give 
My thoughts to God; or fancies fugitive 
Indulge, while over mo tlieir r.idiant showers 
Of rarest blossoms tho old trees shake down, 
And tlinnks to Ilim mv meditations crown! 



706 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBIC AN POETRY. 



loarvict Ccccljcv Gtouic. 

AMERICAN, 

Harriet Elizabeth Bccclier, wlio in 1836 was married to 
Professor Calvin E. Stowc, was tlie daughter of Lyman 
Beecher, au eminent elergyman, and was born in Liteli- 
flekl, Conn., in 1813. In 1853 she published her cel- 
ebrated outislavery novel of " Uncle Tom's Cabin," 
whioh had an unparalleled sale both in America and 
England, and was translated into the principal languages 
of Europe. It was succeedsd by several novels superior 
to it from her pen, but by no one that equalled it in 
fame. Her poems, few in number, show the same literary 
ability manifest in her prose. 



THE OTHER WOULD. 

It lies around ns like a clond, 

The world we do not see ; 
Yet the sweet closing of an eyo 

May bring us thei-e to be. 

Its gentle breezes fan our cheek 

Amid our worldly cares ; 
Its gentle voices whisper love, 

And mingle with our prayers. 

Sweet hearts around ns throb and beat, 
Sweet helping hands are stirred, 

And palpitates the veil between. 
With breathings almost heard. 

The silence, awful, sweet, and calm, 
They have no power to break ; 

For mortal words are not for them 
To utter or partake. 

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, 

So near to press tliey seem. 
They lull us gently to our rest. 

They melt into our dream. 

And, in the hush of rest they bring, 

'Tis easy now to see. 
How lovely and how sweet a pass 

The hour of death may be ; — 

To close the eye and close the e.ar. 
Wrapped in a trance of bliss. 

And, gently drawn in loving arras. 
To swoon from that to this : — 

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep. 
Scarce asking where we are. 



To feel all evil sink away. 
All sorrow and all care ! 

Sweet souls around ns, watch ns still, 

Press nearer to our side ; 
Into our thoughts, into our prayers, 

With gentle helping glide. 

Let death between us be as naught, 
A dried and vanished stream ; 

Your joy bo the reality. 

Our snli'ering life the dream. 



(Cljarlcs Dickens. 

Dickens (1813-1870), the foremost English novelist of 
his time, and a man of rare and varied powers, did not 
often venture upon verse; but one of his little poems, 
with the aid of Henry Russell's music, lias won its way 
to the popular heart. He was a delightful companion, 
genial, witty, and generous ; a ready, attractive speaker, 
an amusing actor, and a superior reader. A native of 
Portsmouth, he began his literary career as a reporter, 
and was on the staff of the Morning Chronicle, till he put 
forth his witty " Sketches of Life and Character, by 
Boz," leading to the "Pickwick Papers" and his inimi- 
table series of novels, of which it is not here our place to 
speak. He made two visits to the United States ; one in 
1841, the other in 1867. He died suddenly in the midst 
of his literary labors, leaving his last novel uncompleted. 



THE IVY GREEN. 

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy Green, 

That creepeth o'er ruins old ! 
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween. 

In his cell so lone aud cold. 
The w.all must be crumbled, the stone decayed. 

To pleasure his dainty whim ; 
And the mouldering dust that years liave made, 

Is a merry meal for him. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 

Fast he stcaleth (Ui, though ho wears no wings, 

And a staunch old heart has ho ; 
How clo,sely he twineth, how tight he clings 

To his friend the huge Oak-tree! 
And slyly he traileth along the ground, 

And his leaves ho gently waves. 
As he joyon.sly hugs and crawleth around 

The rich mould of dead men's graves. 

Creej)ing where grim death lias been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 



VllAHLKS. DICKESS.— SAMUEL DOWSE EOBBIXS.—FIUXCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 707 



Whole ages have fled, and their worts decayed, 

Aud uatious have scattered been ; 
lint the stunt old Ivy sliall never fade 

From its halo and hearty green. 
The l)rave old plant, in its lonely days. 

Shall latten npon the past; 
lor the stateliest bnildiiig man can raise, 

Is the Ivy's food at last. 

Creeping on, where time has been, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. 



Samuel Doiiisc llobbins. 

AMERICAN 

Dr. Robbins w.is born in Lynn, Mass., in 1812. He 
•rraduated iit tlic Divhiity School, Canibrid!;e, in 1S;{3, 
and commenced his mhiistiy at Lynn lljc same year. In 
18C7 he was settled in Wayland ; but gave up liis parisli 
in 18?;), and retired to Concord. He has published but 
little. His " Euthanasia" is exquisite in melody, and full 
of a devout enthusiasm. 



EUTHANASIA. 
"Let me go; for tbe day brcnkcth." 

The waves of light are drifting 

I'roni oil' the heavenly shore, 
The shadows all are lifting 

Away for evermore ; 
Truth, like another morning, 

Is beaming on my way: 
I bless the Power that ponreth in 

The coming of the day. 
I feel a light within me 

That years can never bring : 
My heart is full of blossoming, 

It yearns to meet the spring, 
l.ove fills my sonl in all its deeps, 

.\nd h.'irniony divine 
Is sweetly sounding from above 

A symphony sublime ; 
The earth is robed in richer green, 

The sky in brighter bine ; 
And, with no cloiiil to intervene, 

(iod's smile is shining through. 
I hear the imnicnlal harps that ring 

IJeforo the rainbow throne. 
And a spirit from the heart of God 

Is bearing np my own. 
In silence on the Olivet 

Of pr.-iyer my being bends. 
Till in the orison of heaven 

Jly voice seraphic blends. 



LEAH ME. 

My Father, take my hand, for I am prone 
To danger, and I fear to go alone. 
I trust thy guidance. Father, take uiy hand; 
Lead thy child safely through the desert land. 
The way is dark before me ; take my hand. 
For light can only come at thy eomniand. 
Clinging to thy dear love, no dcuibt I know. 
That love will cheer my way where'er I go. 
Father, the storm is breaking o'er me wild ; 
I feel its bitterness: protect thy child. 
The tempest-elonds are Hying through the air; 
Oh, take my haml, and save mo from despair. 
Father, as I ascend the craggy steeii 
That leads me to thy temple, let me keep 
My hand in thine, so I can con<|iier lime. 
And by thine aiding to thy bosom climb. 
Father, I feel the damp npon my brow. 
The chill of death is falling on nio now. 
Soon from earth's Hitting shadows I must part ; 
My Father, take my hand, thou hast my heart. 



i^ranccG Garoiciit (Dsgiooi). 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Osgood (1812-18.50) was a native of Boston, the 
daughter of .loseph Locke, a merchant. In 1834 she 
married S. S. Osgood, a portrait-painter. An edition of 
her poems, entitled " A Wreath of Wild Flowers fiom 
New England," was published in London in IS!!), during 
her residence in that city. Another collection appeared 
in New York in 184C. She was a friend of Poe, and he 
addressed to her some graceful lines. She w.as largely 
endowed with the poetical temperament, and some of 
her i)oenis have lost none of their popularity since her 
death. 



"IIOI.S TON SANG, BEAUMAXOIR."' 

Fierce raged the combat — the fuemen pressed nigh. 
When from yonng lieanmannir rose the wild cry, — 
lieanmaiioir, 'mid them all, bravest and first — 
"Give mo to drink, for I perish of thirst!" 
I lark ! at his side, in the deep tones of ire, 
"Bois ton SANG, IJcaumanoir I" shouted his sire. 

Deep had it pierced him, the foeman's swift sword; 
Deeper his soul felt the wound of that word ! 
Back to the battle, with forehead all Hushed, 
Stung to wild fury, the noble youth rushed! 



' " Drink thy blood, ncnnmaDoir.' 
iu " Froissart's Chroiiiclf!'." 



The Incident is related 



708 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTISR AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Scorn in his dark eyes — his spirit on iire — 
Deeds were his answer that day to his sire ! 

Still, where triumphant the young hero came, 

Glory's bright garland eucircled his uame : 

But in her bower, to beauty a slave, 

Dearer the guerdon his lady-love gave, 

While on his shield that no shame had defaced, 

" Bois ton sang, Beaumanoir !" proudly she traced. 



LITTLE THINGS. 

Little drops of water, little gi'ains of sand. 
Make the mighty ocean and the pleasant land. 
Thus the little minutes, hnmble though they be, 
Make the mighty ages of eternity. 

Thus our little errors lead the soul away 
From the path of virtue, oft in sin to stray. 
Little deeds of kindness, little words of love, 
Make our earth an Eden like the heaven above. 



LABORARE EST ORAKE. 

Panse not to dream of the fut\ire before us ; 
Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er lis; 
Hark ! how Creation's deep, musical chorus, 

Uuiutermitting, goes up into Heaven ! 
Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing ; 
Never the little seed stops in its growing; 
More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing. 

Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 

" Labor is worship !" — the robin is singing ; 
" Labor is worship !" — the wild bee is ringing : 
Listen ! that eloquent whisper npspringing 

Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. 
From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; 
From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower ; 
From the small insect, the rich coral bower; 

Only man, in the iilan, shrinks from his part. 

Labor is life ! 'Tis the still w.ater faileth ; 

Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; 

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assail^th ; 

Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. 
Labor is glory! — the flying cloud lightens; 
Only the waving wing changes and brightens; 
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens : 

Play the sweet keys, wonldst thou keep them in 
tunc ! 



Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, 
Rest from all x^etty vexations that meet us, 
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, 
Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. 

Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow ; 
Work — thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow : 
Lie not down wearied 'ueath Woe's weeping-willow ; 
Work with a stout heart and resolute will! 

Labor is health! Lo! the husbandman reaping. 
How through his veins goes the life current leaping ! 
How his strong arm in its stalwart pride sweeping. 

True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides ! 
Labor is wealth — in the sea the pearl groweth ; 
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ; 
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ; 

Temple and statue the marble block hides. 

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round 
thee! [thee! 

Bravely fling oft' the cold chain that hath bound 
Look to yon pure Heaven smiling beyond thee ; 

Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod ! 
Work — for some good, be it ever so slowly ; 
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly ; 
Labor ! — all labor is noble and holy ! 

Let thy great deeds be thy jnayer to thy God! 



AN ATLANTIC TRIP. 

But two events dispel ennui 

In our Atlantic trip : 
Sometimes, alas ! we ship a sea, 

And sometimes see a ship. 



THE AUTHOR'S LAST VERSES. 

You've woven roses round my way. 
And gladdened all my being ; 

How much I thank you, none can say, 
Save only the All-seeing. 

May He who gave this lovely gift. 

This love of lovely doings. 
Be with you, wheresoe'er you go. 

In every hope's pursuiugs. 

I'm going through the eternal gates, 
Ere June's sweet roses blow ! 

Death's lovely angel leads me there. 
And it is sweet to go. 



liOBERT BUOTTNIXG. 



709 



Uobcvt Diouminq. 



Biowiiini; was born at Cunibcrlaml, Surrey, England, 
in ISri, ami educated at the Loudon Univereity. lie was 
married in 1S4C to the poetess, Elizabeth Barrett, and they 
were for several years resident in Italy. His "Paraeel- 
6US," remarkable for an author of twenty-four, was pub- 
lished in ISSlfi ; was followed by " Pippa Passes" and the 
trairedy of" StralVord," which even Maeready could not 
make a success on the stixge. Anioni; Browning's oth- 
er productions arc "Sordello" (mystical and obscure); 
" The Blot in the Scutcheon," a play, produced with no 
success at Drury Lane in 1S43; "A Soul's Tragedy;" 
" Dramatic Romances and Lyrics ;" " The Ring and the 
Book;" '-The Inn Album;" "Sludge, the Medium" (a 
coarse and pointless attack on D. U. Home); and some 
half dozen other volumes. His longer poeuis are marred 
by obscurities and eccentricities of style, agreeable only 
to initiated admirers. He has never been a popular poet, 
though some of his shorter lyrics have won and kept the 
public car. A writer of eminent genius, he seems to lack 
that care and patience of the artist which knows how 
to condense and blot. He has been called " the head of 
the psychological school," but it would be difficult to for- 
mulate his psychology. Referring to the obscurity of his 
style, he writes (ISSO) to a friend: "I can have little doubt 
that my writing has been in the main too hard for many 
I should have been pleased to communicate with; but I 
never designedly tried to puzzle people, as some of my 
critics have supposed. On the other hand, I never pre- 
tended to offer such literature as should be a substitute 
for a cigar or game of dominoes to an idle man. So, per- 
haps, on the whole, I get my deserts and something over 
—not a crowd, but a few I value more." 



HOW THEY RlJOrfillT TIIR GOOD NEWS 
KKOM GIIE.NT.' 

I sprang to tlio Ktirnip, and Jori.M, and ho ; 
I galloped, Dirck galloi)cd, wo galloped all three ; 
'• (Jood-specil I" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts un- 
drew ; 
" Speed !"' echoed the wall to n.s galloping through ; 
Ik-hind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 
And into the midnight wo galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace 
N'eck by neck, .stride by stride, never clianging our 

idaee ; 
I turned' iu my saddle and nuide its girths tight, 
Then shortened each stirrup, anil set the pi(|ue right, 
K'ebiicklcd the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, 
Xor galloped less steadily Koland a whit. 



' According to Brownln^'n own n(hnl»iHton, there is no hi«tor- 
icnl roundntlon whatever (»r thi^ fpiritcil Utile tiarriittvc poem. 
It Ib nil purely fnncirid. The distance from Aix to Gbont is loo 
ijrcnt for any horse to traverse it in the lime speciflod. 



'Twas moonset at starting ; but while wo drew near 
Lockereu, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear; 
At liooni a great yellow star canu! out to see ; 
At DilU'eld 'twas morning as plain as could be ; 
Aud from Meclielu chnrcli-stceplo we board the half 

chime, 
So Joris broke silence with ''Yet there is time I" 

At Aerschot, np leaped of a sudden the sun, 
Aud against him the cattle stood black every one, 
To stare throngli the mist at us galloping past, 
Aud I saw my stotit galloper Roland at last, 
With resolute shoulders, etieh butting away 
Tlio haze, as sonie bUifl' river hcadhiiiil its spray. 

Aiul his low head and crest.jiist one sharp ear bent 

back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ; 
And one eye's black intelligonce— ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askauce ! 
Aiul the thick heavy s[>niiie-tlaUes. which aye atid 

anon 
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, " Stay 

spur I 
Your Rii.ss galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, 
We'll remember at Aix" — for one heard the quick 

wheeze 
Of her chest, saw her stretched neck aud staggering 

knees, 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the think. 
As down ou her haunches she shuddered aud sank. 

iSo we were left galloping, Joris and I, 
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; 
The broad snu above laughed a pitiless laugh, 
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like 

chaff; 
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white. 
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight!" 

"How they'll greet us!" and all in a uioment his 

roau 
Rolled neck and cronp over, lay dead as a stone; 
.\iid there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix frcMii her 

fate, 
Willi his nostrils like |iits full of blood to the brim, 
.\iid with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 

j Then I ca.st loose my buff-cont,eacU holster let fall, 
Shook off both my Jack-buots, let go belt and all, 



710 



CTCLOPJIDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Stood up ill tbe stirrnp, leaued, patted his ear, 
Called my Roland liis iiut-uame, my liorse without 

peer ; 
Clapped iny hauds, laughed and sang, any noise, bad 

or good, 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I remember is, friends lloeking round 
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground. 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 
As I poured down his throat onr last measure of wine, 
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 
Was no more than his due who brought good news 
from Ghent. 



THE FRENCH AT RATISBON. 

You know we French stormed Ratisbon : 

A mile or so away. 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on our storniiug-day : 
With neck cut-thrust, you fancy how. 

Legs wide, arms locked behind. 
As if to balance the prone brow. 

Oppressive with its mind. 

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans 

That soar, to earth may fall, 
Let once my army-leader, Lannes, 

Waver at yonder wall," — 
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on liound 
Full galloping; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 

Then oft' there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy : 

You hardly could suspect, 
(So tight he kept his lips compressed, 

Scarce any blood came through,) 
You looked twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace 

We've got you Ratisbon ! 
The marshal's in the market-place, 

And you'll be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire. 
Perched him !" The chiefs eyes flashed ; his plans 

Soared up agaiu like tire. 



The chiefs eye flashed ; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A lihn the mother-eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes : 
" Y'ou're wounded !" " Nay," his soldier's pride 

Touched to the quick, he said : 
"I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside. 

Smiling, the boy fell dead. 



MEETING AT NIGHT. 

The gray sea and the long black land ; 
And the yellow half-moon large and low ; 
And the startled little waves that leap 
In fiery ringlets from their sleep. 
As I gain the cove with pushing prow, 
Aud quench its speed iu the slushy sand. 

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach ; 

Three fields to cross till a farm appears ; 

A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 

And blue spurt of a lighted match. 

And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears. 

Than the two hearts beating each to each. 



EVELYN HOPE. 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead — 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium flower, 
Beginning to die, too, iu the glass. 

Little has yet been changed, I think — 
The shutters are shut, no light may pass, 

Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died I 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name — 
It was not her time to love ; beside, 

Her life had many a hope and aim. 
Duties enough aud little cares. 

And now was quiet, now astir — 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares, 

And the sweet white brow is all of hor. 

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? 

What, your soul was pure and true, 
The good stars met iu your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire and dew — 
And just because I was thrice as old, 

And our jiaths iu the world diverged so wide. 



ItOBERT BROWXIXG.— CHARLES TIMOTHT BROOKS. 



711 



Each was iiau;;lit to eacb, must I bo tolU ? 
We wore fellow-mortals, naiiglit besiclo f 

No, indeed, for God aliovo 

Is great to grant, as miglity to make, 
And creates the lovo to reward the love, — 

I claim you still, fur my own love's sake! 
Delayed it may be for more lives yet. 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few — 
Much is to learn and much to forget 

Ere the time bo come for taking you. 

But the time will come — at last it will. 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say. 
In tho lower earth, in the years long still, 

That body and soul so pure and gay: — 
Wliy your hair w,is amber, I shall divine, 

Anil your mouth of your owu geranium's red — 
And what you would do with me, in fine. 

In the new life come in tho old one's stead. 

I have lived, I shall say, so ranch since then, 

(Jiven up myself so many times, 
Gaineil me the gains of various men, 

Kaiisackcd the ages, spoiled the climes; — 
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, 

Either I mi.ssed or itself missed me — 
And I want to find you, Evelyn Hope! 

What is the issue t let us sec ! 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ; 

My heart seemed full as it could hold — 
There was place and to spare for the frank young 
smile, 

And tlie red young month, and the hair's young 

gold. 

So, hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep, — 
See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold band. 

There, that is our secret ! go to sleep ; 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 



CI)avlcG (Limotl)ij Crooks. 

AMERICAN, 

Brooks, bom in .Salem, Mas?., 1813, craduatcd at Har- 
vard College in lSi2, and studied divinilj'. In 18!J7 he 
was ordained pastor of a cliurcb at Newport, R. I. In 
18TI he resigned his pastorate, since wliich lime his life 
has been one of litcrarj" leisure. He has made some 
excellent translations from the German, and has written 
some original poems, serious and humorous. His fine 
version of Leopold Selicfer's " Layman's Breviary " 
(1867) is a voluminous specimen of his accuracy and skill 



us a translator. It was followed in 1S73 by an equally 
felicitous version of "The World-Priest," by Schefcr, a 
volume of 373 pages, the favorite work of this " most Ger- 
man of the Germans." Brooks's translation of GocUiu's 
"Faust" (1S56) is among the best. 



SUCH IS LIFE. 
WRITTEN IN THE HOSPITAL, 1872. 

Life is a sea ; like ships we meet, — 
Wo speak each other and are gone. 

Across that deep, oh what a fleet 
Of humau souls is hurrying on ! 

We meet, wo part, and hope some day 

To meet again on sea or shore, 
Befiire we reach that peaceful bay, 

Where all shall meet to part no more. 

O great Commander of the fleet! 

O Ruler of the tossing seas! 
Thy signal to our eyes how sweet ! 

How sweet thy breath, — the heavenly breeze! 



Tin; TWO GRENADIEKS. 
From toe German of Heine. 

To France trudged homeward two grenadiers, 
From Russia as prisoners they started, 

And when they camo over the German frontiers 
They hung their heads, downhearted. 

They heard the .sad news that France was lost. 

Her tlag was by fortune forsaken, 
Defeated and routed her mighty host, — 

And the emperor — the emperor — was taken ! 

Then wept together the grenadiers. 

The sorrowful tidings learning; 
And ono said, "My grief is too bitter for tears, 

It sets my old wound to burning." 

Said tho other, " The game is up, I see ; 

I'll die with thee gladly to-morrow. 
But wife and children would ])ine for me, 

And sink in starvation and sorrow." 

"No wife nor children my heart shall pliigue. 

I've a nobler longing unshaken : 
If they're hungry and starving, then kt them go 
beg— 

My emperor, my emperor is taken ! 



712 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



" But now, if I die, fulfil for mo 

This last request, O brother ! 
Take home luy body to Fiauee ■nith thee, 
To be laid iu the hip of uiy mother. 

"The cross of houor, iivith ribbon red, 

Shalt thou place ou my heart where they lay me ; 

The shouldered musket beside my head, 
Aud with girded sword array me. 

"And so in the grave, like a sentinel, 
Wakiug aud watehiug, I'll lie there. 

Till I hear at last the cauuou's yell, 

Aud the neighing steeds tramp by there. 

"And then shall my emperor ride o'er my grave, 
And myriads of swords flash aud rattle ; 

Then armed and equipped will 1 rise from mj' grave. 
For uiy emperor — my emperor to battle." 



ALABAMA. 

There is a tradition that a tribe of ludians, defeated aud hard 
pressed by a powerful foe, reached in their tiight a river where 
iheir chief set up a staff, aud exclaimed, " Ahibama !" a word 
nieauiug, "Here we rest!'' which from that time became the 
river's name. 

Bruised and bleeding, pale and weary, 

Onward to the South and West, 
Through dark woods and deserts dreary. 

By relentless foeiuen pressed, — 
Came a tribe where evening, darkling. 

Flushed a mighty liver's breast ; 
Aud they cried, their faint eyes sparkling, 

" Alabama ! Hero we rest !" 

By the stern steam-demon hurried, 

Far from home aud scenes so blessed ; 
By the gloomy care-dogs worried, 

Sleepless, houseless, aud distressed, — 
Days and nights beheld me hieing 

Like a bird without a nest, 
Till I hailed thy waters, crying, 

" Alabama ! Hero I rest !" 

Oh ! when life's last sun is blinldug 

In the pale aud d.arksomo West, 
Aud my weary frame is sinking. 

With its cares and woes oppressed, — 
May I, as I drop the burden 

From my sick aud fainting bi"east. 
Cry, beside the swelling Jordau, 

" Alabama ! Here I rest !" 



Jones llcni. 



A native of Salem, Mass., Jones Very (1813-1880) grad- 
uated at Harvard College iu 1836. In 1833 lie accompa- 
nied his father, who was a sea-captain, to Europe ; on his 
return, served as Greek tutor at Harvard two years, en- 
tered the ministry, and continued in it, though without a 
pastoral charge. In 1839 he published a volume of "Es- 
says and Poems." His residence was In Salem, Mass., 
with two sisters, both of whom liad the poetical gift. 
His brother, Wasliington Very (181.5-18.')3), was also a poet 
in the best sense of the word. Vcry's meditative poems 
show refined taste and a strong devotional tendency. 



THE BUD WILL SOON BECOME A FLOWER. 

The bud will soon become a flower, 

The flower become a seed ; 
Then seize, oh youth, the present hour, — 

Of that thou hast most need. 

Do thy best always — do it uow ; 

For iu the present time. 
As in the furrows of a plough. 

Fall seeds of good or crime. 

The sun aud rain will ripen fast 
Each seed that thou hast sown ; 

Aud every act and word at last 
By its own fruit be known. 

And soon the harvest of thj' toil 

Eejoiciug thou shalfc reap. 
Or o'er thy wild, neglected soil 

Go forth iu shame to weep. 



HOME AND HEAVEN. 

With the same letter, heaven and home begin, 
And the words dwell together iu the mind; 
For they who would a home in heaven win 
Must first a heaven in homo begin to find. 
Be happy here, yet with a humble soul 
That looks for perfect happiness in heaven ; 
For what thou hast is earnest of the whole 
Which to the faithful shall at last bo given. 
As once the patriarch, iu a vision bles.scd. 
Saw the swift augels hastening to and fro, 
Aud the lone spot whereon he lay to rest 
Became to him the gate of heaven below ; 
So may to thee, when life itself is done, 
Thy home on earth aud heaven above be one. 



JOXES VERY. — WILLIAM EDMOXDSTOUXE AYTOCX. 



71:j 



THE SPIRIT-LAND. 

Father! thy wonders do not singly stand, 

Xor far removed where feet have seldom strayed ; 

Aronnd us over lies the eiicbauted laud, 

III marvels rich to thiuo own sous displayed ; 

In finding Thee are all things round us found; 

In losing Thee are all things lost beside ; 

Ears have we, but in vain ; — strange voices sound, 

And to our eyes the vision is denied: 

Wo wander in tbo country far remote, 

'Mid tombs and mined piles in death to dwell; 

<>r on the records of past greatness dote. 

Anil for a buried soul the living sell; 

While on our path bewildered falls the night 

That ue'er returns us to tho fields of light. 



KATURE. 

The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, 
Because my feet find measure with its call; 
Tho birds know when the friend they love is nigh. 
For I am known to them, both great and small ; 
The flower that on tho lovely hill-side grows 
Expects me there when Spriug its bloom has 

given ; 
And many a tree or bnsh my wanderings knows. 
And even tho clouds and silent stars of heaven : — 
For ho who with his Maker walks aright 
Shall bo their lord, as Adam was before ; 
His ear sli.iU catch each sound with new delight, 
Each object wear the dress that then it wore ; 
And he, as when erect in soul he stood, 
Hear from his Father's lips that all is good. 



OUR .SOLDIERS' CRAVES. 

Strew all their graves with flowers. 

They for their country died; 
And freely gave their lives for ours, 

Their country's hope and pride. 

Itring flowers to deck each sod. 
Where rests their sacred dust ; 

Though gone from earlh, they live to God, 
Their everhisting trust ! 

Fearless in Freedom's cause 

They suft'ereil, toiled, ami bled; 

And died obedient to her laws, 
Kv truth and conscicuco led. 



Oft as the year returns, 

She o'er their graves shall weep ; 
And wreathe with flowers their funeral urns, 

Their memory dear to keep. 

IJring flowers of early spring 

To deck each soldier's grave. 
And summer's fragrant roses bring, — 

They died our land to save. 



InUliitm (fiiinonbstounc vliitoun. 

Descended from .in ancient Scoltisli fiiniily, -Vytouii 
{ lS13-18(i.5) was born in Edinburgh, and educated at the 
Academy and University of that city. He also studied 
in Germany, and made translations of some of the best 
of Uliland's poems. In 1S41, in conjunction with Theo- 
dore Martin, he produced the " Bun tJaullier Ballads."' 
But liis chief success (lSi3) was his spirited " Lays of the 
Scottish Cavaliers." Seventeen editions ofitliadbcen 
issued up to 180.^. He married a daughter of Professor 
John Wilson, the poet, and editor of MacktnxxVs Maga- 
zine. With this periodical Ajtoun was connected till 
the close of his life. Among his later works arc "Fii- 
milian ; or. The Student of Badajoz," a poem in ridi- 
cule of the "spasmodic school" of verse; "Bolhwell," 
a poem; and "Norman Sinclair," a romance. 



THE OLD SCOTTISH CAVALIER. 

Come, listen to another song, 

Should make. your heart beat high, 

Bring crimson to your forehead. 
And the lu.stre to your eye: 

It is a song of olden time. 
Of days long since gone by, 

And of a baron stout and liold 
As e'er wore sword on thigh I 
Like a brave old Scottish cavalier, 
All of the olden time! 

He kept his castle in the North, 

Hard by the thundering Sjiey; 
And a thousand vassals dwelt around, 

All of his kindred they. 
And not a man of all that clan 

Had ever ceased to pray 
For the royal race they loved so well. 

Though exiled far away 

From tho steadfast Scottish cavaliers, 
All of the olden time! 

His father drew tho righteous sword 
For Scotland and her claims, 



714 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BPilllSH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Among the loyal gentlemen 

And chiefs of ancient names, 
Wlio swore to fight or fall beneath 

The standard of King James, 
And died at Killiecraukie Pass, 

With the glory of tlie Graemes, 

Like a trne old Scottish cavalier. 
All of the olden time ! 

He never owned the foreign rule, 

No master he obeyed ; 
But kept his clan in peace at home 

From foray and from raid ; 
And when they asked him for his oath, 

Ho touched his glittering blade, 
And pointed to his bonnet blue. 

That bore the white cockade : 

Like a leal old Scottish cavalier. 
All of the olden time ! 

At length the news ran through the land, 

The Pkince had come again ! 
That uight the iiery cross was sped 

O'er mountain and through glen ; 
And our old Baron rose iu might, 

Lilie a lion from his den, 
And rode away across the hills 

To Charlie and his men. 

With the valiant Scottish cavaliers. 
All of the olden time ! 

He was the first that bent the knee 
When the Standard waved abroad ; 

He was tlie first that charged the foe 
On Preston's bloody sod ; 

And ever in the van of fight. 
The foremost still he trod. 

Until on bleak Cnlloden's heath 
He gave his soul to God, 
Like a good old Scottish cavalier. 
All of the olden time ! 

Oh ! never shall we know again 

A heart so stout and true — 
Tlie olden times have jjassed away. 

And weary are the new ; 
Tlie fair White Rose has faded 

From the garden where it grew, 
And no fond tears, save those of heaven. 

The glorious bed bedew 

Of the last old Scottish cavalier. 
All of the olden time ! 



(!II)vistopl}cr IJcavsc (Untnclj. 



Craneli was born in Alexiindria, Va., in 1813, and was 
graduated at Columbia College, Washington, in 1833. 
He began the study of divinity ; but forsook it for land- 
scape-painting. A small volume of poetry from his pen 
appeared in 1844; and in 1875, "The Bird and the Bell, 
with other Poems." In 1847 he visited Europe, and 
lived abroad, mostly in Paris, for over ten years. He is 
the author of two works for the young, and of a superior 
metrical translation of Virgil. 



SONXET. 

Upon God's throne there is a seat for uie : 

My coming forth from him hath left a space 

Which none but I can till. One sacred place 

Is vacant till I come. Father ! from thee, 

When I descended here to run my race, 

A void was left in thy paternal heart, 

Not to be filled while we are kept apart. 

Yea, though a thousand worlds demand tliy care, 

Though heaven's vast host thy constant blessings 

own, 
Tliy fjuick love flies to meet my feeble prayer, 
As if amid thy worlds 1 lived alone 
In endless space; but thou and I were there, 
And thou embraced me with a love as wild 
As the yonng mother bears toward her first-born 

child. 



GNOSIS." 

Thought is deeper than all speech, 
Feeling deeper than all thouglit ; 

Souls to souls can never teaeli 

What unto themselves was taught. 

We are spirits clad in veils ; 

Man by man was never seen ; 
All our deep communing fails 

To remove the shadowy screeu. 

Heart to heart was never known, 
Miud with mind did never meet; 

We are columns left alone 
Of a temple once complete. 

Like the stars that gem tlie sky, 
Far apart, though seeming near, 

1 Greek, Tvaim— knowing. 



CHmSTOPBER rEARSE CBjyCH.—UEXET THEODORE TUCKERMAX. 



715 



III our light we scattered lie ; 
All is thus liiit starlight here. 

What is social coiiipauy 

liiit a babbling siiiiiuier stream ? 
What our wise philosophy 

lint the glancing of a dream? 

Only when tho sun of love 

Melts the scattered stars of thought ; 
Only when wo live above 

What the diui-cyed world hath taught; 

Ouly when our souls are fi'd 

By tho Tount which gave tluni biith, 
And by inspiration led 

Which thoy never drew from earth, 

We like parted drops of rain, 
.Swelling till thoy meet and rnu, 

Shall bo all absorbed again, 
Melting, flowing into one. 



FROM AX ''ODE." 

■ iN' THE Bir.THDAY OF M.\ltGARET FULLER OSSOLL' 

Where now, where, 
" spirit pure, where walk those shining feet T 
Whither, in groves beyond the treacherous sea% 
Beyond our sense of time, divinely, dimly fair, 
Brighter than gardens of Hcsperidcs, — 
Whither dost thou move on, complete 
And beauteous, ringed around 
In mystery profound. 
By gracious companies who share 
That strange supernal air ? 
Or art thou sleeping dreamless, knowing naught 

Of good or ill, of life or death f 
Or art thou but a breeze of Heaven's breatli, 

A portion of all life, inwrought 
In the eternal e.s.sence T — All in vain, 
Tangled lu misty webs of time, 
Out on the undiscovered clime 
Onr clouded eyes wo strain ; 
We cannot pierce the veil. 
As the prcuid eagles fail 
I'pon their upward track. 
And llutter gasping back 
From the thin empyrean, so, with wing 
BatHed and bumbled, we but guess 

■ For an acconnt of this Indv, gee pnge 6TC. 



All we shall gain, by all tho soul's distress, — 
All we shall be, by our poor worthiness. 

And so we write and sing [Heaven. 

Our dreams of time and space, and call them — 
We only know that all is for the best; 
To God we leave tho rest. 

So, reverent beneath the mystery 

Of Life and Death, we yield 
Back to tho great Unknown the spirit given 
A few brief years to blossom in onr lield. 
Nor shall time's all-devouring sea 
Despoil this brightest century 
Of all thou ha.st been, and shalt ever be. 
Tlie age shall guard thy fame. 
And reverence thy name. 
There is no cloud on them. There is no death for 
thee! 



f^cnnj iTIjcoLiovc (Tiitkcvinan. 

AMERICAN. 

Tuckerman (1813-1871) was a native of Boston, the son 
of a well-known merchant. He was fitted for college, 
but, on account of feeble health, did not enter. He was 
a prolific, but never, in the commercial sense, a success- 
ful writer. He spent some eleven years of his life in 
Italy; wrote "The Italian Sketchbook," "Thoughts on 
the Poets," "Artist Life," "The Optimist," etc., besides 
contributing to the leading magazines. In poetry, he 
preferred the school of Pope, Cowper, and Burns to tlie 
modern style, so largely inllucnccd by Tennyson, Brown- 
ing, and their imitators. His principal poem, published 
in Boston in 18.51, and entitled "The Spirit of Poetry," 
is an elaborate essay in heroic verse of some seven hun- 
dred lines. He was a close student of art, as his writings 
show. 



SOXXET: FREEDOM. 

Freedom ! beneath thy banner I was born : 

Oh, let me share thy full and perfect life ! 

Teach me opinion's slavery to scorn. 

And to be free from pa.ssion's bitter strife ; 

Free of the world, a self-dependent soul, 

Nourished by lofty aims and genial truth. 

And made more free by Love's serene control. 

The spell of beauty and tho hopes of youth: — 

The liberty of Nature let me know, 

Caught from her mountains, groves, and crystal 

streams ; 
Her starry host, and sunset's pnqilo glow, 
That woo the spirit with celestial dreams 
On Fancy's wing exultingly to soar 
Till Life's harsh fetters clog tho heart no more! 



716 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BltlTISR AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



€pcs Sargent. 



A native of Gloucester, Mass. (born 1813), Sargent at- 
tended the Publie Latin School in Boston some five years. 
In 1837 be went in one of his fivther's ships to Denmarli 
and Russia, and, a few years later, to Cuba. He entered 
Harvard College, but did not graduate. He was connect- 
ed in an editorial capacity with tlie Advertiser, Atlas, and 
Transcript of Boston ; and for several years witli the Mir- 
ror, New II'ocW, and otlier New York journals. He pub- 
lished in 1819 "Songs of the Sea, and other Poems," now 
out of print. Before that, he had passed several seasons 
at Washington as the correspondent of Boston and New 
Torli journals. He wrote a Life of Henry Clay, after- 
ward re-edited by Horace Greeley. In 1868 he revisited 
Europe, and passed some time in England and the South 
of France, llis home has been in the Roxbury district 
of Boston. 



EVENING IN GLOUCESTER HARBOR. 

The very pulse of ocean now was still : 
From the far-off profound, no throb, no swell ! 
Motionless on the coastwise ships the sails 
Hung limp and white — their very shadows white ! 
The light-house windows drank tlie kindling red, 
And flashed and gleamed as if the lamps were lit. 
And now 'tis sundown. All the light-hou.ses — 
Like the wise virgins, ready with their lamps — 
Flash greeting to the night ! There Eastern Point 
Flames out ! Lo, little Ten Poniul Island follows ! 
See Baker's Island kindling! Slarblehead 
Ablaze ! Egg Rock, too, off Naliant, on tire ! 
And Boston Light winking at Minot's Ledge! — 

* # « if # 7f 

But when the moou shone crescent in the west. 
And the faint outline of the part obscured 
Thread-like curved visible from horn to horn, — 
And Jupiter, supreme among the orbs. 
And Mars, with rutilating beam, came forth, 
And the great concave opened like a flower. 
Unfolding firmaments and galaxies, 
Si">arkling with separate stars, or snowy white 
With undi.stinguishable suns beyond, — 
No cloud to dim the immeasurable arch — 
They paused and rested on their oars again, 
And looked around, — iu adoration looked: 
For, gazing on the inconceivable, 
They felt God is, though inconceivable. 



SUNRISE AT SEA. 

When the mild weather came. 
And set the sea on flame. 



How often would I rise before the sun. 

And from the mast behold 

Tlie gradual splendors of tlie sky unfold 
Ere the first line of disk had yet begun, 
Above the horizon's arc, 

To show its flaming gold, 
Across the jjurplo dark ! 

One perfect dawn how well I recollect. 

When the whole east was flecked 

With flashing streaks and shafts of amethyst, 

While a light crimson mist 

Went up before the mounting luminary, 

And all the strijis of cloud began to vary 

Their hues, and all the zenith .seemed to ope 

As if to show a cope beyond the cope ! 
How reverently calm the ocean lay 
At the bright birth of that celestial day ! 

How every little vapor, robed iu state. 

Would melt and di.ssipato 
Before the augmeuting ray, 

Till the victorious Orb rose unattended, 

And every billow was his mirror sjileudid ! 

Mny, 1S2T. 



A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. 

A life ou the ocean wave, 

A home ou the rolling deep, 
Where the scattered waters rave. 

And the winds their revels keep : 
Like an eagle caged, I iiine 

On this dull, unchanging shore : 
Oh ! give me the flashing brine, 

The spray and the tempest's roar! 

Once more on the deck I stand 

Of my own swift-gliding craft : 
Set sail ! farewell to the land ! 

The gale follows fair abaft. 
We shoot through the sparkling foam 

Like an ocean-bird set free ; — • 
Like the ocean-bird, our home 

We'll find far out ou the se.a. 

The land is no longer in view, 

The clouds have begun to frown ; 
But with a stout vessel and crew, 

We'll say. Let the storm come down! 
And the song of our hearts shall be, 

While the winds aud the waters rave, 
A home on the rolling sea! 

A life ou the ocean wave ! 



EPES SARGENT.—JOEN .SVI.LIVAX DniGUT. 



717 



LINDA'S SOXG. 

A littlo bird flew 

To the top of a tree : 
Tlio sky it wns blue, 

And tbo bird sang to me: 
So tender and trne was the Ktrain, 
The singer, I lioped, wonUl remain : 
Oil, littlo bird, stay and prolong 
The raptnre, the grief of that song! 

A little thought came, 

C'aino ont of my heart ; 
It wlii.spered a name 

Tliat caused mo to start : 
And the rose-colored breath of my sigh 
Klnshed the earth and tlie sea and the sky: 
Delay, little thought! Oh, delay, 
And gladden niv life with thy ray! 



SOITL OF MY SOUL. 

Soul of my soul, impart 

Thy energy divine ! 
Inform and till this languid heart, 

And make thy purpose mine. 
Thy voice is still and small, 

The world's is loud and rude : 
Oh, let mo hear thee over all, 

And lie, through love, renewed! 

Ciivc- me the mind to .seek 

Thy perfect will to know ; 
And lead me, tractable and meek, 

The way I ought to go. 
Make quick my spirit's ear 

Thy faintest word to heed : 
Soul of my soul ! bo ever near 

To guide me in my need. 



SONNET: TO D.WID FRIKDRICH STRAUSS, 

AFTKI! KKADlSi; IllS LAST WOnK.^'TIIF. OLD FAITH AKD 
THE NEW." 

Thou say'st, my friend, 'twould strike thco with 

dismay 
To bo a.ssurcd that life would not end here; 
Since utter death is less a thing to fear 
III tby esteem than life iu clearer day: 
For life, eontiniions life, thou wouldst not pray; 
And even reunion with the loved and near 
Is not to thee a prospect that could cbccr, 



Or shed a glory ou thy earthward way : — 

O power of thought perver.se and m<>rl>id mood, 

Consiiiring thus to numb and blind the heart! 

The universe gives back what wo impart, — 

As wo elect, gives poison or pure food : 

Mock — sileuce — the soul's whisper, — and Despair 

Hecomes to man than Hope itself nuire fair! 



WEBSTER. 

Night of the Tomb ! He has entered thy portal ; 

Silence of Death! He is wrapped in thy shade; 
All of the gifted and great that was mortal. 

In the earth where the oceau-mist weepcth, is laid. 

Lips, whence the voice that held Senates proceeded, 
Form, lending argument aspect august. 

Brow, like the arch that a nation's weight needed, 
Eyes, wells uufathonu'd of thought, — all are dust. 

Night of the Tomb! Through thy darkness is shining 
A light since the Star in the East never dinj ; 

No .joy's exultation, no sorrow's repining 

Could hide it in life or life's ending from him. 

Silence of death ! There were voices from heaven. 

That pierced to the (juick ear of Faith through 

the gloom : 

The rod and the staff that he asked for were given, 

And he followed the Saviour's own track to the 

tomb. 

Beyond it, above, in an atmosphere finer, 

Lo, infinite ranges of being to fill! 
In that land of the spirit, that region diviner. 

He liveth, he loveth, he laboreth still. 
MnrshHcld, Mass., Oct. 24lli, 1S52. 



3ol)n SuHioan Duiigl)t. 

AMERICAN. 

Dwisht, born in Boston, May ISth, 181S, was graduated 
at the Public Latin School of that city, and subsciiuently 
at Harvard. Ho has for many years been editor of the 
Juurnnl nf Jftixir, and has won merited eminence as a 
musical critic second to no one iu America. He edited 
in IS^iO a collection of poetical translations from the Ger- 
man, In which were many from his own pen. 



TRUE REST. 
Sweet is the pleasure itself cannot spoilt 
Is not true leisure one with true toil f 



718 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Thou that ■woulilst taste it, still do thy best ; 

Use it, not waste it, — else 'tis no rest. 

Wonldst behold beauty near thee? all round? 
Only hath duty such a sight found. 

Rest is not quitting the busy career ; 
Rest is the fitting of self to its sphere. 

'Tis the brook's motion, clear without strife, 
Fleeing to ocean after its life. 

Deeper devotion nowhere hath knelt; 
Fuller emotion heart never felt. 

'Tis loving and serving the highest and best ; 
'Tis onward ! unswerving, — and that is true rest. 



VANITAS! VANITATUM VANITAS! 
FnoM TBE German of Goethe. 

I've set my heart ujion nothing, you see; 

Hurrah ! 
Aud so the world goes well with me. 

Hurrah! 
And who has a mind to be fellow of mine, 
Why, let him take hold and help me drain 
These mouldy lees of wine. 

I set my heart at first upon wealth : 

Hurrah ! 
And bartered away my peace and healtli ; 

But, ah ! 
The slippery change went about like air. 
And wheu I had clutched me a handful here,- 
Away it went thei-e ! 

I set my heart upon woman next ; 

Hurrah ! 
For her sweet sake was oft perplexed; 

But, ah ! 
The False one looked for a daintier lot. 
The Constant one wearied me out and out, 
The Best was not easily got. 

I set my heart upon travels grand ; 

Hurrah ! 
And spurned our plain old father-land; 

Bnt, ah ! 
Naught seemed to be jnst the thing it should,- 
Most comfortless beds and indifferent food ! 
My tastes misunderstood ! 



I set my heart upon sounding fame ; 

Hurrah ! 
And, lo ! I'm eclipsed by some upstart's name ; 

And, all ! 
When in public life I loomed quite high, 
The folks that passed me would look awry : 
Their very worst friend was I. 

Aud then I set my heart upon war ; 

Hurrah ! 
We gained some battles with eclat. 

Hurrah ! 
We troubled the foe with sword and flame 
(And some of our friends fared quite the same). 
I lost a leg for fame. 

Now I've set my heart upon nothing, you see ; 

Hurrah ! 
And the whole wide world belongs to me. 

Hurrah ! 
The feast begius to run low, no doubt ; 
But at the old cask we'll have one good bout : 
Come, drink the lees all out ! 



i^cnnj 33. fjirst. 



nh-st was born in Philadelphia in 1813. He beg.an the 
study of the law in 1830. His earliest poems appeared 
in GrahanCs Macjazine when he was about thirty. In the 
preface to his "Enclymion" (written before he had ever 
seen the "Endyniion" of Keats), he says: "Until the age 
of twenty-three, I entertained a holy horror of poetry — 
an almost ludicrous result of an exceedingly prosaic ex- 
istence. * * * It would be safe to say that X have writ- 
ten, notpublisbeil, inoreEiiglish rhyme than 1 have read." 
In 184.5 he put forth, in Boston, "The Coming of the 
Mammoth," "The Funeral of Time, and other Poems;" 
and in 1848 appeared his "Endymion," a poem of one 
hundred and twenty pages, in which there is an occa- 
sional passage not unworthy of Keats. In 1849 he pub- 
lished " The Penance of Roland : a Romance of the Peine 
Forte et Dure, and other Poems." It is rather a tragic 
story of a husband who, in a lit of unjust jealousy, slays 
his wife. 



PARTING OF DIAN AND ENDYMION. 

Froji *' Endymion." 

The goddess gasped for breath, with bosom swelling : 

Her lips unclosed, while her large, luminous eyes 

Blazing like Stygian skies. 

With passion on the audacious youth were dwelling : 

She raised her angry hand, that seemed to clasp 

Jove's thunder in its grasp. 



HEXRT B. HIRST.— THOMAS USBOBXE DAVIS.— ROBERT XICOLL. 



719 



And then she stood in silence, iixed and brcatliless; 
But presently the tlircatcniiig arm slid down ; 
Tlio licrco, dostriiyiiig frown 
Departed from ber eyes, which took a deathless 
Expression of despair, like Niobo's — 
Her dead cues at her knees. 

Slowly her agony passed, and an Elysiau, 
Majestic fervor, lit her lofty eyes, 
Now dwelling on the skies: 
Meanwhile, Endyniion stood, cheek, brow, and vision, 
Radiant with resignation, stern and cold, 
lu conscions virtno bold. 

Their glances met ; his, while they trembled, showing 
An earnestness of pnrpose; hers, a soul 
Whence passion's wild control 
Had pa.ssed forever; while her whole form, glowing, 
liesunicd its statcliness: once more she stood 
Elect, in all — the god! 

'■ Farewell, Endyniion,"' said the goddess, stooping, 
Pressing with pallid lips npon his brow 

A kiss of frozen snow, [ing 

And,nionrnfnlly turning, pa.ssed, her fair head droop- 
Upon her snowy breast : " Farewell forever — 
Forever and forever!" 

Endyniion, stretching 'forth his arms, endeavored 
To elasp her garment's hem, but slowly, slowly, 
.She waned and vanished wholly. 
And like a dream : the sudden silence severed 
His heart from him: "Farewell," it breathed, 
" forever! 
Forever and forever !" 



«II)oinaG (Dsbonie Dauis. 

Davis (1.114-1^.5) was a native of Mallow, County Cork, 
Irclaiiil. lie was a close student from early youth, en- 
tered Trinity ColKije, unil was admitted to tlie Irish Bar. 
In company with .lohu Dillon and CImrles Gavan Duffy, 
in 1H42 lie founded The .Vntiim, a powerful organ for the 
most radical of the Irish patriots. lie showed as much 
lyrical as political fervor in his contributions. Of an 
exuberant, joyous spirit, niid a strict lover of truth and 
right, he did not live to redeem the high promise of his 
youth. 



THE WEECOME. 

Come in the evening, or come in the morning. 
Come when you're looked for, or come without 
warning. 



Kisses and welcome you'll find hero before you, 
.Vud the oftener you come here the more I'll adore 
you. 
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted. 
Red is my check that they told mo was blighted ; 
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 
And the linnets are singing, "True lovers! don't 
sever." 

I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose 

them ; 

Or, after you've kis.sed them, they'll lie on my bosom. 

I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire yon ; 

I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tiro you ; 

Oh ! your step's like the rain to the suminer-vexcd 

farmer, 
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor; 
I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above 

me, 
Tbcu, wandering, I'll wish you in silence to lovo 
me. 

We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie, 

We'll tre.id round the rath on the track of the fairy. 

We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river. 

Till you a,sk of yonr darling what gift you can give 

her. 

Oh ! she'll whisper yon, " Love as unchangeably 

beaming, 
And trust, when in secret, most tnnefuUy stream- 

Till the starlight of heaven above us shall ciuivcr. 
As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." 

So come in the evening, or come in the morning. 
Come when you're looked for, or come without 

warning. 
Kisses and welcome you'll find hero before you ! 
And the oftener you come here the more I'll .adoro 
yon ! 
Light is my heart since tlie day we were plighted ; 
Red is my cheek that they told nie was blighted; 
The green of the trees looks far greener tli.an ever. 
And the linnets are singing, "True lovers! don't 
sever '." 



Uobcrt ICicoll. 

Nieoll (1SI4-1H.'57), 11 youth of high promise, cnltivnted 
literature amidst many discouraEements, and died in his 
twenty-fourth year, of consumption. He was a native 
of Auehtergaven, in Perthshire, Srotland. When abont 
thirteen be began to note down his thoughts and to 



72b 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



sci-ibble vci-ses. When twenty, he remarked, in a letter 
to a friend, "I am a Radical in every sense of the term ;" 
and in 1S3C he became editor of the Leeds Times, repre- 
senting the extreme of the liberal class of opinions. He 
added largely to its circulation. His poems are short 
occasional pieces and songs — the latter much inferior to 
his serious poems. His "People^s Anlliem" rises into 
somewhat of true grandeur by virtue of simplicity ; and 
his lines on " Death," believed to be the last of his com- 
positions, are entitled to similar praise. Ebeuezer Elliott 
styles him " Scotland's second Burns." 



PEOPLE'S ANTHEM. 

Lord, from Thy ble.ss(5cl tbroue, 
Sorrow look down upon ! 

God save the Poor ! 
Teach them true liberty — 
Make them from tyrauts free — 
Let their homes happy bo ! 

God save the Poor! 

Tlio arms of wicked men 

Do Thou with might restrain — 

God save the Poor! 
Raise Thou their lowliness — 
Succor Thou their distress — 
Thou whom the meanest bless ! 

God save the Poor ! 

Give them staunch honesty — 
Let their pride manly be — 

God save tlio Poor ! 
Help them to hold the right ; 
Give them both truth and might, 
Lord of all Life aud Light ! 

God save the Poor ! 



LIFE IN DEATH. 

The dew is on the summer's greenest grass, 

Through which the modest daisy blushing peeps; 

The gentle wind that like a ghost doth pass, 
A waving shadow ou the cornfield keeps ; 

But I who love them all shall never be 

Again among the woods, or on the moorland lea! 

The sun shines sweetly — sweeter may it shine ; 

Blessed is the brightness of a summer day ; 
It cheers' lone hearts ; and why should I repine, 

Although among green fields I cannot stray ! 
Woods! I liave grown, since last I heard you wave, 
Familiar now with death, and neighbor to the grave ! 



These w oods have shaken mighty human souls : 
Like a sepulchral echo drear they sound ; 

E'en as the owl's wild whoop at midnight rolls 
The ivied remnants of old ruins round. 

Yet wherefore tremble ? Can the soul decay ? 

Or that which thinks and feels, in aught e'er fade 
away? 

Are there not aspirations in each heart 
After a better, brighter world thau tliis? 

Longings for beings nobler iu each part — 

Thiugs more exalted — steeped in deeper bliss ? 

Who gave us these ? What are they ? Soul, in thee 

The bud is budding now for immortality ! 

Death comes to take me where I long to bo ; 

One pang, and bright blooms the immortal flower ; 
Death comes to lead me from mortality, 

To lauds which know not one unhappy hour ; 
I have a hope, a faith — from sorrow here 
I'm led by death away — why should I start and fear ? 

If I have loved the forest aud the field, 
Can I not love them deeper, better there ? 

If all that power hath made, to me doth yield 
Something of good aud beauty — something fair — ■ 

Freed from the grossuess of mortality. 

May I not love them all, aud better all enjoy ? 

A change from woe to joy — from earth to heaven, — 
Death gives me this — it leads me calmly where 

The souls that long ago from mine were riven 
May meet again! death answers many a prayer: 

Bright day, shine ou ! be glad : days brighter far 

Are stretched before my eyes than those of mortals 
are ! 



^Icifanbcr Beaufort JlIcEk. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of Columbia, S. C, Meek was born in 1814, 
and died in 18G.5. He made the law his profession. He 
edited for a time The tiouthmn, a literary monthly pub- 
lished at Tnscaloosa, Ala. In I80G he served as lieuten- 
ant of volunteers against the Seminoles. He was United 
States Attorney for tlie Southern District of Alabama 
from 1846 to 1850, and associate editor of the Mobile 
Ihiihj agister from 1848 to 1853. In 1859 he was elected 
Speaker of tlie Alabama Legislature. In 1855 he publish- 
ed " The Red Eagle : a Poem of tlie South ;" and in 1857 
a volume of orations, songs, and poems of the South. 
His spirited poem describing the charge at Balaklava 
was for a long time attributed to Alexander Smitli, tlie 
young Scottish poet. Many critics of the day professed to 
prefer it to Tennyson's " Charge of the Light Brigade." 



ALEXAXDEi: BEAUFORT MEEK. 



'■i\ 



BALAKLAVA. 

Oh the charge at Hahiklava ! 

Oh that rasli anil fatal charge ! 
Never was a licrccr, l)ravcr, 
Thau that charge at Uahikhiva, 

On the battle's bloody marge! 
All tlic (lay the Russian columns, 

Fortress hni;o, and bhizing banks, 
Poured their dread destructive volumes 

On the French and English ranks ! 

Ou the gallant allied ranks ; 
Earth and sky seemed rent asunder 
By the loud, incessant thunder! 
AVlien a strange but stern command — 
Needless, heedless, rash command — 
Came to Lucau's little hand, — ■ 
Scarce six hundred men and horses 
Of those vast contending forces: — 
'■ England's lost unless yon save her ! 
Charge the jiass at Halaklava!'' 

Oil that rash and fatal cliarge, 

On the battle's bloody marge! 

Far away tlie Kussian Eagles 

Soar o'er smoking liill and dell. 

And their hordes, like liowling beagles. 

Dense and countless, round them yell ! 

Thundering cannon, deadly mortar. 

Sweep the field in every quarter! 

Never, since the days of Jesus, 

Trembled so the Chersoncsns ! 

Here behold the Gallic Lilies — 
Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies — 
Fh>at as erst at old Ramillies! 
And beside thcni, lo ! the Lion ! 
With her tro|diiod Cross, is Hying! 
Glorious standards — shall they waver 
On the field of Balaklava f 
No, by heavens! at that command — 
Sudden, rash, but stern command — 
Charges Luean's little band! 

Brave 8ix Hundred! lo! they charge. 
On the battle's blooily marge I 

Down yon deep and skirted valley, 

Where the crowded cannon play, — 

Where the Czar's tieree cohorts rally, 

Cossack, Cahnuck, savage Kalli, — 

Down that gorge tliey swept away ! 

Down that new Thcrmopylip, 

Flashing swords and hclnicta see! 
4G 



Uudcrneath the iron shower, 

To the brazen cannon's jaws. 

Heedless of their deadly power. 

Press they without fear or pause, — 
To the very cannon's jaws ! 

Gallant Nolau, bravo as Roland 

At the field of Roncesvalles, 
Dashes down the fatal valley, 

Dashes on the bolt of death. 

Shouting, with his latest breath, 

" Charge, theu, gallants ! do not waver. 

Charge the pass at Balaklava !" 

Oh that rash and fatal charge. 
On the battle's bloody marge! 

Now the bolts of volleyed thunder 
Rend that little band asunder, 
Steed and rider wildly screaming, 

Screaming wildly, sink away ; 
Lato so proudly, proudly gleaming, 

Now but lifeless clods of clay, — 
Now but bleeding clods of clay ! 
Never, siuce the days of Jesus, 
Saw such sight the Chersoncsns! 

Yet your remnant, brave Six Hundred, 
Presses onward, onward, onward. 

Till they storm the bloody pass, — 
Till, like bravo Leonidas, 
Lo, they storm the deadly pass ! 
Sabring Cossack, Calniuck, Kalli, 
In that wild, shot-rendcd valley, — 
Drenched with fire and blood, like lava, — 
Awful pass at Balaklava ! 

Oh that rash ami fatal charge. 
On that battle's bloody marge ! 

For now Russia's rallied forces, 

Swarming hordes of Cossack horses, 

Trampling o'er the reeking corses. 

Drive the thinned assailants b.ick, 
Drive the feeble remnant back, 
O'er their late heroic track! 

Vain, alas! now rent and sundereil, 

Vain your struggles, bravo Two Hundnd! 

Thrice your number lie asleep. 

In that valley dark and deep. 

Wiak and wounded you retire 

From tliat hurricane of fire; — 

Hut no soldiers, firmer, braver, 

Ever trod the field of fame, 

Thau the Knights of Balaklava, — 
Honor to each hero's name ! 



722 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Yet their coiiutry long shall mouru 
For her ranks so rashly shorn 

In that fierce aucl fatal charge, 
On the battle's bloody marge. 



©corijc lHasljiiigton (Hutter. 



Cutter (1SI4-1805) was a native of Keutucliy. lie was 
A lawyer by profession, resijent at Covington, Ky., and at 
one time a member of the Indiana Legislature. In tlie 
Mexican war he joined the army as a captain of volun- 
teers, and served bravely. He wrote a poem of two hun- 
dred and fifty-six lines, entitled " Biiena Vista," said to 
have been penned on the field after the battle, and inter- 
esting as giving the experiences of one who took part 
in the fight. He publislied in Philadelphia, in 1857, a 
volume of two hundred and seventy-nine pages, entitled 
" Poems, National and Patriotic." His " Song of Steam," 
though rude and unpolished, is the best of his produc- 
tions. In an Indian poem, entitled " Tccumseh," he 
represents the old chief as somewhat better versed iu 
classical mythology than savages usually are ; for he 
refers to the time, 

" Wlien sorily rose the Q.neen of Love, 
AH glowing from the sea." 



SONG OF STEAM. 

H.ariiess me down with your iron bauds, 

Be sure of your curb and rein : 
For I scorn the power of your puny hands, 

As the tempest scorns a chain. 
How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight 

For mauy a countless hour, 
At the childi.sh boast of huni.an might, 

And the jirido of human power. 

When I saw an army upon the laud, 

A navy upon the seas, 
Creeping along, a snail-like band, 

Or -waiting the wayward breeze ; — 
When I marked the peasant faintly reel 

With the toil which ho daily bore, 
As he feebly turned the tardy wheel, 

Or tugged at the weary oar; — 

When I measured the panting courser's speed, 

The flight of the carrier-dove. 
As they bore the law a King decreed, 

Or the liues of impatient Love, — 
I could not but think how the world would feel. 

As these were outstripped afar, 
When I should bo bound to the rushing keel, 

Or chained to the flying car. 



Ha! ha! ha! they found me at last; 

They invited me forth at length ; 
And I rushed to my throue with a thuuder-blast, 

And laughed iu my iron strength. 
Oh, then yo saw a wondrous change 

On the earth and the ocean wide, 
Where now my fiery armies range. 

Nor wait for wind or tide. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! the waters o'er 

The mountain's steep decline ; 
Time — space — have yielded to my power — • 

The world — the world is mine ! 
The rivers the sun hath earliest blessed. 

Or those where his last beams shine ; 
The giant streams of the queenly West, 

Or the Orient floods divine! 

The ocean pales where'er I sweep. 

To hear my strength rejoice ; 
And the monsters of the briny deep 

Cower, trembling at my voice. 
I carry the wealth and the lord of earth. 

The thoughts of his godlike mind : 
The wind lags after my going forth, 

The lightning is left behind. 

In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine 

My tireless arm doth play ; 
Wliere tho rocks never saw the sun decline, 

Or tho dawn of the glorious day, 
I bring earth's glittering jewels up 

From the hidden caves below. 
And I m.ake tho fountain's granite cup 

With a crystal gush o'erflow. 

I blow the bellows, I forge the steel. 

In all the shops of trade ; 
I hammer the ore, and turn the wheel. 

Where my arms of strength are made ; 
I miinage the furnace, the mill, the mint ; 

I carry, I spin, I weave ; 
And all my doings I jint iuto print, 

On every Saturday eve. 

I've no muscle to weary, no breast to decay, 

No bones to be laid on the shelf; 
And soon I intend you may go and play. 

While I manage this world by myself. 
But harness me down with your iron bands, 

Bo sure of your curb and rein ; 
For I scorn tho jjower of your jiuny hands. 

As the tempest scorns a chaiu. 



JOny LOTHItOP ilOTLKY. 



723 



3ol)u £otl)rop illotlcij. 

AMERICAN. 

Motley (1814-1877), though far better known as an his- 
torinn tlinn a poet, was yet the author of verses of no or- 
(linaiy promise. He was a native ol" Dorchester, now a 
part of Boston, Mass., anil entered Harvard College at the 
early iigc of thirteen. He began to write, and to write 
well, both in prose and verse, before his liftecnth year. 
In is:53 he went to Germany, met Bismarck (afterward 
Prince Bismarck) at Gottingen, and in ISSi was his fel- 
low-lodger, fellow-student, and boon companion at Berlin. 

"We lived," writes Bismarck (1H78), "in the closest 
intimacy, sharins; meals and outdoor exercise. » * * The 
most striking feature of his handsome and delicate ai> 
peaitince was uneoniuioiily large and beantifnl eyes. He 
never entered a drawing-room without e.vciling the cu- 
riosity and sympathy of the ladies." Having returned 
to America and married (18:57), -Motley put forth a novel, 
" Morton's Hope," which was not a success. It was fol- 
lowed by " Merry-Mount," also a failure. 

" It was a matter of course," he writes, " that I should 
be attacked by the poetic mania. I took the infection at 
the usual time, went through its various stages, and re- 
covered as soon as could be expected." In 1811 Motley 
was Secretary of Leg-ation to the Russian Mission. In 
18.50 he commenced those historical studies, the fruits of 
which gave him a wide and still llourisliing reputation. 
His "History of the Rise oftheDntcli Republic" at once 
established his literary fame both in Europe and Ameri- 
ca. It was translated into all tlic principal languages of 
Europe, and was followed by a "History of the United 
Netherlands." In 18G1 he was appointed by President 
Lincoln Minister to Austria, and, soon after the election 
of Grant, became .Minister to England, a post he resicned 
in 1870. In 1870 his health began to fail, and there were 
symptoms of paralysis, though his Intellectual powers 
kept bright. He died the following year. From a trib- 
ute to his memory by William W.Story (Oct., 1877), we 
quote the following lines-: 

" Farewell, dear friend 1 For na the grief and pain, 
Who shall not see thy livhig face again ; 
Fur nr» the sad yet iKihlc memories 
or lofiy ih<ii)!;hts, of apward-lcioking eye*", 
Of warm affccllnnti, of a spirit liri^ht 
With glancing fancies and a radiant light. 
That, nnxhiiig, threw aroinid all cuninion things 
Heroic halos mid imagiidngs: 
Nothing of this can fade while life shall last. 
But hrighlcn, with denih's shadow o'er it cast. 

Ah, noble spirit, whither ha.st thoii fled ? 
What Unest Ihoii nmid the niininnbtTcd dead? 
Oh, sny not 'mid the dead, for what hnst then 
Among the dead to do? No! rather now. 
If Faith and Hope are not a wild deceit. 
The truly living thon hast gone to meet. 
The noble spirits pnrged liy death, whose eye 
O'crpeei-x the brief bounds of mortality; 
And thoy htdKild thee rising there afar. 
Serenely rienr nbove Time's cloudy bar. 
And greet thoc as we greet a rising star." 

Motley's departure from this life took place near Dor- 
chester, England ; and, by his own wish, only the dates 



of his birth and death appear upon his gravestone, with 
the text chosen by himself, "In God is light, and in Him 
is no darkness at all.'' An appreciative and interesting f 
memoir of Motley by his early friend, Dr. O. W. Holmes, 
appeared in Boston in 187!). 



LINES WRITTEN AT SYRACUSE. 

I.s this tho stately Syracuse, 

Proud Coriuth's favorite child, 
Hymned by iiuniortal Pindar's muse, — 

Tims grovelling, tlins defiled ? 
Tami'r of Agrigcntnni's might, 

And Carthage's compeer, — 
Humbler of Athens in tlio light ! 

And art thou mouldering here f 

Still Syracuse's cloudle.s.s sun 

Shines brightly ilay by day, 
And, as 'twas Tully's boast, on noiio 

Seems to withhold his ray; 
Still blooms liAr luyrtle in tho valo, 

Her olivo oil the liill. 
Ami Flora's gifts perfume the gale 

With countless odors still — 
The myrtle decks no hero's sword, 

But ah ! tho olive waves. 
Type of inglorious peace, adored 

By hosts of stipple slaves ! 

Round broken shaft and monlderinjj tombs, 

And desecrated shrine, 
The wild goat bounds, the wild ro.so blooni< 

Ami dings the clustering vine ; 
And mark that loitering shepherd-boy, 

Reclined on yonder rock. 
His listless summer hours employ 

In piping to his flock ! 
Ah! Daphuis here, in earlier day, 

I'v laughing nymphs was taught. 
While Pan rcliear.sed the artless lay. 

With tendcrcst music fraught; 
.•\y, and tho pastoral muse inspired 

I'pon these flowery plains 
Theocritus, the silver-lyreil. 

With sweeter, loftier strains. 

I stood on Acradina's lielght. 

Whose- marble heart supplied 
The bulwarks, hewn with niafehless might, 

Of .'Syracuse's pride, 
Wheri^ nionysins biillt his cave. 

And, crimcliing, crept to hear 



724 



CYCLOPjEDIA of BRITISH AND AMEBICAN POETRY. 



The uuconscious curses of his slave 

Poured in the "Tyrant's Ear;" 
The prison where the Athenians wept, 

And hapless Nicias fell — 
With citrons now and flowers entwined 

The friar's quiet cell! 
The fragrant garden there is warm. 

The lizard basking lies, 
And, mocking desolation, swarm 

The painted butterflies. 

I stood on Acradina's height, — 

And, spread for miles aronnd, 
Vast sculptured fragments met my sight, 

With weeds and ivy crowned ; 
Brightly those shattered marbles gleamed, 

In wild profusion strown ; 
The city's whitening bnnes, they seemed, 

To bleach aud moulder thrown. 
I gazed along tlie purple sea. 

O'er Liestrygonia's plain. 
Whence sprang of old, spontaneously, 

The tall and bearded grain. 
And nourished giants: — proudly sweep 

Those plains, those cornfields wave ! 
Do Titans still the harvest reap? 

Go ask you toiling slave! 

Brightly in yonder aznre sky 

Old Etna lifts his head. 
Around whose glittering shoulders fly 

Dark vapors, wildly spread. 
Say, rises still that ceaseless smoke. 

Old Vulcan's fires above. 
Where Cyclhps forged, with sturdy stroke. 

The thunder-bolts of Jove ? 

Slark, where the gloomy King of Hell 

Descended with his bride; 
By CyiiniS her girdle fell, 

Yon reedy fountain's side ; 
Where Proserpine descended, still 

The crystal water flows. 
Though snllied now, that sister rill 

Where Arethusa rose : — 
Ay, wliilo I gaze, eternal Greece! 

Thy sunny fables throng 
Aronnd me, like the swarming bees 

Green Hy!)la's nionnt along — 
By Enna's plain, by Hybla's mount, 

By yon jEolian isles, 
By storied cliflT, by fabled fount, 

Still, still tliv genius smiles! 



Alas ! how idle to recall 

Bright myths forever fled, 
Wlien real urns lie shattered all, 

Where slept the mighty dead — 
Spurn Fancy's wing for Histoi-y's pen, 

Call up yon glorious host. 
Not demigods, but godlike men ; 

Invoke Tiraoleou's ghost! 
Or turn where starry Science weeps, 

And tears the briers th.at hide 
The tomb where Archimedes sleeps, 

Her victim and her pride ! 

In vain, sweet Sicily! the fate 

Of Proseriiine is thine, 
Chained to a despot's sceptred state, 

A orownless queen to pine — 
Thy Ijeauty lured the Bourbon's Inst, 

Aud Ceres flings her horn. 
Which scattered plenty, in the dust. 

Again, her child to mourn. 
All desolated lies thy shore. 

Fallow thy fertile plains — 
Aud shall thy sons aspire no more 

To burst their iron chains ? 
No ; when yon buried Titan rears 

His vast and peerless form, 
By Etna crushed, ten thousand ye.ars, 

Through earthquake, fire, and storm, — 
Shall man, arising in his strength, 

Erect .and proudly st.ind, 
Spurning the tyrant's weight at length. 

The Titan of the land ! 



Cljavlcs iltacK'aji. 

The son of an ai'my-ofllcer, JIackuy was born in Perth, 
Scotland, in 1814. His first volume of poems appeared 
in 1834 ; since which he has put forth some twelve more. 
For several years he was editor of the lUni^trnti'tl Lmidon 
News. In 18.53 he travelled in America. His Autobiog- 
raphy appeared in 1877. 



THE AVATCHER ON THE TOWER. 

"What dost thou sec, lone watcher on the tower? 
Is the day breaking ? Comes the wished-for hour ? 
Tell us the signs, and stretch abro.ad thy hand, 
If the bright morning dawns upon the laud." 

" The stars are clear above me ; scarcely one 
Has dimmed its rays, in reverence to the sun ; 
But yet I see, on the horizon's verge. 

Some fair, faint streaks, as if the light would surge." 



CHARLES MACKAT. 



" Look fortU again, O watcher ou the tower ! 
The people wake ami languish for the hour ; 
l.iing have they dwelt in darkness, and they pine 
l"or the full daylight that they know miint sliiue." 

■• I sec not well — the luoru is cloudy still ; 
Tlicro is a rndiauco on the distant hill ; 
Even as I watch, the glory seems to grow, 
Hut the stars V)link, and the nij;ht breezes blow."' 

"And is that all, O watcher on the tower? 
Look forth again; it must be near the hour; 
Dost thou not see the snowy mountain copes, 
And the green woods beneath them, on the 
slopes f" 

" A mist envelops them ; I cannot trace 
Tlieir outline, but the day comes on apace ; 
Tlie clouds roll up in gold and amber flakes, 
And all the stars grow dim. The morning breaks." 

'We thank thee, lonely watcher on the tower; 
Ibit look again, and tell us hour by hour 
.Ml thou beholdest ; many of us die 
Kre the day comes; oh, give them a reply." 

" 1 see the bill-tops now ; and chanticleer 
Crows his prophetic carol ou mine car ; 
I see the distant woods and fields of corn, 
And ocean gleaming iu the light of morn." 

"Again — again, O watcher on the tower! — 
We thirst for daylight, and we bide the hour, 
ratieut, but longing. Tell us, shall it be 
A bright, calm, glorious daylight for the free f" 

" I hope, but cannot tell. I hear a .song 
Vivid as day it.self; and clear and strong 
As of a lark — young prophet of the noon — 
Pouriug in suulight his seraphic tune." 

" What doth he say, O watcher of the tower ? 
In he a prophet f Doth the dawning hour 
Inspire his music? Is his chant sublime 
With the full glories of the coming time f" 

■ Ilo prophesies — his heart is full — Iiis lay 
Tells of the brightness of a peaceful day! 
A. day not cloudless, nor devoid of storm, 
Hut sunny for the most, and clear and warm." 

"We thank thee, watcher on the lonely tower, 
For all thou tuUest. Sings he of an hour 



When Error shall decay, and Truth grow strong, 
When Kight shall rule supremo and vanquish 
Wrong ?" 

"He sings of brotherhood, and joy, and peace; 
Of days when jealousies and hate shall cease ; 
When war shall die, aud man's progressive mind 
Soar as unfettered as its God designed." 

"Well done, thou watcher on the lonely tower! 
Is the day breaking? dawns the happy hour? 
We pine to see it. Tell us yet again 
If the broad daylight breaks upon the jylaiii." 

" It breaks — it comes — the misty shadows fly — 
A rosy radiance gleams upon the sky ; 
The mountain-tops reflect it calm aud clear; 
The i)lain ia yet in shade, but datj is near." 



THE GOOD TIME COMING. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time comiug : 
We may not live to see the day, 
IJut earth shall glisten in the ray 

Of the good time coining. 
Cannon-balls may aid the truth, 

I?ut thought's a weapon stronger ; 
We'll win our battle by its aid ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time ooming, boys, 

A good time coming; 
The pen shall supersede the sword. 
And Eight, not Might, shall bo the lord 

In the good time coming. 
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind. 

And be acknowledged stronger; 
The proper impulse has been given ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 
War in all men's eyes shall bo 
A monster of iniquity 

In tho good time coming. 
Xations shall not quarrel then. 

To prove which is the stronger; 
Nor slaughter men for glory's sake; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 
A good time coming : 



726 



CYCLOPJSDIA OF BBITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Hateful rivalries of creed 

.Sball not make tlieir martyrs bleed 

In the good time coming. 
Eeligiou shall be sborn of pride, 

And flourish all the stronger; 
And Cbarity shall trim her lamp ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coraiug, hoys, 

A good time comiug : 
And a poor man's family 
Shall nut be his misery 

In the good time coming. 
Every child shall be a help 

To make his right arm stronger; 
The happier he, the more he lias ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, hoys, 

A good time coming : 
Little children shall not toil 
Under, or above, the soil 

In the good time coming ; 
But shall play in healthful iields. 

Till limbs and mind grow stronger ; 
And every one shall read and write ; — 

Wait a little longer. 

There's a good time coming, boys, 

A good time coming: 
The people shall be temperate. 
And shall love instead of bate, 

In the good time coming. 
They shall use, and not abuse. 

And make all virtue stronger; 
The reformation has begun; — 

AVait a little louger. 

There's a good time coming, hoys, 

A good time coming: 
Let us aid it all we can, 
Every woman, every man, 

The good time comiug : 
Smallest helps, if rightly given, 

Make the impulse stronger ; 
'Twill be strong enough one day ; — 

Wait a little louger. 



NATUEE AND HER LOVER. 

I remember the time, thou roaring sea. 
When thy voice was the voice of Infinity- 
A joy, and a dread, and a mystery. 



I remember the time, ye young May-flowers, 
When your odors and hues in tlie fields and bowers 
Fell on my soul, as in grass tlie showers. 

I remember tlie time, thou blu.stering wind, 
Wheu thy voice in the woods, to my dreaming 

mind. 
Seemed the sigh of tlie Eartli for hnman kind. 

I remember the time, ye sun and stars, 

Wheu ye raised my soul from mortal bars, 

And bore it through heaven in your golden cars. 

And lias it then vanished, that dreadful time ? 
Are the winds and the seas, and the stars sublime, 
Deaf to thy soul in its manly prime? 

Ah no ! ah no ! amid sorrow and pain, 

When the world and its facts oppress my brain, 

lu the world of spirit I rove — I reign. 

I feel a deep and a pure delight 

In the luxuries of sound and sight — 

In the opening day, in the closing night. 

The voices of youth go with me still. 

Through the field and the wood, o'er the plain and 

the hill — 
In the roar of the sea, in the laugh of the rill ; 

Every flower is a love of mine. 

Every star is a friend divine : 

For me they blossom, for me they shine. 

To give me joy the oceans roll. 

They breathe their secrets to my soul. 

With me they sing, with me condole. 

Man caunot harm me if he would; 

I have such friends for my every mood, 

In the overflowing solitude. 

Fate caunot touch me, nothing can stir 
To put disunion or hate of her 
'Twixt Nature aud her worshipper. 

Sing to me, flowers ; preach to me, skies ; 
Ye landscapes, glitter iu mine eyes; 
Whisper, ye deeps, your mysteries. 

Sigh to me, winds ; ye forests, nod ; 
Speak to mo ever thou flowery sod ; 
Ye are mine — all mine — iu the peace of God, 



FRANCIS ALEXANDER DUBIVAGE. 



i'raiuis vllcvanbcv Duviiiagc. 

AMERICAN. 

Dnrivagc wns born in Boston in 1814. His family name 
was Caillaud— (Jk rivage being a territorial title. His fa- 
ther, an estimable teaelior of tlie Frencli language, mar- 
ried a sister of Edward Everett. Franeis acquired early 
a good knowledge of Freneb and Spanish. Before he was 
Bcventccn, he edited the Amateur, a Boston weekly peri- 
odical. He contributed to nearly all the leading maga- 
zines, and became noted as a humorist. A collection of 
his papers, under the signature of "The Old 'Un," illus- 
trated by Darley, was i)ublishcd by Carey and Hart in 
IftlO. He visited Europe six times, chiefly to study the 
great art collections. He Is favorably known as an ama- 
teur artist, as well as for his poetry. William C. Bryant 
and Bayard Tayloi- were among the literary friends who 
praised and valued his poetical productions, the dra- 
matic element in which is a distinguishing quality, to 
which they owe mach of their effect. 



ALL. 



Tliero Iiangs a sabre, and there a rein 
With a rusty buckle and green cnrb-chaiu ; 
A pair of spurs on tho old gray wall 
And a mouldy saddle — well, that i.s all. 

Come out to the stable, it is not far; 
Tho nio.ss-growu door is hanging ajar. 
Look within. Here's an empty stall 
Where once stood a charger, and that is all. 

The good black steed came riderless Iionie, 
Flecked with blood-drops as well as foam. 
Do you see that mound where the dead leaves fallf 
The good black horse pined to death — that's all. 

All T O Ciod ! it is all I can speak. 

Question mo not. I am old and weak. 

His saddle and sabre hang on the wall, 

.Vnd his horse pined to death. I have told yon all I 



CHEZ BREBANT. 

The vicomto is wearing a brow of gloom 

As he monnts the stair to his £ivorite room. 

"Breakfast for two I" the ijaifOHn say, 

•Then the pretty young lady is coming to-day!" 

Hut the j)(i/(y>ii mutters, « Diin »e plaine! 

I want no clients from P<^re la Chaise. 

Silver and crystal ! a splendid show ! 

And a damask cloth white as driven snow. 



The vicomte sits down with a ghastly air — 

His ri«-d-ri« is an empty chair. 

But ho calls to the jrnrfo/i, "Antoiue! Vite! 

I'lace a stool for the lady's feet." 

"Tho lady, monsieur f" (in a quavering tone). 

" Yes — when have you known me to breakfast alone? 

Fill up her glass! Versez ! Ferscz ! 

You see bow white are her cheeks to-day. 

Sip it, my darling, 'twas ordered for thee." 

He raises his gla.s8, "a toi, Minii!'' 

Tho giir(on shudders, for nothing is there 

In tho lady's place but an empty chair. 

But still, with an air of (ierce unrest, 

The vicomte addresses an miseeu guest. 

"Leave us, Antoine; wo have much to say. 

And time is precious to nie to-day." 

■When tho garfon was gone ho sprang np with a 

start : 
"Minii is dead of a broken heart. 
Could I think, when she gave it with generous joy, 
A woman's heart such a fragile toy t 
Her trim little ligure no longer 1 see! 
Would I were lying with thee, Mimi ! 
For what is life but a hell to met 
What splendor and wealth but misery V 
A jet <if tlauio and a whirl of smoke ! 
A detonation the silence broke. 
The landlord enters, and, lying there, 
Is the dead vicomte, with a stony glare 
Rigidly iixcd on an empty chair. 
" II faut arertir le commissaire ! 
Ma foil Chez lircbant ccs clwscs sont rarest" 



JERRY. 



His joyous neigh, like the clarion's strain. 
When we set before him his hay and grain, 

And the rhythmic beat 

Of his flying feet, 
We never, never shall hear again ; 

For the good horse sleeps 

Where tho tall gra.ss weeps, 
On tho velvet edge of the emerald plain, 
By the restless waves of tho billowy grain. 
And never will answer to voice or rein. 

By whip-conl and steel he was never stirred. 
For he only nei'ded a whispered word. 
And a slackened rein, to tly like a bird. 

By loving hands was his neck caressed — 
Hands, like his own fleet limbs, at rest. 



.728 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Tbrougli blinding snow, in the murkiest night, 

With never a lamp in heaven alight — 

With the angry river a sheet of foam, 

Swiftly anil safely he bore me home; 

And I never resigned myself to sleep 

Till I'd rubbed him dovpn and bedded him deep. 

If I ever can sit in the saddle again. 

With foot in stirrup and hand on rein, 

I shall look for the like of Jerry in vain. 

Steed of the desert or jennet of Spain 

Would ne'er for a moment make me forget 

My favorite horse, my children's pet, 

With his soft brown eye and his coat of jet. 

He would have answered the trumpet's peal, 

And charged on cannon and splintering steel ; 

But humbler tasks did his worth reveal. 

To mill and to market, early and late ; 

On the brown field, tracing the furrow straight ; 

Drawing the carriage with steady gait — 

Wliatever the duty we had to ask. 

Willingly he performed bis task. 

And when his life-work was all complete. 

He was found in his stable, dead on his feet. 

And, in spite of each and every fool 

Whose brain and heart are hardened by rule, 

I have reached the conclusion that on the whole. 

The horse that we loved possessed a soul! 



^ubvcj) iEljomas Dc llcrc. 

Soh of Sir Aubrey Dc Vere, the poet, Dc Vcre, bora 
in Ireluiul in 1814, has published several productions in 
verse: " The WiiUleuses, witliotlicr Poems "(1842); "Tiic 
Infant Bridal, and other Poems" (1SC4). He is also tlie 
author of "Sketches of Greece and Turkey " (1850). His 
poems are marked by reflnemeut and delicacy of expres- 
sion, united with rare sweetness in the versification. 
" This gentle poet and scholar, the most spiritual of the 
Irish poets," says Mr. E. C. Stedman, " thongh hampered 
by a too rigid adoption of Wordsworth's theory, often 
has an attractive manner of his own." 



THE TRUE BLESSEDNESS. 

Bless6d is he who hath not trod the ways 
Of secular delights, nor learned the lore 
Which loftier minds are studious to abhor: 
Blessed is he who hath not sought the praise 
That perishes, the rapture that betrays ; 
Who hath not sj)eut in Time's vainglorious war 
His youth ; and found — a school-boy at fourscore ! — 
How fatal are those victories which raise 



Tlieir iron trophies to a temple's height 

On trampled Justice; who desires not bliss. 

But peace ; and yet, when summoned to the fight. 

Combats as one who combats in the sight 

Of God and of His angels, seeking this 

Alone, how best to glorify the right. 



ADOLESCENTUL^ ARIAVERUNT TE NIMIS. 

" Behold ! the wintry rains are past ; 
The airs of midnight hurt no more : 
The young maids love thee. Come at last: 
Thou liugercst at the garden-door. 

" Blow over all the garden ; blow. 

Thou wind that breathest of the south. 
Through all the alleys winding low. 
With dewy wing and honeyed mouth. 

" But wheresoe'er thou wanderest, shape 
Tliy music ever to one Name : 
Thou too, clear stream, to cave and cape 
Be sure thou whisper of the same. 

" By every isle and bower of musk 
Thy crystal clasps, as on it curls. 
We charge thee, breathe it to the dusk ; 
We charge thee, grave it in thy pearls." 

The stream obeyed. That Name he bore 
Far out above the moonlit tide. 

The breeze obeyed. He breathed it o'er 
The unforgettiug pines, and died. 



SONNET: HOW ALL THINGS ARE SWEET. 

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going. 
Crumbling away beneath our very feet ; 
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing 
lu current unperceived, because so fleet; 
Sad are our hope.s, for they were sweet in sowing: 
But tares, self-sown, have overtoiipcd the wheat ; 
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing: 
And still, oh still, their dying breath is sweet ; 
And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us 
Of that which made our cliihlhood sweeter still; 
And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us 
A nearer good to cure an older ill ; 
And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them 
Not for their sake, but His who grants them or 
denies them. 



JAMES HEDDERiriCK.— THOMAS WESTWOOD. 



729 



ilamcs Cjciiiicnuick. 



1 Icddcrwick, ciiitor of The Glasgow Citizen, a daily news- 
paper, was boril in that city in ISU. He studied for a 
time at tlie London University, tben bceanie connected 
with tlie Press. In 1854 he published a small volume of 
poems, and in 1859 his "Lays of Middle A{;c, and other 
Poems." 



FIRST GKIEF. 

Thoy tell lue fir.st anil early lovo 

Outlives all after-<lreani9 ; 
Hut the memory of a first great grief 

To nio more lasting seems. 

Tlie grief that marks our dawning youth 

To memory ever clings, 
And o'er the i)ath of future years 

A lengthened shadow llings. 

Oh ! oft my miud recalls the hour 

When to my father's homo 
Death came, an uninvited guest, 

From his dwelling iu the tomb. 

I had not seen his face before — 

I shuddered at the sight ; 
Anil I shudder yet to think npou 

The anguish of that night ! 

A youthful blow and ruddy eheek 

Hecame all cold and wan ; 
An eye grew dim in which the light 

Of radiant fancy shone. 

Cold was the cheek, aud cold the brow, 

The eye was fixed and dim ; 
And one there mourned a brother dead. 

Who would have died for him ! 

I know not if 'twas summer then, 

I know not if 'twas si)ring ; 
Hut if the liirds sang in the trees, 

I did not hear them sing. 

If flowers came forth to deck the earth, 

Tlieir bloom I did not see ; 
I looked upon one withered flower, 

Aud none else bloomed for mc ! 

A sad and silent time it was 
Within that house of woe; 



All eyes were dim and overcast, 
And every voice was low. 

And from each cheek at iutervals 

The blood appeared to start, 
As if recalled iu sudden haste 

To aid the sinking heart. 

Softly wo trod, as if afraid 

To mar the sleeper's sleep. 
And stole last looks of his sad face 

For memory to keep. 

Willi him the agony was o'er. 

And now the pain was ours. 
As thoughts of his sweet childhood rose, 

Like odor from dead flowers. 

And when at last ho was borne afar 
From this world's weary strife. 

How oft iu thought did we again 
Live o'er his little life ! 

Ilis every look, his every word. 

His very voice's tone. 
Came back to ns like things whose worth 

Is only prized when gone. 

That grief li.as jiasseil with years away. 

And joy has been my lot ; 
But the one is long rcmeniliered, 

And the other soon forgot. 

The g.ayest hours trip lightly by, 

Aud leave the faintest trace ; 
Hut the deep, deep track that sorrow wears 

No time can e'er edacc I 



«II)011UIS lllcStttlOOLl. 



Wcstwood, a native of England, born in 1814, has pro- 
duced " Heads from a Rosary" (184!?); "The Burden of 
the Hell" (1S.")0) ; "Berries and Blossoms" (18.5.5); and 
"The Quest of tlic Sancgrcnl" (IsfiS). All these arc in 
verse. His most popular poem, "Little Hell," original- 
ly appeared in the TMidmi Alhairmm. He says : " Though 
the writer is a childless man, he has a love and reverence 
for childhood which cau scarcely be surpassed." 



THE FKT LAMl!. 

Storm upon the mountain, night upon its throne! 
And the little snow-white lamb, Icf! alone — alone! 



730 



CYCLOPEDIA OF SSITISH AND AMEEIVAN POETRY. 



Storm upou the mountain, rainy torrents beating, 
And tlie little suow-white lamb, bleating, ever bleat- 



Down the glen the sbepherd drives bis flocks afar ; 
Through the murkj' mist and cloud shines no beacon 

star. 
Fast be hurries onward, never hears the moan 
Of the pretty suow-wbito lamb, left alone — alone ! 

At the shepherd's door-way stands his little son ; 
Sees the sheep come trooping home, couuts them one 

by one ; 
Counts them full and fairly: trace he findetb none 
Of the little snow-white lamb, left alone — alone ! 

Up the glen be races, breasts tlie bitter wind. 
Scours across the plain, and leaves wood and wold 

behind ! 
Storm upon the mountain, night upon its throne : 
There he finds the little lamb, left alone — alone ! 

Struggling, panting, sobbing, kueeliug on the ground, 
Eound the pretty creature's neck both bis arms are 

■wound ; 
Soon witbiu bis bosom, all its bleatings done, 
Home he bears the little lamb, left alone — alone! 

Oh, the happy faces by the shepherd's tire ! 
High without the tempest roars, but the laugh rings 

higher. 
Young and old together make that joy their own. 
In tbeir midst the little lamb, left alone — alone ! 



LITTLE BELL. 

" He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both ninii and bird and beast.'' 

CoT.ERiiiQF.'s 'MrtCi'eni Mariner" 

Piped the Blackbird on the beech wood spray, 
"Pretty maid, slow wandering this way. 

What's your name ?" quoth be. 
" What's your name ? Oh, stop and straight unfold. 
Pretty maid with showery curls of gold." 

"Little Bell," said she. 

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks, 
Tossed aside her gleaming, golden locks, 

" Bonnie bird !" quoth she, 
" Sing nio your best song before I go." 
" Here's the very finest song I know, 

Little Bell," said he. 



And the Blackbird piped : you never beard 
Half so gay a song from any bird ; 

Full of quips and wiles, 
Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, 
All for love of that sweet face below. 

Dimpled o'er with smiles. 

And the while that bonnie bird did pour 
His full heart out freely o'er and o'er, 

'Neath the morning skies, 
In the little childish heart below 
All the sweetness seemed to grow aud grow, 
And shine forth in happy overflow 

From the brown, bright eyes. 

Down the dell she tripped, and through the 

glade : 
Peeped the Squirrel from the hazel shade, 

And from out tlio tree. 
Swung aud leaped and frolicked, void of fear, 
While bold Blackljird pijied, that all might hear, 

" Little Bell !" piped he. 

Little Bell sat down amid the fern: 

" Squirrel, Squirrel ! to your task return ; 

Bring me nuts," quoth she. 
Up, away ! the frisky Squirrel hies. 
Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes. 

And adown the tree. 
Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun. 
In the little lap droji, one by one — 
Hark ! liow Blackbird pipes to see the fun ! 

" Happy Bell !" pipes he. 

Little Bell looked up aud down the glade : 
" Squirrel, Squirrel, from the nut-tree shade, 
Bonnie Blackbird, if you're not afraid, 

Come aud share with me !" 
Down came Squirrel, eager for bis fare, 
Down came bonnie Blackbird, I declare ; 
Little Bell gave each his honest share ; 

Ah ! the merry three ! 

And the while those frolic playmates twain, 
Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 

'Neath the uuirning skies, — 
In the little childish heart below. 
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
Aud shiue out in happy overllow 

From her brown, bright eyes. 

By her snow-white cot, at close of day, 
Kuelt sweet Bell, with folded palms, to pray : 



TUOMJS WESTWOOD. — WILLIAM EENRT CUTLER SOSMER. 



731 



Very calm and clear 
i;<ise the prayiiij; voice, to where, unseen, 
III hluo heaven an an^el shape Bereno 

Paused awliile to hear. 

•' What good child 18 this," tho angel said, 
'•That with happy heart, hesido her bed, 

I'rays so lovingly f 
Low and soft, oh ! very low and soft. 
Crooned the Hlackliird in tho orehard eroft, 

" Bell, dear lielll" crooned he. 

•■ Whom God's creatures love," tho angel fair 
Murmured, "find doth bless with angels' care; 

Child, thy bed shall bo 
Folded safe from harm; love, deep and kind, 
Shall watch round, and leave good gifts behind, 

Little Bell, for theo !" 



lUilliam tjciun Ciujlcr Ijosincr. 

AMERICAN. 

Ilosmer, born in Avon, N. Y., in 1814, graduated at Ho- 
bart College, Geneva. He engaged in the practice of the 
law, but afterward held a position in tlie Custom-house. 
In early life he spent much of his time among the Indians, 
and some of Ins poems have reference to their tradi- 
tions. His mother conversed Hucnlly in the dialect of 
the Seneca tribe, and thus he became well acquainted 
with the legends of which he made use in his romance 
of " Yonnondis." In 1S54 two volumes of his numerous 
poems were published by KedlieUI, New York. 



BLAKE'S VISITANTS. . 

" Binkc, the p.Tiiitcr-poc(, conceived that he hnd formed friend- 
ships with distin^nifhi!(l iiidividimls ofiintlquity. lie nsserted 
that they Appeared to him, and were iuniinous nnd majestic 
shadows. The most jiropiliuus time for tlieir visits was from 
nine at night till five iu the morning." 

Tho stars shed a dreamy light — 

Tho wind, like an infant, sighs ; 
My hittiee gleams, for the queen of night 

Looks through with her soft, bright eyes. 

I carry tho niystic key 

That unlocks the mighty Past, 
And, ere long, tho ilead to visit mo 

Will wake in his chambers vast. 

Tho gloom of the grave forsake, 
Yo princes who ruled of yoro ! 
For tho painter fain to life would wako 
Your majestic forms onoc more. 



Ye brave, with your tossing plumes, 
Yo bards of tho pale, high brow! 
Leave the starless night of forgotten tombs, — 
I'or uiy hand feels skilful now. 

They come, a shadowy throng, 

AVith the types of their old renown — 
The ilantuan bard, with his wreath of song, 

Tho monarch with robe and crown. 

They come ! — on tho fatal Ides 

Of March you comiucror fell ; 
For tho rich, green leaf of tho laurel hides 

His baldness of forehead well. 

I know, though his toiigrn; is still. 

By his pale, jiale lips aptirt, 
Tho Roman whose spell of voice could tliiill 

Tho depths of tho coldest heart — 

And behind that group of queens 

Hedight in superb at lire. 
How luournf'ully Lesbian Sappho leans 

Her head on a broken lyre ! 

That terrible shade I know- 
By the scowl his visage wear.s, 

And tho Scottish knight, his ii(d)lo foe, 
By the broad claymore he bears. 
That warrior king who dyed 
In Saracen goro the sands, 

With his knightly harness on, bcsido 
The fiery Soldaii stands. 

Yo laurelled of old, all li.iil ! 

I love, in tl)0 gloom of night. 
To rob tho Past of his cloudy veil. 

And gazo on your features bright. 

Ha! the first bright beam of dawn 

On my window redly plays, 
And back to their spirit homes have gone 

Tho mighty of other days ! 



TO A LONG SILENT SISTER OF SONG. 

Where art thou, wood-dove of Hesperian climes. 

Tho sweetest minstrel of our unshorn bowers? 

In dreams, methinks, I faintly hear at times 

An echo of thy silver-somiding rhymes : 

Alas! that blight should fall ou fairest lliiw.is. 

Eternal silence ou angelic lips; — 

That tender, starry eyes should know eclipse. 

And monruing love breathe farewell to the hours! 

Speak! has the grave closed ou thee evermore, 



732 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Daugbter of music ? — hath thy golden lute, 
With (lust upon its hroken strings, grown mute; 
Thy fancy, raiubow-hueil, forgot to soar? 
To hush thy warbling is a grievous wrong — 
Come back! come back to sunlight ami to song! 



iUarioii |Jaul ^irt. 

Miss Aird is a native of Glasgow, where she was born 
in 1S15, In 1S40 appeared her first work, " Tlie Home of 
the Heart, and otlier Poems;" and in 1853 a volume of 
prose and verse, entitled " Heart Histories." Her liymu, 
" Far, far Away," is sung in almost every Sunday-seliool 
in Scotland. Her mother was a niece of Hamilton Paul 
(1773-1854), a Scottish poet of some note. 



FAR, FAR AWAY. 

Had I the wings of a dove, I would fly 

Far, far away ; far, far away ; 
Wliere not a cloud ever darkens the sky, 

Far, far away ; far, far away ; 
Fadeless the flowers iu you Eden that blow, 
Gi-een, green the bowers where the still waters flow. 
Hearts, like their garments, as j)ure as the snow. 

Far, far away ; far away. 

There never trembles a sigh of regret, 

Far, far away ; far, far away ; 
Stars of the morning iu glory ne'er set, 

Far, far away ; far, far away ; 
There I from sorrow ever would rest. 
Leaning in joy ou Immanuel's breast ; 
Tears never fall in the homes of the blessed. 

Far, far away ; far away. 

Friends, there united in glory, ne'er part. 

Far, far away ; far, far away ; 
One is their temple, their home, and their heart, 

Far, far away ; far, far away ; 
The river of crystal, the city of gold. 
The portals of pearl, such glory unfold. 
Thought cannot image, and tongue hath not tuhl, 

Far, far away ; far away. 

List! what yon harpers on golden harps play; 

Come, come away ; come, come away ; 
Falling and frail is your cottage of clay ; 

Come, come away ; come, come away ; 
Come to these mansions, there's room yet for you, 
Dwell with the Friend ever faithful and true ; 
Sing ye the song, ever old, ever new ; 

Come, come away ; come away. 



JFrckritk llMlUam JTabcr. 

Faber (1815-1863) was originally a clergyman of the 
Church of England, but became a convert to the Cath- 
olic religion, and a priest in that Church. He was the 
author of some five volumes of poems, some of them of 
singular grace, tenderness, and beauty. He wrote "The 
Cherwell Watcr-Lily, and other Poems" (1840); "The 
Styrian Lake, and other Poems" (1842); "Sir Lancelot: 
a Poem " (1844) ; " The Rosary, and other Poems " (1845) ; 
and several papers in the " Lives of the English Saints," 
edited by Dr. Newman. Faber became distinguished as 
an earnest and eloquent preacher. His theological writ- 
ings, after his conversion, were numerous and able. 



THE LIFE OF TRUST. 

Oh, it is hard to work for God, 

To rise and take His part 
Upon the battle-field of earth, 

And not sometimes lose heart ! 

He hides him.self so wondrously. 
As though there were no God: 

Ho is least seen when all the powers 
Of ill are most abroad. 

Or he deserts us at the hour 

The fight is all but lost ; 
And seems to leave us to ourselves 

Just when we need Him most. 

Ob, there is less to try our faith 

In our mysterious creed 
Th.an iu the godless look of earth, 

Ju these our hours of need. 

Ill masters good ; good seems to change 

To ill with greatest ease ; 
And, worst of all, the good with good 

Is at cross-purposes. 

The Church, the Sacraments, the Faith, 

Their uphill journey take. 
Lose here what there they gain, and, if 

We lean upon them, break. 

It is not so, but so it looks, 

Aud we lose courage then. 
And doubts will come if God hath liept 

His promises to men. 

Ah! God is other than we think; 
His ways are far above, — 



fuedehick william faueu. 



733 



Far boyoiul reason's beight, aud reached 
Only by chililliko lovo. 

The look, the fashion of God's ways, 

Love's lifirlcing study are; 
She can bilinld. and fjucss, and act, 

When Reason woulil not dare. 

She hatli a prudence of her own; 

Her step is firm and free ; 
Yet there is cautious science too 

In her simplicity. 

Workman of God! oh, lose not heart, 

Hut learn what God is like. 
And in the darkest battle-lield 

Thou shalt know where to strike. 

Oh, blessed is he to whom is given 

The instinct that can tell 
That God is on the field when he 

Is most iuvisible! 

And blessed is ho who can divine 

Where real riglit doth lie, 
And dares to take the side that seems 

Wnuig to man's blindfold eye ! 

Oh, learn to seoni the praise of men; 

Oh, learn to lose with God! 
For Jesus won the world through shame, 

And beckons thee his road. 

God's glory is a wondrous thing. 
Most strange in all its ways, 

And, of all things on earth, least like 
What men agree to praise. 

As He can endless glory wc.ive 
From time's misjudging sliame, 

In His own wiuld He is content 
To play a losing game. 

Muse on his Justice, downcast Sonl! 

Muse, and take lu'tter heart; 
liaek with thine angel to the Held, 

Good luck shall crown thy part ! 

(iod's justice is a bed where wo 

Our anxious hearts may lay, 
Anil, weary with ourselves, may sleep 

Our discontent avvav. 



For right is right, since God is God, 
And right the day must win ; 

To doubt would be disloy.-ilty, 
To faltei- would be sin! 



HARSH JUDGMENTS. 

O God! whose thoughts are brightest light, 

Whose love runs always clear. 
To wliose kind wisdom sinning souls, 

Amid their sins, are dear, — 

Sweeten my bitter-thonghted heart 

With charity like thine. 
Till self shall be the only spot 

On eartli that does not shine. 

Hard-heartednoss dwells not wilh souls 
Round wIkuu thine anus aro drawn; 

And dark thoughts fade away in grace, 
Like clond-spots in the dawn. 

Time w;is when I believed that wrong 

In others to detect 
Was p.art of genius, and a gift 

To cherish, not reject. 

Now, better taught by thee, O Lord! 

This truth dawns on my miTid, 
The best eftect of heavenly light 

Is earth's false eyes to blind. 

He whom no praise can reach is ayo 
Men's least attempts approving: 

Whom justice makes all-merciful, 
Omniscience makes .ill-loving. 

When we ourselves le.ast kindly are, 

We di!em the world unkind: 
Dark hearts, in (lowers where honey lies, 

Only the poison lirul. 

How thou canst think so well of ns, 

Yet bo the God thou art. 
Is darkness to my intellect. 

But sunshine to my heart. 

Yet habits linger in the soul: 
More grace, O Lord ! more grace : 

More sweetness from thy loving heart, 
More sunshine from lliv face I 



734 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



aifrcl) Domett. 

Boi-n in England about 1815 (according to some au- 
thorities, in 1811), Domett conti'ibuted lyi-ies to Blmk- 
wm(Ts J/afjaziue as early as 1837. But he became a s^reat 
traveller, and passed some time in Australia — his friends 
not knowing what had become of him. Browning ad- 
dressed a poem to him, beginning — 

" What's become of Waring 
Since he gave us all the slip. 
Chose laiul-travel or senfarinf; 
Boots and chest, or staff and scrip. 
Rather than pace up aud down 
Any longer Loudon town ?" 

Domett does not seem to have redeemed the liigh prom- 
ise of his youth. We subjoin one of the best of his 
poems. 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

It Tvas the. calm aud silent uiglit! 

Seven hnuilred years atnl •Kfty-three 
Had Rome been growiug up to might, 

And now was queen of land and sea. 
No sonud was heard of clashing wars, 

Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain ; 
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars, 

Held undisturbed their ancient reign 

In the solemn midnight, 

Centuries ago. 

'Twas in the calm and silent night, 

The senator of haughty Rome, 
Impatient, urged his cliariofs flight, 

From lordly revel rolling home ; 
Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell 

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; 
What recked the Roniaii what befell 

A paltiy province far away, 

In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ? 

Within that province far away 

We.ut plodiliug home a weary boor: 
A streak of light before hira lay, 

Fallen through a half-shut stable door 
Across his path. He passed, for nanglit 

Told what was going on within ; 
How keen the stars, his only thought — ■ 

The air, how calm, and cold, and thin, 

In the solemn midnight, 

Centuries ago ! 

O strange indifference ! low and high 
Drowsed over commnu .joys and cares ; 



The earth was still, but knew not why, 

The world was listeniug unawares. 
How calm a moment may precede 

One that shall thrill the world forever! 
To that still moment none would heed 
Man's doom was linked no more to sever, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago. 

It is the calm and silent night! 

A thousand bells ring out, and throw 
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 

Tlie darkness — charmed and holy now ! 
The night that erst no name had worn — 

To it a happy name is given ; 
For in that stable lay, new-born. 

The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago. 



|]|)ilip lames Sailen. 

Bailey, a native of Nottingham, England, was born in 
ISie. He published at the age of twenty a poem entitled 
"Festus," which passed through many editions both in 
England and America. Few poems have so immediately 
excited so much attention. It was followed by " The 
Angel World" (1850), "The Mystic" (1855), "The Age: 
a Colloquial Satire" (18.58), and " The Universal Hymn" 
(1807). No one of these had a success equal to his first 
juvenile production. 



LOVE, THE END OF CREATED BEING. 

Fro.m " Festus." 

Love is the happy privilege of the mind — 

Love is the reason of all living things. 

A Trinity there seems of principles, 

AVhich represent and rule created life — 

The love of self, our fellows, and our God. 

In all throughout one common feeling reigns: 

Each doth maintain, and is maintained by the other : 

All are compatible — all needful ; one 

To life, — tro virtue one, — and one to bliss: 

Wliich thus togetlier make the power, the end. 

And the perfection of created Being : 

From these three principles conies every deed. 

Desire, and will, and reasoning, good or bad; 

To these they all detennine — sum and scheme : 

The three are one in centre and in round; 

Wrapping tlie world of life as do the skies 

Our world. Hail, air of love, by which we live ! 

How sweet, how fragrant! Sjiirit, though unseen — 



PUILIP JAMES BAILEY.— JOHN GODFREY SAXE. 



735 



Void of gross sign — is scarce a simple essence, 

Immortal, immaterial, thoii^U it bo. 

One only simple essence livetU — God, — 

Creator, iincreate. The brutes beueatli, 

The angels lii.uli above ns, with ourselves, 

Are but cntnpoiiniled things of miml and form. 

In all thiltjgs animate is therefore cored 

An elemental sameness of existence ; 

For God, being Love, in love created all, 

As ho contains the whole and penetrates. 

.Seraphs love God, and angels love the good : 

We love each other ; and these lower lives, 

Which walk the earth in thousand diverse shapes. 

According to their reason, love us too : 

The most intelligent aflect ns uiost. 

Xay, man's chief wisdom's love — the love of God. 

The new religion — linal, perfect, pure, — 

W.is that of Christ and love. His great command — 

His all-snfficing precept — was't not love f 

Truly to love ourselves we must love God, — 

To lovo God we mnst all his creatures love, — 

To lovo his creatures, both ourselves and him. 

Thus lovo is all that's wise, fair, good, and happy ! 



THOUGHTS FROM " FESTUS." 

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; 
In feelings, not in ligtues on .a dial. 
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives 
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best ; 
And ho whose heart beats quickest lives the longest ; 
Lives in one hour' more than in years do some 
Whoso fat blood sleeps as it slips along their veins. 



Keep the spirit pure 
From worldly taiut by the repellent strength 
Of virtue. Think on noble thouglits and deeds 
Ever ; still count the rosary of truth. 
.\nd practise precepts which are proven wise. 
Walk boldly and wisely in the light thou hast : 
There is a hand above will help tlieo on. 
I am an oninist, and believe in all 
Religions, — fragments of one golden world 
Vet to be relit in its place in heaven. 



3oI)ii (!?oiifi-eij Save. 

AMERICAN. 

One of the most popular of tlie humorous poets of 
America, S.nxc wns born In Illghiratc, Vt., in ISIO, and 
was gradnntcd at MIddlcbury College in the class of 
1839. After practising law for a time, be abandoned it 



for literature, editing, and lecturing. He has published 
several volumes of poems, wliicli have had a large sale. 
For some time he was a resident of Albany, N. Y. 



THE SUPERFLUOUS MAN. 

I long have been puzzled to guess, 

Aiul so I have frequently said. 
What the reason could really be 

Tliat I never have happened to wed ; 
But now it is perfectly clear 

I am under a natural l>an ; 
The girls an; already assigned — 

And I'm a superfluous man ! 

Those clever statistical chaps 

Declare the numerical run 
Of women and nu'u iu the world 

Is Twenty to Tvventy-and-oue : 
And hence iu the pairing, you see. 

Since -wooing and wedding began, 
For every connubial score 

They've got a snperlluous man! 

By twenties and twenties they go, 

And giddily rush to their fate, 
For none of the number, of course, 

Can fail of the conjugal mate; 
But while they are yielding in scores 

To nature's inflexible plan, 
There's never a woman for me, — 

For I'm a superflnons man ! 

It isn't that I am a ehnrl. 

To solitude over-Inclined, 
It isn't that I am at fault 

In morals or manners or mind ; 
Then what is the reason, yon ask, 

I'm still with the bachelor elan f 
I merely was numbered amiss, — 

And I'm .a superfluous man! 

It isn't that 1 am In want 

Of personal beauty or grace. 
For many a man with a wife 

Is uglier far in the face : 
Indeed, among elegant men 

I fancy myself in the van ; 
But what Is the value of that, 

When I'm a superfluous man ! 

Although I am fond of the girls. 
For anght I could ever disceru, 



736 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



The tender emotion I feel 

Is one tbat tLey never return ; 

'Tis idle to qnaiTel with fate, 
For, struggle as hard as I can, 

Tliej're mated already, you know, 
And I'm a superfluous man! 

No wonder I grumble at times. 

With women so pretty and plenty, 
To know tbat I never was horn 

To figure as one of the Twenty ; 
But yet, when tlie average lot 

With critical vision I scan, 
I think it may be for the best 

That I'm a suporfinous man ! 



JUSTINE, YOU LOVE ME NOT! 

'■ Helas ! voiis lie m'ainiez pas." — Piron. 

I kuow, Justine, you speak me fair 

As often as Ave meet ; 
And 'tis a luxury, I swear, 

To hear a voice so sweet ; 
And yet it does not please me quite. 

The civil way you've got; 
For mo you're something too polite — 

Justine, you love me not! 

I know, Justine, you never scold 

At aught that I may do : 
If I am jiassionate, or cold, 

'Tis all the same to yon. 
"A charming temper," say the men, 

"To smooth a husband's lot:"' 
I wish 'twere ruffled now and then — 

Justine, you love me not ! 

I kuow, Justine, you wear a smile 

As beaming as the sun ; 
But who supposes all the while 

It shiues for only one ? 
Though azure skies are fair to see, 

A transient cloudy spot 
111 yours would promise more to me — 

Justine, you love me not ! 

I know, Justine, you make my name 

Your eulogistic tlieme, 
And say — if any chauce to blame — 

You hold me in esteem. 
Such words, for all their kindly scope, 

Delight me not a jot ; 



Jnst so you would have praised the Pope- 
Justine, j'ou love me not ! 

I know, Justine — for I have heard 

What friendly voices tell — 
Y'ou do not blush to say the word, 

" You like me jiassiug well ;" 
And thus the fatal sound I hear 

That seals my lonely lot : 
There's nothing now to hope or fear — 

Justiue, you lore nie not ! 



yijilip ^Jenblctou CEookc. 

AMERICAN. 

The son of an eminent lawyer, Cooke (1816-1850) w.is a 
iiiitive of Martinsbui'i;, Va. lie entered Princeton Col- 
lege at fifteen, studied law with bis fatlier, and before be 
was of age bad married and begun practice. He was ex- 
travagantly fond of field sports, and grew to be the most 
famous hunter of tbe Slieuaiuloah Valley. He published 
a volume of " Froissart Ballads " in 1S47, in which bis 
" Florence Vane" is introduced ; wrote novels and tales 
for tbe Smit/ierii. Lilerary MeKseiir/er, when it was edited bj' 
Foe; and also for Gi'aham's JUagazuie ; and became an 
accomplished man of letters instead of a busy lawyer. 
He died young, of pneumonia, got in a bunting expedi- 
tion ; leaving one son and several daughters. John Es- 
ten Cooke, his brother (born 1830), has been a prolific and 
interesting writer, chiefly of pu'ose. Of Philip be says: 
" I can sum up my brother's character by saying that he 
was an admirable type of a sensitive, refined, and high- 
ly cultivated gentleman." Impulsive and chivalrous, be 
once galloped twenty miles to throw a bouquet into the 
window of his cousin, the "Florence Vane " of his grace- 
ful little lyric, which, it is interesting to know, was tlie 
offspring of a genuine passion, and not of mere fancy. 
He was profoundly read in the English masters of verse, 
from Chaucer to our own day. 



FLORENCE VANE. 

I loved thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane. 
My life's bright dream, and early 

Hath come again ; 
I renew in my fond vision 

My heart's dear pain, 
My hope, and thy derision, 

Florence Vane. 

The ruin lone and hoary. 

The rnin old, 
Where thou didst mark my story, 

At even told, — 



I'lIILir VKSDLETON COOKE.— CBRISTOPHEIt CHRISTIAX COX. 



7S7 



That spot — tbe hues Elysiau 
Of sky auil plain — 

I treasure in my vision, 
Florence Vane. 

Thou wast lovelior than the roses 

In their prime ; 
Thy voire excelled tho closes 

Of sweetest rhyme ; 
Thy heart was a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane. 

But fairest, coldest wonder! 

Thy glorious clay 
Licth tho green sod under — 

Alas tho day ! 
And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain — 
To quicken love's palo ember, 

Florence Vane. 

The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep. 
The pansies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep; 
May their bloom in beauty vying 

Never wane, 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Vane ! 



Cl)vistopl)cr (fl)vistian cCov. 



Born in Baltimore, Md., in 18IC, Cox graduated at Yale 
College in IS.3.5 ; was admitted to practice medicine in 
1838; was Brigade-surgeon of the United States in ISCO. 
and Surgeon -general of Maryland in 18fi3. An out- 
spoken upholder of the Union, he was elected Lieuten- 
ant-governor of Maryland in isfi.5. In 18C'.I he received 
the degree of LL.I). from Trinity Collece, Hartford. In 
1871 he was President of the Board of Health, Washing- 
ton, 1). C. ; and in 187!) was sent Commissioner to the 
World's Fair in .\ustralia, whence lie returned in impair- 
ed healtli. His poems have appeared mostly in the mag- 
azines, and are characterized by qualities suggestive of 
the affectionate nature, the teiulcrness, and intellectual 
grace, which endeared the writer to many attached 
friends. 



ONE YEAU AGO. 

What stars have faded from our sky ! 
What hopes unfohled hut to die I 
17 



What dreams so fondly pondered o'er 

Forever lost the hue they wore: 
How like a death-knell, sad and alow. 
Rolls through the soul, " one yeai ago !" 

Where is tho face wc loved to greet f 
Tho form that graced the fireside seat f 
The gentle smile, tho winning wT.y, 
That blessed onr life-path day by day ? 
Where fled those accents soft and low. 
That thrilled onr hearts " one year ago ?" 

Ah! vacant is the fireside chair. 
The smile that won no longer there : 
From door and hall, from porch and lawn. 
The echo of th.at voice is gone. 
And we who linger only know 
How niiieh was lost "one year ago!" 

Beside her gr.ave the marble white 
Keeps silent guard by day and night ; 
Serene sho sleeps, nor heeds the tread 
Of footsteps near her lowly bed : 
Her pulseless brea.st no more may know 
The pangs of life "one year ago." 

But why repine? A few more years, 

A few more broken sighs and tears. 

And we, enlisted with the dead, 

Shall follow where her .steps have led ; 

To that far world rejoicing go 

To which she p.assed "one year !igo." 



HASTE NOT, KEST NOT. 
After the Gebhan of ScniLLER. 

AVithout ha.ste, without rest: 

Bind the motto to thy breast; 

Bear it with thee as a, .spell, 

.Storm or snnshine, guard it well : 

Heed not liowers that round thee blooni- 

Bear it onward to the tomb. 

Haste not: let no reckless deed 
.Mar for aye the spirifs speed; 
Fonder well, and kuow the right — 
Forward then with all thy might ! 
Haste not: years cannot atone 
For one reckless action done. 

Rest uof : time is sweeping by — 
Do and dare before tlidn die: 



738 



CYCLOFJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Somethiiig mighty aud sublime 
Leave Ijehiutl to conquer time : 
Glorious 'tis to live for aje, 
When these forms have passed away. 

Haste not, rest not ; calmly wait ; 
Meekly bear the storms of fate ; 
Duty be thy polar guide — 
Do the right whate'er betide ! 
Haste not, rest not: conflicts past, 
Good shall crown thy work at last ! 



■ (Cljarlcs ©amagc (fastmau. 

AMERICAN. 

Eastman (lSlG-1860) was a native of Fryebui'g, Me., 
the son of a watch-maker. At eigliteeu he became a stu- 
dent at the University of Vermont, Burlington. Hcie, 
to maintain himself, he tauglit and wrote for the ncws- 
])apers, and finally entered upon the career of an editor. 
In ISiO he bonglit the Vermotit Fatriul, published at 
Montpelier, in the editorship of which he continued 
until his death. An edition of the poems of Eastman, 
copyrighted by his widow, was published in Montpelier, 
in 1880. 



SCENE IN A VERJIONT WINTER. 

'Tis a fearful night in the winter-time. 

As cold as it ever cau be ! 
The roar of the storm is heard like the eliinie 

Of the waves of au angry sea. 
The moon is full, but the wings to-night 
Of the furious blast dash out her light ; 
And over the sky, from south to north, 
Not a star is seen as the storm comes forth 

In the strength of a mighty glee. 

All day had the snow come down — all day. 

As it never came down before, 
Till over the ground at sunset, lay 

Some two or three feet or more. 
The fence was lost, aud the wall of stone ; 
The windows blocked and the well-curb gone ; 
The hay-stack rose to a mountain-lift ; 
Aud the wood-pile looked like a monster drift, 

As it lay by the farmer's door. 

As the night set in, came wind and hail, 
While the air grew sharp and chiU, 

And the warning roar of a fearful gale 
Was heard on the distant hill ; 

And the norther ! see ! on the mountain peak, 

In his breath how the old trees writhe aud shriek ! 



He shouts on the plain, Ho ! ho ! 
He drives from his nostrils the bliudi: 
Aud growls with a savage will! 



snow, 



Such a night as this to be found abroad, 

In the hail and the freezing air. 
Lies a shivering dog, in the held by the road. 

With the snow on his shaggy hair. 
As the wind drives, see him crouch and growl. 
And shut his ej-es with a dismal howl ; 
Then, to shield himself from the cutting sleet. 
His nose is pressed on his quivering feet, — 

Pray, what does the dog do there ? 

An old man came from the town to-night, 

But he lost the travelled way; 
Aud for hours he trod with main and might 

A path for his horse aud sleigh; 
But deeper still the snow-drifts grew, 
And colder still the fierce wind blew; 
Aud his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown. 
At last o'er a log had floundered down, 

That deep in a hollow lay. 

Many a plunge, with a frenzied snort. 

She made in the heavy snow ; 
Aud her master urged, till his breath grew short. 

With a word and a gentle blow ; 
But the snow -was deep, aud the tugs were tight. 
His hands were numb, and had lost their might; 
So he struggled back again to his sleigh, 
And strove to shelter himself till day. 

With his coat and the bufl'alo. 

He has given the last faint jerk of the rein. 

To rouse up his dying steed ; 
And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain 

For help iu his master's need. 
For awhile he strives with a wistful cry 
To catch the glance of his drowsy eye ; 
And wags his tail when the rude winds flap 
The skirts of his co.at across his lap. 

And whines that he takes no heed. 

The wind goes down, the storm is o'er, 

'Tis the hour of midnight jiast ; 
The forest writhes, and bends no more 

In the rush of the sweeping blast. 
The moon looks out with a silver light 
On the high old hills, with the snow all white. 
And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, 
Of ledge and tree, and ghostly stump. 

On the silent plain are cast. 



CHASLES GAM AGE EASTMAX.— THEODORE MAKTIX. 



739 



lliit cold and dead — by tlio hidden log — 
Are tUey wlio came frouj the town ; 

Tlio man in the sleigh, the faithful dog, 
And the beautiful Slorjian brown! 

Ho sits in his sleigh ; with steady grasp 

He holds the reins in his icy clasp; 

The dog with his nose on his master's feet, 

And the maro half seen through the crusted sleet 
Where she lay wlien she floundered down. 



THANATOS. 

Hush! her face is chill, and the suuinicr blossom, 
.Motionless and still, lies upon her bosom ; 
< In the shroud so white, liUc snow in winter weather, 
IK-r marble hands unite quietly together. 

Ah, how light the lid on the thin cheek presses! 
Still her neck is hid by her golden tresses; 
And the lips, that Death left a smile to sever, 
Tart to woo the breatli, gone, alas! forever. 



iiljcoiiorc Illartin. 



Martin, the sou of a lawyer, was born in Edinburgh In 
I'^ltj. On the completion of his studies at the Univer- 
-ily, he qualilled himself as a solicitor, anil in 1.S4C es- 
tablished himself in that capacity in London. He was 
a.ssociated with Aytoun in tlic "Bon Gaultier Ballads," 
which passed through twelve editions. But it was by 
liis excellent translations from Heine, Goctlic, and oth- 
' r German writers, and his success ftd version of Horace 
!■*(<()), that he won most fame. In lS(;;i appeared his 
■' Poems, Original and Translated: printed for Private 
< irculation ;" and in 187.") the first volume of a " -Memoir 
nl' Prince Albert :" a work prepared under the Queen's 
;aithority,and the second volume of which appeared in 
1880, when he was knighted by the Queen, and became 
Sir Tlieodorc Martin. In IS.Il he was married to Miss 
Helen Faucit, the popular and accomplished actress. As 
a lawyer he has been prominent and active. 



NAPOLEON'S MIDNIGHT REVIEW. 

I'noM THE Uermax or Uaiion Joscrii Ciibistian vo.v Zedlitz. 

.\t midnight, from the sullen sleep 

Of death the drummer rose; 
The night winds wail, the moonbeams pale 

Are hid as forth ho goes; 
With solemn air and measured step 

He paces on his rounds, 
And ever and anon with might 

The doubling drum he sounds. 



His tleshless arms alternately 

The rattling sticks let fall, 
Hy turns they beat in rattliugs meet 

Reveill<5 and roll-call ; 
Oh ! strangely drear fell on tho ear 

The echoes of that drum, 
Olil soldiers from their graves start up 

And to its summons come. 

They who repose 'mong Northern snows, 

In icy cerements lapped, 
Or in tho mould of Italy 

All sweltering are wrapped,— 
Who sleep beneath the oozy Nile, 

Or desert's whirling sand. 
Break from their graves, and, armi5d all, 

.•Spring np at the command. 

.\nd at midnight, from death's sullen sleep, 

The trumpeter arose ; 
He mounts his steed, and loiul and long 

His pealing trumpet blows; 
Each horseman beard it, as he lay 

Deep in his gory shroud, 
And to the call these heroes all 

On airy coursers crowd. 

Deep gash and scar their bodies mar — 

They were a ghastly file — 
And underneath the glittering casques 

Their bleached skulls grimly smile; 
With haughty mien they gra.sp their swords 

Within tlitir bony hands, — 
'Twonld fright the brave to see tlicni wave 

Tlu'ir long and gleaming brands. 

And at midnight, from the sullen sleep 

Of death, the chief arose, 
Bchiiul him move his officers. 

As slowly forth he goes. 
His bat is small — upon his coat 

No star or crest is strung, 
And by his side a little sword — 

His only arms — is hung. 

The wan raoon threw a livid hue 

Across the mighty plain. 
And he that wore the little hat 

Stepped promlly forth again — 
And Well these grizzly warriors 

Their little chieftain knew. 
For whom they left their graves that night 

To muster in review. 



740 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN' POETRY. 



" Present — recover arms !" The cry 

Runs rouiul iu eager liura ; 
Before Lim nil that host tlefiles 

While rolls the tloubliug ilriim. 
"Halt!" then he calls — his geuerals 

Aud captains cluster near — 
He turns to one that stands beside 

Aud ^vhispers iu his ear. 

From rank to rank, from rear to flank 

It -wings along the Seine ; 
The word that chieftaiu gives is "France!" 

Tlio answer — " Sainte-Hcleiie !" 
And thus departed Ca'sar holds, 

At midnight hour alway, 
The grand review of his old bauds 

In the Champs Elysdes. 



SIE HABEN MICH GEQUALET. 

From Heine. 
People have teased aud vexed me, 

Worried me early aud late: 
Some with the love they bore me, 

Other some with their hate. 

They drugged my glass with poison, 
They poisoned the bread I ate : 

Some with the love they bore me. 
Other some with their hate. 

But she who has teased aud vexed me, 
And worried me far the most — 

She never liated me, never, 

Aud her love I could never boast. 



THE EXCELLENT MAN. 

From Heine. 
They gave me advice and conuscl in store. 
Praised me, and honored me more and more ; 
Said that I only should " wait awhile," 
Oft'ered tlioir patronage, too, with a smile. 

But, with all thiMi- honor and apin-obation, 
I should, long ago, have died of starvation, 
Had there not come an excellent man. 
Who bravely to help me along began. 

Good fellow ! he got me the food I ate. 
His Isinduess and care I shall never forget; 
Yet I cannot embrace him, though other folks can, 
For I myself am this excellent num. 



£abji 3o\]n Scott. 



The autlioress of tlie words and music of many popu- 
l.ir aiiJ spirited songs, Latly John Scott was born near 
Edinljin-gli, about the yciir ISIG. Her maiden name was 
Anne Alicia Spottiswoude. In 1836 she married Lord 
John Douglas Scott, who died in 1860. She sliows gen- 
uiue lyrical power, and some of the spirit of Ossian in 
her songs. 



LAMMERMOOR. 

wild and stormy Lammermoor! 
Would I could feel once more 

The cold north wind, the wiutry blast 
That sweeps thy mountains o'er. 

Would I could see thy drifted snow 
Deep, deep iu clench and glen. 

And hear the scream of the wild birds, 
And was free on thy hills again ! 

1 hate this dreary Southern land, 
I weary day by day 

For the music of thy many streams 

Iu the birch-woods far away ! 
From all I love they banish me, 

But my thoughts they cannot chain ; 
And they bear me back, wild Lammermoor! 

To thy distant hills again! 



ETTRICK. 

O murmuring waters! 

Have ye uo message for me ? 
Ye come from the hills of the West, 

Where his step wanders free. 
Did he not whi.sper my name? 

Did he uot utter one wordt 
Aud trust that its souud o'er the ru.sh 

Of thy streams might be heard. 

O murmuring waters! 

The sounds of the moorlands I hear, 
Tlie scream of the heron and eagle, 

The bell of the deer; 
The rustling of heather and fern. 

The shiver of grass on the lea. 
The sigh of the wind from the hill, — 

Hast thou no voice for me ? 

O murmuring waters! 

Flow on — ye have no voice for me; 
Be.ar the wild songs of the hills 

To the depths of the sea ! 



LJVl' JOny SCOTT.— ROBERT TRAILL SVEXCE LOWELL.— FRA^X•ES liROllX. 



■41 



Bright stream, from tlio founts of the west, 
Rush on with thy iinisic ami glee ! 

Oh ! to bo boruc to my rost 
111 tlic (:oUl waves wilh theo! 



Uobcrt (Traill Spcnce Coiucll. 

AMERICAN. 

Bora in Boston in 1S16, Lowell graduntcil at Harvard 
in 18:J3. lie cnturcd the ministry ol'llie Episcopal Cliuich 
in 1S42, and ofliciated for a lime as chaplain to the Bish- 
op of Newfoundland and Jamaica. He is the author of 
"The New I'ricst in Conception Boy," a novel ; and he 
published, in ISdl), a volume of poems. He is a brother 
of James Kusscll Lowell, the poet. 



LOVE DISPOSED OF. 

Here goes Love ! Now cut him clear, 

A weight about his neck : 
If he linger longer liere. 

Our ship will bo a wreck. 
Overboard ! overboard ! 

Down let him go! 
In the deep he may sleep 

Wliere the corals grow. 

Ho said he'd woo tho gentle breeze, 

A bright tear in her eye ; 
Bnt she was false or hard to please. 

Or he has told a lie. 
Overboard ! overboard ! 

Down iu the sea 
He may find a truer mind, 

AVhcro the mermaiils be. 

He sang us many a iiieiry song 

While tho breeze was kind ; 
But he has beeu lamenting long 

The falseness of the wind. 
Overboard ! overboard ! 

Under the wave 
Let him sing where smooth shells ring 

III the ocean's cave. 

Ho may struggle; he may weep; 

We'll be stern and cold; 
His grief will tiiid. within the deep, 

More tears than can bo told. 
He lias gone overboard! 

We will float on ; 
We shall find .1 truer wind, 

Now that he is gone. 



iTroiucs Dvoiuii. 

Daughter of tlicT postmaster of Strnnolar, Ireland, Miss 
Brown was born in 1816. When only eighteen months 
old, she lost her eyesight from small-pox ; and the de- 
velopment of her poetical faculty under this deprivation 
Is a remarkable instance of tlic triumph of the spiritual 
nature over physical obstructions. In 1S47 appeared her 
"Lyrics and Miscellaneous I'oems," and she has since 
contributed largely to periodical works. A pension of 
twenty pounds a year was settled on her by government 



LOSSES. 



L'pon the white sea-sand 

There sat a pilgrim band. 
Telling the losses that their lives had known, 

While evening waned away 

From breezy clift' and bay. 
And the strong tides went out with weary moan. 

One spake with (luivering lip. 

Of ii fair freighted slii|i, 
With all his lionsehold to the deep gone down ; 

But one had wilder woe — 

For a fair face, long ago. 
Lost in the darker depths of a great town. 

There were who mourned their youth 

Wilh a most loving ruth, 
For its bravo hopes and memories ever green ; 

And one upon the West 

Turned an eye that would not rest 
For far-off hills whereou its joys had been. 

Some talked of vani.shed gold. 

Some of proud honors told. 
Some spake of friends who were their trust no more. 

And one of a green grave 

Beside a foreign wave. 
That made him sit so lonely on the shore. 

But when their tales were done. 

There spake among them one, 
A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free : 

" S.id losses ye have met. 

But mine is heavier yet. 
For a believing heart is gone from me." 

"Al.is," these pilgrims said, 

" For the living and the dead — 

For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross. 
For the wrecks of land and .sea ! 

But, however it came to thee, 

Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss." 



742 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BSITISB AND AMElilCAN POETRY. 



Datiib 33arK"cr. 



Barker (1816-1874) was a native of Exeter, Jle. 'Wlicn 
seven years old he lost his father, and thus early learned 
the lesson of self-dependence. He was educated at the 
Foxcroft Academy, and became himself a teacher; then 
tried the trade of a blacksmith, but linally qualified him- 
self (is a lawyer, and was admitted to tlie Bar. Sympathy 
for the distressed was one of his prominent traits. "Wliile 
he repudiated dogmas, he had a firm faith in immortali- 
ty and a divine Providence. Upright and charitable, he 
faithfully practised the good he preached in his unpre- 
tending verses. A collection of his poems, edited by his 
brother, was published in Bangor, Me., in 1870. 



THE COVERED BRIDGE. 

Tell the fainting soul in the ■weary form, 
There's a world of the purest bliss, 

Tliat is linked as that soul and form are linked, 
By a covered bridge with this. 

Yet to reach that realm on the other shore, 
We must pass through a tran.sient gloom, 

And iiuist walk un.seen, unhelpeil, and alone. 
Through that covered bridge — the tomb. 

But we all pass over on equal terms, 

For the universal toll 
Is the outer- garb, which the hand of God 

Has flnng around the soul. ' 

Though the eye is dim, and the bridge is dark, 

And the river it spans is wide. 
Yet Faith points through to a shining mount 

That looms on the other side. 

To enable our feet, in the next day's march, 

To climb up that golden ridge. 
We must all lie down for a one night's rest 

Inside of the covered bridge. 



THE UNDER DOG IN THE FIGHT. 

I know that the world — that the great big world- 

From the jieasant up to the king, 
Has a difterent tale from the tale I tell, 

And a difterent song to sing. 

But for rae, — and I care not a single tig 
If they say I am wrong or am right, — 

I shall always go in for the weaker dog, 
For the under dog iu the light. 



I know that the world— that the great big world — 

Will never a moment stop 
To see which dog may bo iu the fault, 

But will shout for the dog on toj). 

But for me — I never shall i)auso to ask 

Which dog may be in the right — 
For my heart will beat, while it beats at all, 

For the uudcr dog in the fight. 

Perchance wliat I've said I had better not said, 
Or, 'twere better I had said it incog., 

But with heart and with glass filled chock to the 
brim, — 
Hero is luck to the bottom dog ! 



£ljc Urontc Jamilji. 

Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Bronte were daughters 
of the Rev. Patrick Bronte, a native of Ireland, who In 
1830 moved, with his wife and ten children, to the vil- 
lage of Haworth, four miles from Keighlev, England. 
His income was oue hundred aud seventy jiounds a year. 
The three daughters sliowed remarkable literary abili- 
ties. Charlotte (1816-185.5) wrote the celebrated novel 
of "Jane Eyre" (1847), and became famous. Emily 
(1818-1848) wrote " Wuthcring Heights " (1847), a novel ; 
and Anne (18:iO-lS49) wrote "The Tenant of WildfcU 
Hall," also published in 1847. The three sisters had 
published in 1846 "Poems by Currer, Ellis, aud Acton 
Bell " — pseudonymes representing Charlotte, Emily, and 
Anue respectively. Of these Emily seems to have shown 
the most decided talent for poetry. Charlotte married 
(1854) her father's curate, Mr. Nicholls, but died the next 
year. An interesting memoir of her by Mrs. Gaskell ap- 
peared in 1857. The other two sisters died young ami 
unmarried. "The bringing out our book of poems," 
writes Charlotte, " was hard work. As was to be ex- 
pected, neither we nor our poems were at all wanted." 



LIFE. 

Charlotte Bronte. 

Life, believe, is not a dream, 

So dark as sages say ; 
Oft a little morning raiu 

Foretells a pleasant day : 
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, 

But these are transient all ; 
If the shower will make the rosea bloom, 

Oh, why lament its fall ? 
Rapidly, merrily, 

Life's sunny hours flit by, 
Gratefully, cheerily. 

Enjoy them as they fly. 



THE BRONTE FAMILY. 



743 



Wliat tliougli Death at timoa steps in, 

And calls our Best away t 
What (li(Hij;h Sorrow seems to win, 

0"cr l!(i))o a heavy sway f 
Yet llo\m a^ain elastic springs, 

Unconqnereil, thongli she fell ; 
Still buoyant are her goljcn wings, 

Still strong to hear us well. 
Maiifnlly, fearlessly, 

The (lay of trial hear. 

For gloriously, victoriously. 

Can courage quell ilespair! 



FROM '•Till-: TEACHER'S MONOLOGUE." 
Charlotte Dronte. 

Life will bo gone ero I have lived; 

Wlicro now is Life's first prime f 
I've worked and studied, longed and grieved, 

TliriMigli all that rosy time. 
C' To toil, tn think, to long, to grieve — 

Is such my future fato ? 
Tlio morn w.as dreary, must the cvo 

lie also desolate f 
Well, su<li a life at least makes Death 

A welcome, wished-for friend ; 
Then aid me, Ke.ason, Patience, Faith, 

To sutler to the euU ! 



FROM "AXTICIPATIOX." 
Emily Bronte. 

It is Hope's spell that glorifies, 
Like youth to my inaturcr eyes, 
All Nature's million mysteries. 

The fearful and the fair : 
Hope soothes mo in the griefs I know; 
She lulls my pain for others' woe, 
And makes mo strong to undergo 

What I am horn to bear. 

Glad Comforter! will I not br.avo 
Unawed the darkness of the grave, — 
N.ay, smile to hear Death's billows rave- 

.Sustaincd, my Guide, by thee ? 
The more unjnst seems present fate, 
The more my spirit swells elate. 
Strong, in thy strength, to anticipate 

Rewarding destiny! 



A DEATH SCENE. 
Emilt Gbonte. 

" O Day ! he cannot die, 

Wheu thou so fair art shining! 

O Sun ! in such a glorious sky. 
So tranquilly declining; 

" Ho cannot leave thee now, 

While fresh west winds are blowing. 
And all around his youthl'iil brow 

Thy cheerful light is glowing ! 

" Edward, awake, awake, 

Tli«^ golden evening gleams 
Warm and bright on Ardcn's lake — 

Arouse thee from thy dreams! 

"Beside thee, on my knee, 

My dearest friend ! I pray 
That thou to cross the eternal sea 

Woulcl'st yet one hour delay : 

'• I hear its billows roar — 

1 see them foaming high ; 
But ilo glimpse of a further shore 

Has blessed luy straining eye. 

" Believe not what they urge 

Of Eden isles beyond : 
Tiini back, from that tempestuous surge, 

To thy own native land. 

" It is not death, but jiain 

That struggles in thy breast — 

Nay, rally, Edward, rouse agaiu : 
I cannot let thee rest!"' 

One long look that sore reproved me 
For the woe I could not bear — 

One mute look of snfiering moved mo 
To repent my useless prayer. 

And, with sudden check, the heaving 

Of distraction passed away ; 
Not a sign of further grieving 

Stirred my soul that awful day. 

Paled at length, the sweet sun setting; 

Sauk to peace the twilight breeze ; 
Summer dews fell softly, wetting 

Glen, aud glade, and silent trees. 



744 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEUICAN POETRY. 



Then bis eyes began to weary, 
Weiylied beneath a mortal sleep ; 

And their orbs grew strangely drear}', 
Clouded, even as they would weep. 

lint they wept not, but they changed not, 
Never moved, and never closed ; 

Troubled still, and still tbey ranged not — 
Wandered not, nor yet reposed ! 

So I knew that ho was dying — 

Stooped and raised bis languid head ; 

Felt no breath, and beard no sighing, — 
So I knew that he was dead! 



IF THIS BE ALL. 

Anne Buoste.' 

O God! if this indeed be all 

That Life can show to me ; 
If on my aching brow may fall 

No freshening dew from Thee ; — 
If with no brighter light than this 

Tlie lamp of Hope may glow. 
And I may only dream of bliss. 

And wake to weary woe ; — 
If friendship's solace must decay, 

When other joys are gone. 
And love must keep so far away, 

While I go wandering on, — 
Wandering and toiling without gain. 

The slave of otbers' will, 
Witli constant care and frequent pain, 

Despised, forgotten still ; 
Grieving to look on vice and sin, 

Yet powerless to quell 
The silent current from within. 

The outward torrent's swell : 
While all the good I would impart, 

The feelings I would share, 
Are driven backward to my heart. 

And turned to wormwood tliere ; — 
If clouds must ever keep from sight 

The glories of the Sun, 
And I must suffer Winter's blight 

Ere Summer is begun; — 
If Life must be so full of caro. 

Then call me soon to Thee ! 
Or give me strength enough to bear 

My load of misery. 

' The poems of Aiiue, like those of her sisters, have a marked 
personal bearing. 



lUilliam €llcrn (fljanning. 

AMERICAN, 

A nephew of the eminent American preacher (ITSO- 
184li) of the same name, Clianuing, the son of Dr. Walter 
Clianning, a well-known pliysician, was horn in Boston, 
1S17. He has published : " Poems, First Series " (1848), 
" Second Series " (1847) ; " Youth of the Poet and Paiut- 
er. Psychological Essays " (1844) ; " Conversations in 
Rome, between an Artist, a Catholic, and a Critic " 
(1847) ; " The Woodman, and other Poems " (1849). His 
productions are suagestive of reserved power. Emerson 
ouce characterized them as '' poetry for poets." 



TO MY COMPANIONS. 

Y'e beavy-hearted mariners 

Who sail this shore ! 
\o iiatieut, ye who labor 

Sitting at the sweeping oar, 
Aud see afar the flashing sea-gulls play 
Oil the free waters, — and the glad bright day 
Twine with his hand the spray! 

From out your dreariness, 

From your heart weariness, 

I speak, for I am yours 

Ou these gray shores. 

Nay, nay, I know not, mariners! 

What cliff's they are 
That high uplift their smooth dark fronts. 

And sadly round us bar ; 
I do imagine that the free clouds play 
Above tliose eminent heights; that somewhere Day 
Iiides his triumphant way, 

And hatb secure dominion 

Over our stern oblivion, — 

Hut see no path thereout 

To fiee from doubt. 



A POET'S HOPE. 

Lady, there is a hope that all men have. 
Some mercy for their faults, a grassy place 

To rest in. and a flower-strewn, gentle grave; 
Another hope whicli purifies our race. 

That when that fearful bourn forever past, 

They may find rest, — and rest so long to last ! 

I seek it not, I ask no rest forever. 

My patli is onward to the farthest shores, — ■ 

Upbear me in your arms, unceasing river! 

That from the soul's clear fountain swiftly iiours. 



WI I.I.I A.\[ ICLLEItY CH.lSyiSG.—IIESIlY D.iVII) TUOUE.IV. 



745 



Motionless not, until the cud is won, 

Which now I fuel hath scarcely felt the snn ! 

To feel, to know, to soar nnliniitcd^ 

'Mid throngs of light-winged angels, sweeping far, 
And pore npou the realms uuvisited, 

That tcsselate the unseen, nnthonght star. 
To bo the thing that now 1 feebly dream 
Flashing within my faintest, deepest gleam ! 

Ah ! caverns of my soul ! how thick your shade, 
Where flows that life by which 1 faintly sec, — 

Wave your bright torches, for I need your aid, 
Golden-eyed demons of uiy ancestry ! 

Vour son, though blimled, halli a light within, 

A heavenly fire which ye from snns did win. 

Time! O Death! I clasp you in my arms. 
For I can soothe an intiniie cold sorrow, 

And gaze contented on your icy charms. 

And that wild snow-pile which we call to-morrow; 
Sweep on, O soft and azure-lidded sky ! 
Earth's waters to yonr gentle gaze reply. 

1 am not earth-horn, though I here delay ; 
Hope's child, I summon intiniter powers. 

And laugh to see the mild ami sunny day 

Smile on the shrunk and thin autumnal hours; 
I laugh, for hope hath happy iilace with mo, — • 
If my bark sinks, 'tis to another sea. 



Cjcnrji DaniD (Tljorcau. 

AMERICAN. 
Thorcau (1817-1802) was a native of Boston, Mass., and 
wa.s graduated at Harvard College in 18:57. His father 
w;is a maker of lead -pencils at ("oncord. Henry sup- 
I ted liimscir l>y surveying, teaclnng school, carpenter- 
_', and other work. But tlic burdens and restrictions 
; society were intolerable to his free, unconventional 
iturc. He remained single; he never attended church, 
vcr voted, and never paid a tax. The town-constable 
nee attempted to collect a poll-tax of him, and took 
ium to jail; but after a short imprisonment he was set 
at liberty. In l.si.'i lie built for himself a wooden house, 
n:' hut, on the shore of Waldcn Fond, near Concord, and 
lived there several years. He gives this account of his 
penses for a year: The house cost him $'i>S \-}4\ his 
'■p of vegetables was valued at $"i3 44, and the outgoes 
were $14 T'i'j. The cost of groceries for eight months 
was ?8 74, and for clotldng $S 40. Total expenses for the 
year, SOI !IO?.i. Thorcau published "A Week on Concord 
and Merriniac Rivers" (1*49); "Waldcn, or Life in the 
Woods" (1S.>*); " Excursions" (180;!); " Maine Woods, 
Cape Cod, -V Yankee in Canada, Letters to various Per- 
sons" (ISC")). His poetry is for the most part scattered 



through his prose writinirs. Some of it was contributed 
to The JJiul. The thought in it is often too subtle aud 
recondite to be traced without an clTort. In a letter 
which Hawthorne wrote us, under date of Concord, Oc- 
tober 21st, 1842, we lind this pertinent passage : "Tbere 
is a gentleman in this town by the name of Thorcau, a 
graduate of Cambridge, and a tine scholar, especially in 
old English literature — but withal a wild, irregular, In- 
dian-like sort of fellow, who can find no occupation in 
life that suits him. lie writes, and sometimes — often, 
for aught I know — very well indeed. He is somewhat 
tinctured with transcendentalisui ; but * * * is a genuine 
and exquisite observer of nature— a character almost as 
rare as that of a true poet. He writes poetry also — for 
instance, 'To the Maiden in the East,' 'The Summer 
Rain,' and other pieces in The Dial for October, which 
seem to be very careless and imperfect, but as true as 
bird -notes. The man has stulf to make a reputation 
of, and I wish you would lind it consistent with your 
interest to aid him in attaining that object." 



SMOKE IX WlNTi:i;. 

The sluggish smoke curls np from some deep dcll. 
The stiffened air exploring in the dawn, 
Aud making slow acqiiaintauco with the day ; 
Delaying now upon its heavenward course 
In wreathed loiterings dallying with itself, 
AVith as uncertain purpose aud .slow deed, 
As its half-wakened master by the hearth, 
Whose mind still slumbering and sluggish thoughts 
Have not yet swept into the onward current 
Of the new day; — and now it streams afar, 
The while the chopper goes with step direct. 
And mind intent to swing the early axe! 

First in the dusky dawu ho sends abroad 
His early scout, liis emissary, smoke, 
The earliest, latest pilgrim from the roof. 
To feel the frosty air, inform the day; 
Ami while he crouches still beside the hearth. 
Nor musters courage to unbar the door. 
It li.is gone down the glen with the light wind, 
And o'er the plain unfurled its venturous wreath. 
Draped the tree-tops, loitered upon the hill, 
And warmed the ])inions of the early bird ; 
And now, perchance, high in the crispy air. 
Has caught sight of the day o'er the earth's edge, 
Aud greets its master's eye at his low door, 
As some refulgent cloud in the upper sky. 



UPOX THE BEACH. 

My life is like a stroll upon the beach, 
As near the ocean's edge as I can go ; 

My tardy steps its waves sometimes o'erreach, 
Sometimes I slay to let them ovcrtlow. 



746 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BHITISU AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



My sole employment 'tis, and scrupulons care, 
To set my gaius beyond tbe reach of tides, — 

Each sniootlier pebble, and each shell more rare, 
AVhieb oeeau kindly to my hand couiides. 

I have but lew companions on the shore, — 
They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea ; 

Yet oft I think the ocean they've sailed o'er 
Is deeper kuown upou the strand to me. 

The middle sea contains no crimson dulse, 
Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view ; 

Along the shore my hand is on its pulse. 

And I converse with mauj^ a shipwrecked crew. 



fioracc Uinncij lHallatc. 

AMERICAN. • 
Wallace (lS17-18.i:3) was a native of Pliiladelphiii, a 
nephew of tlie eminent jurist, Horace Binncy, and a 
cousin of Horace Binney Sargent. He graduated at 
Princeton in the class of 1S35; studied botli medicine 
and law, but practised neither. He travelled in Europe 
between 1849 and 1853, and died in Paris. He had been 
intimate witli tlie celebrated Conite, mucli of whose phi- 
losophy, however, he rejected. His first puljlicalion was 
" Stanley," a novel written at the age of twenty. After 
his dcatli appeared "Art and Scenery in Europe," "Lit- 
erary Criticism, and other Papers." Daniel Webster said 
of him : " I doubt whether history displays a loftier nat- 
ure, or one more usefully or profoundly cultivated, at 
thirty years of age." 

ODE ON THE RHINE'S RETURNING INTO 
GERMANY FROM FRANCE. 

Oh sweet is thy current by town and by tower. 
The green snnny vale and the dark linden bower ; 
Thy waves as they dimple smile back on the plain. 
And Rliine, ancient river, thou'rt German again ! 

The roses are sweeter, the air is more free, 
Moi'e blithe is the soug of the bird on the tree; 
The yoke of the mighty is broken in twain. 
And Khiuc, dearest river, thou'rt German again ! 

The land is at peace and breaks forth into song. 
The hills, in their echoes, the cadence prolong, 
The sons of the forest take np the glad strain, 
" Our Rhine, our own river, is German again !" 

Thy danghters, sweet river, thy danghters so fair. 
With their eyes of dark aznre and soft, sunny hair, 
Repeat 'mid their dances at eve on the plain, 
"Our Rhine, our own river, is German again!"' 



<t\\)a (Hook. 



Bora iu Southwark, London, in 1817, tbe daughter of a 
tradesman, Miss Cook published in 1840 a volume enti- 
tled " Melaia, and other Poems." She coutributed a 
great variety of short poems to periodical works, aud in 
1849 established a weekly— i'/iza Cook\'s Journal — wliich 
had a fair success from 1849 to 1S53, when failiug health 
compelled her to give it up. She seems to have had that 
" fatal facility" in rhyming which is a bar to excellence ; 
luit many of her poems are spirited and pleasing. Iu 
1864 she received a literary pension of one hundred 
pounds a year. In 1874 an edition of her complete poet- 
ical works was published. The "Old Arm-chair" was 
set to music, and became quite a popular song. 



THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 

I love it, I love it, and who shall dare 

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? 

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, 

I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with 

sighs ; 
'Tis bound by .a thousand bands to my heart ; 
Not a tie will break, not a link will st.art. 
Would ye learn the sijell ? a mother sat there, 
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 

Iu childhood's hour I lingered near 

The hallowed seat with listening ear; 

Aud gentle words that mother would give, 

To fit me to die aud teach me to live. 

She told me shame would never betide, 

\Vith truth for my creed and God for my guide ; 

Slie taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 

As I kuelt beside that old arm-chair. 

I sat and watched her many .a day, 
W'hen her eye grew dim aud her locks were gray ; 
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled 
And turned from her Bible to bless her child. 
Years rolled on, hut the last one sped — 
My idol was shattered, my earth-st.ar fled ; 
I learned how much the heart can bear, 
W'hen I saw her die iu that old arm-chair. 

'Tis past ! 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now 
With ipiivering breath and throbbing brow: 
'Twas there slie nursed nic, 'twas there she died ; 
And memory flows with lava tide. 
Say it is folly, and deem mo weak, 
While the scalding drops start down my cheek ; 
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear 
Mv soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 



Mi:s. F.MII.Y JUDSOX.— THOMAS BVRBWGE. 



747 



flTrs. (Pmiln iJulison. 

AMERICAN. 

Miss Cliulibuck (1817-1S.>4) was a native of Moriisville, 
X. Y. At :m early age she went to L'tica as a teaclier, 
and there made her lirst attempts at aulhorsliip. She 
wrote under the assumed name of Fanny Forrester, and 
published a eollection of her essays and slietehes in two 
volumes under the title of " Alderbrook." This work 
had quite a success. In 1846 she married Dr. Judson, the 
missionary, and sailed for Burmah. She returned home 
after her busbniid's decease, but followed him soon after. 



WATCHING. 
Sleep, love, sleep I 
Tilt) tliisty day is done. 

Lo! from afar the freshening breezes sweep, 
Wild over groves of balm, 
Down from the towering palm, 
III at the open casement cooling run, 
And round thy lowly bed. 
Thy bed of pain, 
Bathing tby patient bead, 
I.iUc grateful showers of rain, 
They come ; 

While the white curtains, wavering to and fro, 
Kan \h<i .'siek air, 

And pityingly tbo shadows como and go, 
With gentle human care, 
Conipa.ssionate and dumb. 

The dnsty day is dune. 

The night begun ; 

While prayerful watch I keep. 

Sleep, love, sleep ! 

Is there no magic in the touch 

Of fingers thou dost love so mneli ? 

Fail! would they scatter poppies o'er thee now ; 

Or, with a soft caress, 

Tlio tremulous lip its own nepenthe press 

I poll the weary lid and .aching brow. 

While prayerful watch I keei> — 

Sleep, love, sleej) ! 

i>n the pagoda Rjiire 

The bells are .swinging. 

Their little gidden circles in a flntter 

With tales the wooing winds have dared to utter. 

Till all are singing 

As if a choir 

Of golden-nested birds in heaven were singing; 

.\nd with a lulling sound 

The music floats around, 



And drops like balm into the drowsy ear; 

Commingling with the hnni 

Of the Sepoy's distant drum. 

And lazy beetle ever <lroning near, — 

Sounds these of deepest silence born 

Like night made visible by morn ; 

So silent that I sometimes start 

To hear the tlirobbings of my heart, 

And watch with shivering sense of pain 

To see thy pale lids lilt again. 

The lizard, with his mouse-liko eyes, 

Peeps from the mortise in surprise 

At such strange quiet of the day's harsh din ; 

Then ventures boldly out, 

And looks about. 

And with bis hollow feet 

Treads his small evening beat. 

Darting upon his prey 

In such a tricksy, win.somo sort of way, 

His delicate marauding seems no sin. 

And still the curtains swing. 

But noiselessly ; 

The bells a melancholy murmur ring, 

As tears were in the sky ; 

More heavily the sliailows fall 

Like the black foldings of a pall, 

Where juts tbo rough beam from the wall; 

The caudles flare 

With fresher gusts of air ; 

The beetle's drone 

Turns to a dirge-like, solitary moan ; 

Night dceiieus, aud I sit, in cheerful doubt, alone. 



ilhoniaG I3urbi^c^f• 

Burbidire, the friend and scliooluiate of Arthur Hugh 
Clough, published with liini in 1S4'.I a volume of poems 
under the title of " Ambarvalia." lie was born in Eng- 
land in 1817. 



SONNET. 

Oh leave thy.self to God! and if indeed 
'Tis given thee to perform so vast a task, 
Think not at all — think not, but kneel an<l n<iA". 
O friend, by thought w.as never creature freed 
From any siu, from any mortal need : 
Bo patient! not by thought canst thou devi.se 
What course of life for thee is right and wise ; 
It will bo written up, and thon wilt read. 
Oft like a sudden pencil of rich light. 
Piercing the thickest umbrage of the wood, 



748 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Will shoot, aini<l our troubles iufinlte, 

Tlie Spirit's voice; oft, lilic the balmy flood 

Of morn, surprise the universal night 

^^'itIl glory, anil make all things sweet ami good. 



EVEN-TIDE. 

Comes something down with even-tide 
Beside the sunset's golden bars. 

Beside the floating scents, beside 

Tlie twinkling shadows of the stars. 

Upon the rivers rippling face, 

Flash after flash the white 
Broke np in many a shallow place; 

Tlie rest was soft and bright. 

By chance my eye fell ou the stream ; — ■ 
How many a marvellous power 

Sleeps ill us, — sleeps, and doth uot dream ! 
This knew I in that honr. 

For then my heart, so full of strife, 

No more was in mo stirred ; 
My life was iu the river's life, 

And I nor saw nor heard. 

I and the river we were one: 

Tlie shade beneath the bank, 
I felt it cool ; the setting sun 

Into my spirit sank. 

A rushing thing in jiower serene 

I was ; the mystei-y 
I felt of having ever been, 

And being still to be. 

Was it a moment or an hour? 

I knew not ; but I mourned 
Wlieu from that realm of awfnl jiowcr 

I to these fields returned. 



Samcs ^. Jicliis. 

AMERICAN. 
Fields was born in 1817, in Poi'tsmonUi, N. H. While 
yet a child he lost his father, a sea-captain. He became 
a clerk in a Boston book-store, though he had been fit- 
ted for college, and his tastes were literary. Successful 
as a publisher, he withdrew from business in 1803, and 
nttaincd high popularity as a lecturer. In his few poems 
he shows a delicate fancy and a fine lyrie.il vein. His 
volumes of verse have been printed for private circula- 
tion only. 



LAST WORDS IN A STRANGE LAND. 

Oh to bo home again, home again, home again ! 

Under the apple-bonghs, down by the mill ; 
Mother is calling me, father is calling me, 

Calling me, calling me, calling me still. 

Oh, how I long to be wandering, wandering 

Through the green meadows and over the hill ; 

Sisters are calling me, brothers are calling me, 
Calling me, calling me, calling me still. 

Oh, once more to bo home again, home again. 
Dark grows my sight, and the evening is chill, — 

Do you not hear how the voices are calling me, 
Calling me, calling uie, calling nie still? 



AGASSIZ. 

Once in the leafy prime of Spring, 
When blossoms whitened every thorn, 

I w audered through the Vale of Orbe, 
Where Agassiz was born. 

The birds in boyhood he had known. 
Went flitting through the air of May, 

And happy songs he loved to hear, 
Made all the landscape gay. 

I saw the streamlet from the hills 

Run laughing through the valleys green, 

And, as I watched it run, I said, 
•' This his dear ejcs have seen !" 

Far clitl's of ice his feet had climbed 
That day outspoke of him to me; 

The avalanches seemed to sound 
The name of Agassiz ! 

And standing on the mountain crag. 
Where loosened waters rush and foam, 

I felt that, though ou Cambridge side, 
He made that spot my home. 

And looking round me as I mused, 
I knew no pang of fear or care, 

Or homesick weariness, because 
Once Agassiz stood there ! 

I walked beneath no alien skies, 
No foreign heights I came to tread, 

For everywhere I looked, I saw 
His grand, beloviJd head. 



JAMES T. FIELDS.— DENIS F. MCCAHTHT.—MES. ELIZABETH FlilES ELLET. 



rjy 



His siiiilo was stamped on every tree, 
Tlie glacier sliniio to gilil his name. 

And every iuiar;'' '" t'"' li'k"' 
Reflected back his fame. 

Great keeper of tlio magic keys 
That cdiiUl uiihick tlio magic gates 

Where Science like a indharch stands. 
And sacred Knciwledgn waits, — 

Thine ashes rest on Auburn's banks, 
Thy memory all the world contains. 

Fur thou conldst bind in human love 
All hearls in golden chains! 

Thine was the heaven-boru spell that sets 
Our warm and deep atfectious free,- — 

Who knew thee best must love thee best, 
And longest niouin fur thee! 



Denis Florence fllcCartl)!]. 

Born in Ireland in 1M7, MeCuilhy i>iibli.>hcil in 1853 
an excellent translation of some of the Spanish dramas 
of Caldcron. He is also the imtlioi- of" Ballads, Poems, 
and other Lyrics" (1850), "Under Glimpses, and other 
Poems" (1S57), "BellFonuder, and other Poems" (1857), 

SUclley'6 Early Life" (1872). 



SUMMER LOXGIXGS. 

Lng mnnanns florulns 

l)e Abril y Miiyo.— Caltjecon. 

Ah ! my heart is weary waiting. 
Waiting for the May — 
Waiting for the pleasant rambles, 
Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, 
With the woodbine alternating. 

Scent the dewy way. 
Ah ! my heart is weary wailing, 
Wailing for the May. 

Ah! my heart is sick with longing. 
Longing for the May — 
Longing to escape from study, 
To the young face fair and ruddy. 
And the thousand charms belonging 

To the snnuner day. 
Ah ! my heart is sick with longing. 
Longing for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is soro witU sighing. 
Sighing for the May — 



Sighing for their sure returning, 
When the summer beams are burning, 
Hopes and llowcrs, that, dead or dying, 

All the winter lay. 
Ah ! my heart is soro with sighing, 
Sighing for the May. 

All I my heart is pained witli throbbing. 
Throbbing for the May - 
Throbbing for the sea-side billows, 
Or the water-wooing willows; 

Where in laughing and in sobbing. 

Glide the streams away. 
.Ml! my heart, my heart is throbbing, 
Tlirobbing for the May. 

Wailing sad, dejected, weary, 
Waiting for the May. 
Spring goes by with wasted warnings — 
Aloonlit evenings, sun-bright mornings — 
.Slimmer comes, yet dark and dreary. 

Life still ebbs away — 

Man is ever weary, weary. 

Waiting for the Mav! 



fllrs. (fl'nabcti) fries (fllct. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Ellet, whose maiden name was Lummis, was a 
native of Sodus, N. Y., and born in 1818. She married 
early in life Professor W. H. Ellet, She has imblishcd 
"Poems, Original and Selected," and numerous prose 
works, of which her " Women of the American Revolu- 
tion " has passed thiougli many editions. 



SONNET. 

O weary heart, there is a rest for thee ! 
O truant heart, there is a blcssdd home. 
An isle of gladness on life's wayward sea, 
Where storms that vex the waters never eonie ! 
There trees perennial yield their balmy shade ; 
There flower-wreathed hills in sunlit beauty sleep ; 
There meek streams murmur through the verdant 

glade ; 
There heaven bends smiling o'er the placid deep. 
Winnowed by wings immortal that fair isle! 
Vocal its air with music fiora above! 
There meets the exile eye a welcoming smile; 
There ever speaks a summoning voice of lovo 
Unto the heavy-laden ami distressed, — 
"Come unto unhand I will give you rest!" 



750 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



AMERICAN. 
The son of a well - known Presbyterian clergyman, 
Coxe was born in New York in 1818, He graduated at 
tbe University of that city in 183S; studied divinity, and 
became Bishop of Western New York. He began to 
write poetry while quite young. His " Christian Bal- 
lads" have had a large sale both ia England and the 
United States. Among his other works are : "Advent, a 
Mystery: a Dramatic Poem;" "Athwold: aRomaunt;" 
"Halloween;" "Athanasion ;" "Sermons on Doctrine 
and Duty;" "Impressions of England," etc. 



WATCHWORDS. 

We are living, — we are dwelling 

III a grand and awful time ; 
In an age, ou ages telling. 

To be living — is sublime. 

Hark! tbe waking np of nations, 

Gog and Magog to tbe fray ; 
Hark i wbat sonndeth, is Creation's 

Groaning for its latter day. 

Will j'e iilay, tbeu ! will ye dally, 
Witb your music, witb your wine ? 

Up ! it is Jehovab's rally I 

God's own arm batb need of thine. 

Hark ! tbe onset ! will ye fold your 

Faitb-clad arms in lazy lock ! 
Up, ob up, tbou drowsy soldier ! 

Worlds are charging to the shock. 

Worlds are charging — heaven beholding'. 

Tbou hast but an hour to fight ; 
Now, tbe blazoned cross unfolding. 

On — right onward, for the right! 

What ! still hug thy dreamy slumbers ? 

'Tis no time for idling play. 
Wreaths, and dance, and poet-numbers. 

Flout them ! wc must work to-day ! 

Fear not! spurn tbe worldling's laughter; 

Thine ambitiou — trample thou ! 
Thou sbalt find a long Hereafter, 

To be more than tempts thee now. 

On ! let all the soul within you 
For the truth's sake go abroad ! 

Strike ! let every nerve and sinew 
Tell ou ages— tell for God ! 



MATIN BELLS. 

The Sun is np betimes, 

And the dappled East is blushing, 
And the merry matin chimes, 

They are gushing — Christian — gushing! 
They are tolling in the tower. 

For another day begun ; 
And to hail the risiug hour 

Of a brighter, brighter Sun ! 
Rise — Christian — rise ! 

For a sunshine brighter far 
Is breaking o'er thine eyes, 

Thau tbe bonnio -morning star! 

Tbe lark is in tbe sky. 

And his morning-note is pouring; 
He bath a wing to fly, 

So he's soaring — Cliristiau — soaring! 
His nest is on tbe ground. 

But only in tbe night; 
For he loves tbe matin sound. 

And the highest heaven's height. 
Hark — Christian — bark ! 

At heaven-door he sings ! 
Aud bo tbou like the lark, 

With thy soaring spirit-wings! 

The merry matin bells, 

In their watch-tower they are swinging ; 
For the day is o'er tbe dells. 

And they're singing — Christian — singing! 
They have caught tbe morning beam 

Through their ivied turret's wreath, 
Aud the chancel-window's gleam 

Is glorious beneath : 
Go — Christian — go. 

For the altar flameth there, 
And the snowy vestments glow 

Of tbe presbyter at prayer ! 

There is morning incense flung 

From tbe child-like lily-flowers ; 
And their fragrant censer swung. 

Make it ours — Christian — ours ! 
And hark, the morning hymn. 

And tbe orgau-peals we love ! 
They sound like cherubim 

At their orisons above ! 
Pray — Christian — pray, 

At the bonnie jieep of dawn, 
Ere the dew-drop aud the spray 

That christen it are gone ! 



TBOMAS BILL. 



751 



^ijomas QUI. 

AMERICAN, 
The Rev. TUomns Hill, D.D., LL.D.,was bora in New 
Brunswick, N. J., in ISIS. His piircnts were botli of 
Englisli birth, and died while he was yet a child. When 
twelve years old, he was apprenticed to a printer, with 
whom he remained three years. But he studied Latin 
and GreeU, entered Harvard College, graduated in 1843, 
and passed two years at the Divinity School. He pre- 
sided over the Unitarian Church in Walthara, Mass., for 
fourteen years ; in ISiO succeeded Horace Mann as Pres- 
ident of Antioeh College, Ohio ; was thence called to the 
Presidency of Harvard — an otlice he held six years, when 
failing health caused him to resign. He accompanied 
Agassiz in tlie voyage of the Ifusder through tlic Straits 
of Magellan. On his return (IST.i) lie was installed over 
a church in Portland, Maine. Dr. Hill was the first to 
propose (1S47) daily predictions of the weather, founded 
on tclegniphic reports. He is gifted as a roathcmatieian, 
and published (1*40) a valuable little work, entitled "Ge- 
ometry and Faith." He is one of the most American of 
our poets, and his productions evince an irrepressible 
love of Nature. He is the author of some excellent 
bymns. As versatile in his accomplishments as in his 
pursuits, a poet and a philosopher, a man of executive 
ability and an elo'iucnt preacher, he has shown eminent 
talents in all his undertakings. Four years of his youth 
in an apothecary's shop made him a skilful pharmacist. 



THE BOBOLINK. 

Bnlicilink! that in tlio meadow, 
Or beucath the orcliunl's sliudow, 
Ki-epest np a constant rattle, 
•Joyous as my children's prattle, — 
Welcome to tlic North a^^ain ! 
Welcome to mine ear tliy strain, 
Welcome to mine eye the sight 
Of thy hurt", thy black and wliite. 
ISrighter ]>liniU'.s may greet the snn 
By the banks of Amazon : 
Sweeter tones may weave the sijcU 
Of enchanting Philomel ; 
But the tropic bird would fail, 
And the Knglish nightingale. 
If we should compare their wortli 
With thine endless, gushing mirth. 

When the ides of May are past, 
.Inne and .'^nniiner neariiig fa.st, 
While from di|iths of blue above 
Comes the mighty breath of love, 
Calling out each bud and flower 
With resistless, secret power, — 
Waking liope and fond desire, 
Kindling the erotic fire, — 



Filling youths' and maidens' dreams 
With my.sterious, pleasing themes ; 
Then, amiil the sunlight clear 
Floating in the fragrant air, 
Tiiou dost till each heart with pleasure 
By thy glad, ecstatic measure. 

A .single note .so sweet and low, 
Like a full heart's overltow, 
Forms the prelude; but the strain 
Gives us uo such tone agaiu, 
For the wild and saucy song 
Leaps and skips the notes among, 
With such quick and sjjortive play, 
Ne'er was madder, merrier lay. 

Gayest songster of the spring! 
Thy melodies before mo bring 
Visions of some dream-built land, 
Where, by constant zephyrs fanned, 
I might walk the livelong day 
Kmliosomed iu perpetual May. 
Nor care uor fear thy bosom kuows; 
For thee a tempest never blows ; 
But when our Northern sununer's o'er. 
By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore 
The wild rice lifts its airy head, 
And royal feasts for tbee are spread. 
Aud when the winter threatens there. 
Thy tireless wings yet own no fear, 
But bear thee to more Southern coasts, 
Far beyond the reach of frosts. 

Bobolink! still may thy gladness 
Take from me all taint of sadness; 
Fill my .soul with trust unshaken 
In that Being who has taken 
Care for every living thing, 
In summer, winter, fall, and spring. 



ANTIOI'A.' 

At dead of night a south-west breeze 

Came silently stealing .along ; 
The bluebird followed at break of day. 

Singing his low, sweet song. 

Tlio breeze crept through the old stone wall, 
And wakened the butterfly there. 



' Wriltcn ill theStrallscrilagclInn in tliofprinKorisri. The 
bnllerfly which comes out of etonc walls iu April is VatioM 
antiopa. 



752 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAX POETRY. 



And sbe came out, as morning broke, 
To float tbroiigli the sunlit air. 

Within tliis stony, rifted heart 
The softening iufluence stole, 

Filling with melodies divine 
The chambers of my soul. 

With gentle words of hope and faith, 
V>y lips now sainted spoken ; 

With vowa of teuderest love toward me, 
Which never once were broken. 

At morn my soul awoke to life, 
And glowed with faith anew ; 

Tlie buds that perish swelled without, 
Witbin the immortal grew. 



THE WINTER IS PAST.' 

Soft on this April morning, 
Breathe, from the South, delicate odors, 
Vaguely detined, giving the breezes 

Spring-like, delicious zest ; — 

Breezes from Southern forests, 
Bringing us gl.id tidings of summer's 
Promised return ; waking from slumber 

Each of the earliest plants. 

Lo! in the night the elm-tree 
Opened its buds ; catkins of hazel 
Tasselled the hedge ; maple and alder 

Welcomed with bloom the spring. 

Faintly the warbling bluebird 
Utters his note ; song-sparrows boldly 
Fling to the wind joyous assurance, 

" Summer is coming North !" 

None can expre.ss the longing. 
Mingled with joy, mingled with sadness. 
Swelling my heart ever, when April 

Brings us the bird and flower. 

Tender and sweet remembrance. 
Filling my soul, gives me assurance, 
"Death is but frost; lo! the eternal 

Spring-time of heaven shall come." 

> The measure is nu imitalioii of the Choiiambic. 



lUilliam lUctinort Stovn. 

AMERICAN, 

Born in Salem, Mass., in 1819, Story graduated at Har- 
vard in 1838, His fatlier, a judge of tlie U. S, Supreme 
Court, was also a poet in his youth. Having a strong 
artistic taste, William turned his back on the law, and 
in 1848 went to Rome and became distinguished as a 
sculptor. He is tlie author of "Roba di Roma," an ex- 
cellent descriptive account of modern Rome. 



THE UNEXPRESSED. 

Strive not to say the whole! the Poet in his Art 
Must intimate the whole, and say the smallest part. 

The young moon's silver arc her perfect circle tells, 
The limitless within Art's bounded outline dwells. 

Of every noble work the silent part is best. 

Of all expression, that which cannot ije expressed. 

Each act contains the life, each work of Art the world, 
And all the planet laws are in each dew-drop pearled. 



WETMORE COTTAGE, NAHANT. 

The hours on the old piazza 

That overhangs the sea, 
With a tender and pensive sweetness 

At times steal over me ; 
And agaiu o'er the balcony leaning, 

AVe list to the surf on the beach, 
That fills with its solemn warning 

Tlie intervals of speech. 

We three sit at night in the moonlight, 

As we sat in tbe summer gone, 
And we talk of art and uatni-e. 

And sing as we sit alone ; 
AVe sing the old songs of Sorrento, 

AVhere oranges hang o'er the sea. 
And our hearts are tender with dreaming 

Of days that no more shall be. 

How gayly the hours went with ns 

In those old days that are goue! 
Ah ! would we were all together, 

AA'here now I am standing alone. 
Could life be again so iierfect ? 

Ah, never! these years so drain 
The heart of its freshness of feeling, — 

But I loug, though the longing be vain. 



ARTHUR HUGH CLOl'GH. 



753 



nrtl)ur tjugil) ^tlougl). 

ClOHgli, boni at Liverpool, 1819, died of malarirtl fever 
at FloreiKx', IStil. lie was educated at Rugby under Dr. 
Arnold, and was on affeetionatc terms willi that noble 
tcaelier. "Over the eareer of none of his pupils," says 
F. T. I'algravc, "did Arnold wateh with a livelier inter- 
est or a more sanguine hope." Having won the Baliol 
scholarship in lSi«, Clough went to Oxford, and in 1843 
was appointed tutor as well as fellow of Oriel College. 
His principal poem, "The Bothie of Tober-Na-Vuolieh," 
which he terms "a long vacation pastoral," appeared in 
1848. It is written in hexameter verse, and is rich in 
evidence of his own yearning for the higher truths of life. 

His "Amours dc Voyage," the result of a holiday of 
travel in Italy, is in the same measure. It appeared orig- 
inally in the Alliiiitic MoiitliUj while Clough was residing 
(1852) at Cambridge, near Boston, Mass. It is an unsuc- 
cessful attempt to give the poetical form to what might 
have been more aptly and ctfeclively said in prose. 
"Dipsychus," his third long poem, was written in Ven- 
ice in 18.50. In 1H48, from conscientious motives, Clough 
had given np both liis tutor.-hip and his fellowship at 
Oxford. His life, though uneventful, was full of work, 
and the great problems of humanity exercised his sin- 
cere and searching intellect to the last. As a poet he is 
very unequal ; at times showing himself in his flights the 
peer of Tennyson, and then lapsing into the common- 
place or obscure. In his forty-two years he did much 
good work, but his life was even richer in promise than 
in performance. A selection from his papers, with lirtters 
and a memoir, edited by his widow, was published in two 
volumes in 1809. 



I WILL NOT ASK TO FEEL THOr ART. 

O Thou whose image in the sliriiie 
or liunian spirits dwells divine, 
Which from that precinct once conveycil, 
To be to outer day displayed. 
Doth vanish, part, and leave behind 
Mere blank, and void of empty mind, 
Which wilful fancy seek.s in vain 
With ca.snal shapes to till again, — 

Thou that in onr bosom's ghrino 
Uolli dwell, unknown because divine! 

1 thought to speak, I thought to say, 
"The light is here," " belndd the way,'' 

" The voice was thus," and " thus the word," 
And "thus I saw," and "that I beard,"— 
But from the lips that half essayed 
The imperfect utterance fill unmade. 

Thou in that mysterious shrine 
Enthroned, as I must say, divine! 

1 will not frame one thought of what 
Thou niayest citlicr l)o or not. 



I will uot prate of "thus "or "so," 
And be profane with "yes" and " no ;" 
Enough that in our soul and heart 
Thou, whatsoe'er Tlion uiay'st be, art ! 

Unseen, secure in that high shrine, 
Acknowledged present and divine, 
I will uot ask some upper air. 
Some future day, to place Thee there; 
Nor say, nor yet deny, such men 
And women saw Thee thus or then : 
Thy name was such, and there or here 
To him or her Thou didst appear. 

Do only Thou in that dim shrine, 

Unknown or known, remain, divine ; 

There, or if not, at least in eyes 

That scan the fact that ronnd them lies. 

The hand to sway, the judgment guide. 

In sight and sense Thyself divide : 

Be Thou but there, — in sonl and heart, 

I will not ask to feel Thou art. 



COXSIDEK IT AGAIN. 

"Old things need uot be therefore tnie:" 
O brother men, nor yet the new I 
Ah! still awhile the old thought retain. 
And yet consider it again I 

The sonls of now two thonsand years 
Have laid up hero their toils and fears. 
And all the earnings of their pain, — 
Ah, yet consider it again ! 

We ! what do ire see ? each a spaco 
Of some few yards before his face ; 
Does that the whole wide plau explain! 
Ah, yet consider it again ! 

Alas! the great world goes its way, 
And takes its truth from each new day; 
They do not quit, nor can retain. 
Ear less consider it again. 



QUI LABORAT, ORAT. 

O only Sonrce of all our light and life. 

Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel. 

But whom the hours of mortal moral strife 
Aloue aright reveal ! 



754 



CTCLOPJSDIA OF BIIITISH AND AMERICAN POETBT. 



Mine inmost soul, before Thee inly bronglit, 
Thy presence owns ineffable, divine ; 

Chastised each rebel self-euceutred thought, 
My will adoreth Thine. 

With eye down-dropped, if then this earthly mind 
Speechless remain, or speechless e'en depart, — 

Nor seek to see — for what of earthly kind 
Can see Thee as Thou art ?— 

If well-assured 'tis but profanely bold 

lu thought's abstractest forms to seem to see, 

It dare not dare the dread communion hold 
In ways unworthy Thee, — 

Oh not uuowued, Thou shalt unnamed forgive, 
In worldly walks the prayerless heart prepare ; 

And if in work its life it seem to live, 
Shalt make that work be prayer. 

Nor times shall lack, wheu while the work it plies, 
Unsummoned powers the blinding film shall part. 

And scarce by happy tears made dim, the eyes 
In recognition — start. 

But as Thou wiliest, give or e'en forbear 

The beatific supersensual sight, 
So, with Thy blessing blessed, that humbler prayer 

Approach Thee uioru and night. 



DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI." 

The following from the " Amours de Voynge " is a specimcu 
of the measure and style of that work, as well as of " The 
Bothie of Tober-Na-Vuolicb." 

Dulce it is, and decorum, no doubt, for the country 
to fall, — to 

Offer one's blood an oblation to Freedom, and die 
for the Cause ; yet 

Still, individual culture is also something, and no man 

Finds quite distinct the assurance that he of all oth- 
ers is called on, 

Or would be justftied, even, in taking away from 
the world that 

Precious creature, himself Nature sent him here 
to abide here ; 

Else why send him at all ? Nature wants him still, 
it is likely. 

On the whole, we are meant to look out for our- 
selves ; it is certain 

1 Sweet and becoming it is to die for one's country. 



Each has to eat for himself, digest for himself, aud, 
in general. 

Care for his own dear life, and see to his own 
preservation ; 

Nature's intentions, in most things uncertain, in this 
are decisive ; 

Which, on the whole, I conjecture the Romans will 
follow, and I shall. 
So we cling to our rocks like limpets ; Ocean 
may bluster. 

Over aud under and round us ; we open our shells 
to imbibe onr 

Nourishment, close them agaiu, and are safe, fullill- 
ing the purpose 

Nature iuteuded, — a wise one, of course, aud a no- 
ble, we doubt not. 

Sweet it may be aud decorous, perhaps, for the coun- 
try to die ; but. 

On the whole, wo couchule, the Romans wou't do 
it, and I sha'n't. 



QUA CURSUM VENTUS.' 

As ships becalmed at eve that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side. 

Two towers of sail, at dawn of day 

Are scarce long leagues ajjart descried ; 

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze. 
And all the darkling hours they plied ; 

Nor dreamed but each the self-same seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side. 

E'en so — but why the tale reveal 

Of those whom, year by year unchanged. 

Brief absence joined anew, to feel. 
Astounded, soul from soul estranged. 

At dead fif night their sails were filled. 
And onward each rejoicing steered; 

Ah! neither blamed, for neither willed 
Or wist what first with dawn appeared. 

To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 
Bravo barks ! In light, in darkness too ! 

> A fragment of a verse iu Virgil : 

"Teuduut vela Noti : fngiinus spnmantibns nndis, 
Qua cursitiu uen(«s-que gnberuatorque vocabant." 

It may be thus translated:^ 

"We send the foaming waters, the south winds swell our sails. 
And our way lies where it listeth the pilot and the gales.* 



ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. — WALT WHlTilAX. 



755 



TliroiigU wiuds and tides one compass gnidcs- 
To tbut and your own selves bo tine. 

IJnt 0, blitlie breeze ! and O, great seas! 

Tliongh ne'er that earliest parting jiast, 
On your wido plain tliey join again, 

Together lead them home at last. 

One port, methonglit, alike they sought — 
Ono purpose bold where'er they faro ; 

() bounding breeze, O rushing seas. 
At last, at last, unite them there! 



1\ A GONDOLA. 

ON THE GIi.\SD C.WAI., VENICE. 

Afloat ; wo move — delicious ! Ab, 
What else is like the gondola ? 
This level floor of liquid glass 
ISegins beneath ns swift to pass. 
It goes as though it -went alone 
By some impulsion of its own. 
(How light it moves, how softly! 
Were all things like the gondola!) 



Ah, 



How light it moves, how softly! Ah, 
Could life as does our gondola, 
I'nvexed with r|uarrels, aims, and cares. 
And moral duties and aflairs, 
I'liswaying, noiseless, swift, and strong, 
Forever thus — thus glide along! 
(How light wo move, how softly! Ah, 
Were life but iis the gondola!) 

With no more motion than should bear 
A freshness to the languid air; 
With no more eflort than expressed 
The need and naturalness of rest. 
Which we beneath a grateful shade 
Should take ou peaceful pillows laid ! 
(How light we move, bow softly ! Ah, 
Were life but as the gondola!) 

In one unbroken pass.nge borne 
To closing niglit from opening morn, 
Uplift at whiles slow eyes to mark 
Simie palace front, some passing bark ; 
Tlirougli windows catch the varying shore, 
And hear the soft turns of the oar ! 
(How light we move, how softly! .\h. 
Were life but as the gondola !) 



lllalt lllljitmau. 



AMERICAN. 

Whitman was horn in 1819 at West Hills, L. I., but 
moved with his family to Brooklyn, N. Y., while lie was 
yet a child. At thirteen he learned to set type, and a 
few yeai-s later was employed as a teacher in a country 
school. In 1849 he travelled in the Western States. lie 
drifted to New Orleans, and there, for a year, edited a 
paper. Ruturniug home, he went into business as a 
builder — his Other's occupation. In lS.")fl he published 
" Leaves of Grass," which attracted attention for the 
rough, untiammellud power it displayed. It was marred, 
however, by much that was offensive to ears gentle and 
polite. During the Civil War he was employed in hos- 
pitals and camps. He gave the result of his experiences 
in a thin volume, entitled " Drum Taps." He was on 
one occasion removed from his post as a Department 
Clerk, because of the literary sins in his "Leaves of 
Grass." He has been praised by Emerson, Tennyson, 
and Ruskin— high authorities in literature. His impulse 
seems to have been to be true to the thoughts of the 
moment at all hazards, and to say what came uppermost 
without regard to consequences. Ruskin, in a letter 
(187J) orderiug copies of Whilmau's works, remarked that 
the reason they excite such furious criticism is, " They 
are deadly true— in the sense of rifles — against all our 
deadliest sins:" an assertion which will be contested 
by many as eccentric if not extravagant. 



I'KOM •Tin: MYSTIC TinMrKTKR." 

Now, trumpeter ! for thy close. 

Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet ; 

Sing to my soul — renew its languishing faitli and 

hope ; 
Rouse up my slow belief — give me some vision of 

the future ;• 
Give me, for once, its prophecy and joy. 

O glad, exulting, culminating song ! 
A vigor more than earth's is in th.y notes! 
Marches of victory — man disenthralled — tlio cou- 

qncror at hist ! 
Hymns to the universal God, from universal Man — 

all joy I 
A re-born race appears — a perfect world — all joy ! 
Women and men in wisdom, innocence, and liealtb — 

all joy ! 
Riotous, laughing bacchanals, ilUed with joy! 
War, sorrow, sulfering gone — the rank earth purged 

— nothing but joy left! 
The ocean filled with joy — the atmosphere all joy! 
Joy I joy! in freedom, worship, love ! Joy in the 

ccsta.sy of life ! 
Enough to merely be ! Enough to breathe ! 
Joy ! joy ! all over joy ! 



756 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRT . 



PASSAGES FROM "LEAVES OF GRASS." 

truth of the eartli ! O truth of tliiugs! I am 

determiued to press my way toward you, 
Sound your voice ! I scale mountaius, or dive into 
the sea after you. 

Great is Life, real aud mystical, wherever aud who- 
ever, — 

Great is Death : — sure as Life holds all parts to- 
gether. Death holds all parts togetlier ; 

Death has just as much purport as Life has: 

Do you eujoy what Life confers ? 

You shall enjoy what Death coufers : 

1 do not uuderstaud the realities of Death, hut I 

know tliey are great : 
I do not understand the least reality of Life — how 
then cfin I understand the realities of Deatli? 

To me every hour of tlie light and dark is a miracle. 

Every inch of space is a miracle. 

Every square yard of the surface of the earth is 
spread with the same, 

Every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the 
same ; 

Every spear of grass — tlie frames, limbs, organs, of 
meu and women, and all that concerns them, 

All these to me are nn.speakably perfect miracles. 

To nie the sea is a continual miracle. 

The fishes that swim — the rocks — the motion of 
the waves — the ships with men in tlieni. 

What stranger miracles are there? 

****** 

You felons on trials in courts, • 

You convicts in prison cells — you sentenced assas- 
sins, chained and handcufl'ed with iron, 

Who am I that I am not on trial or in prison ? 

Me, ruthless and devilish as any, that my wrists are 
not chained with iron, orniy ankles with iron ? 
****** 

I was thinking the day most splendid, till I saw 
what the not-day exhibited ; 

I was thinking this globe enough, till there tum- 
bled upon me myriads of otlier globes: 

Oh, how plainly I see now that this life cannot 
exhibit all to me — as tlie day cannot; 

Oh, I see that I am to wait for what will be ex- 
hibited by death. 
****** 

Deaths 

Oh, the beaiiliful touch of Death, soothing aud bo- 
numbing a few moments, for reasons; 



Oh, that of myself, discharging my excrementitious 

body, to be burned, or rendered to powder, 

or buried, ^ 
My real body doubtless left to me for other spheres. 
My voided body, nothing more to me, returning to 

the purifications, further offices, eternal uses 

of the earth ! 
****** 
Wlioever you are ! yon are he or she for whom the 

earth is solid and liquid. 
You are he or she for whom the sun and moon 

hang in the sky. 
For none nnne than you are the present and the past. 
For none more tlian you is immortality ! 
Each man to himself, aud each woman to herself, 

is the word of the past and present, and the 

woi'd of immortality: 
No one can acquire for another — not one ! 
Not one can grow for another — not one ! 

****** 
Tlio eartli never tires. 
The eartli is rude, silent, incompi'chensible at first — 

Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first ; 
Be not discouraged — keep on — there are divine 

tilings, well enveloped, 
I swear to you there are divine things more beau- 
tiful tlian words can tell. 



(Ill)arles ^nijcrson Dana. 

AMERICAN. 

Born in Hinsdale, N. H., August 8th, 1810, Dana passed 
two years at Harvard, but left before graduating, on ac- 
count of an aBection of the eyes. He joined George 
Ripley (1803-1S80) and others in the Brook Farm Asso- 
ciation. Removing to New York, he became a promi- 
nent journalist, aud was connected with the Tribune. lu 
1863-'64 lie was Assistant Secretary of War. On leaving 
that post, lie bought, with the aid of some associates, the 
New York Sim, which was in a declining coudiliou, and 
made it a great financial success. He was associated 
with Ripley' in L'diVmg Apphton^ s Cijclopwdla ; and in 18.58 
he edited "The Household Book of Poetry." His poetry 
was nearly all written before his twenty-fifth year. One 
of Ills early acliievemeuts was a tour of Europe on foot. 
He is a great linguist, aud can converse with his foreign 
guests in their own lauguages. 



MANHOOD. 

Dear, noble soul, wi.sely thy lot thou hearest ; 
For, like a god toiling in earthly slavery, 
Fnnitiug thy sad fate with a joyous bravery, 
Each darker day a sunnier mien thou wearest. 



CHARLES ASDESSOy^ DAA'J.—MBS. HARRIET WIXSLOW SEWALL. 



757 



Xo grief can touch tliy sweet and spiritual smile ; 
No pain is keen cnon^li tliat it has power 
Over thy childlike love, that all the while 
t'pon the cold eaiih hnilils its heavenly bower; — 
And thus with thee bright angels make their dwell- 
ing, 
Uringinji thee stores of strength when no man 

knoweth ; 
The occan-streani from God's heart ever swelling, 
That forth thnnigh each least thing in Nature goeth, 
In thee, oh, truest hero, deeper floweth ; — 
With joy I bathe, and many sonls beside 
Keel a new life iu the oelestial tide. 



VIA SACRA. 

slowly along the crowded street I go, 
Marking with reverent look each passer's face. 
Seeking, and not in vain, iu each to trace 
That primal soul whereof ho is the show. 
For here still move, by many eyes unseen, 
Tlio blessdd gods that orst Olympus kept ; 
Tliroiigh every guise these lofty forms serene 
Declare the all-liohUng Life hath never sle{)t ; 
Hut known each thrill that in man's heart hath been, 
And every tear that his sad eyes have wept : 
Alas for us ! the heavenly visitants, — 
We greet them still as most unwelcome guests, 
.\uswering their smile with hateful looks askance. 
Their sacred speech with foolish, bitter jests; 
Hut idi ! what is it to imperial Jove 
That this i>oor world refuses all his love! 



TO \i. 1$. 

Hulovt'd friend! they say that thou art dead, 
Nor shall our asking eyes behold thee more. 
Save in the company of the fair and dread, 
.\Iong that radiant ami immort.al shore. 
Whither thy face was turned for evermore. 
Thou wert .1 pilgrim toward the True and Heal, 
Never forgetful of that infinite goal ; 
Salieut, electrical, thy weariless soul, 
T<i every faintest vision always leal, 
Kven 'mid these phantoms made its world iileal. 
.\nd so thou bast a most perennial fame, 
Though from the earth thy najne shoulil perish (juite: 
When the dear suu ginks golden whence ho came, 
I'lic gloom, else cheerless, hath not lost his light; 
>o in our lives impulses born of thine. 
Like fireside stars across the night shall sliiuc. 



iUrs. f)an'ict lUinslou) ScuuiU. 



Miss Winslow was born in Portland, Mc, June liOtli, 
1819. She is of Quaker cxtniction. Sliu was married in 
1^48 to Charles List, of Pliiladelphin; and some years af- 
ter his death to Samuel E. Sewall, of Boston. Her sum- 
mer residence is at Melrose, Mass. In a letter to a friend 
(1880) she says: "I have written little, and published 
almost nothing; and most of my verses are of a local 
or personal nature that would not interest the public." 
But will the public agree to that after reading her " Why 
thus Longing':"' 



WHY THUS LONGING? 

Why thus longing, thus forever sighing 
For the far-otV, unattaiued, .and dim, 

■While the beautiful, all round thee lying. 
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn f 

Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching. 
All thy restless yearnings it would still. 

Leaf and flower and l.aden bee are preaching 
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to till. 

I'oor iiuleed llinn must be, if around tlico 
Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw. 

If no silken cord of love hath bound thee 
To some little world through weal and woe; 

If no dear eyes thy foiul love can brighten. 
No fond voices answer to thine own, 

If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten 
Hy daily sympathy and gentle tone. 

Not by deeds that gain the world's applauses, 
Not by works that win thee world renown, 

Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses. 

Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown. 

Daily struggling, though unloved and lonily, 
Every day a rich reward will give: 

Thou wilt find by hearty striving only. 
And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 

Dost thou revel in the rosy morning 

When all nature hails the Lord of light, 

.\nil his smile, nor low nor lofty scorning. 
Gladdens hall ami hovel, vale and height f 

Other bauds may grasp the field and forest, 
Proud proprietors iu pomp may shine, 

But with fervent love if thou adorest, 

Thou art wealthier, — all the world is thine. 



758 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Yet if through earth's wide domaius thou revest, 
Sighing that they are not thine alone, 

Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest. 
And their beauty and thy wealth are gone. 



SPECIAL PROVIDENCES. 

When gathering clouds are darkly round uslowcriug, 
O'orhangiug heavy with impending woe, 

And Heaven, to which we turn for help imploring. 
Seemingly, by its silence, answers, " No ;" — 

"We are not worth its heed," — we say, despairing; 

"Wo are but puppets of relentless law;" 
Before a Power, crushing aud uncaring, 

AVe how with reverent, unloving awe. 

Ungrateful aud presumptuous we, deriding 

The Power that knows our needs before we call, 

Aud in advance of them, has been providing 
The helping hands to aid lis when we fall ! 

Before wo see the light this kind provision 
Awaits us in maternal care aud love ; 

Its -wondrous divination, intuition. 
Are, all recorded miracles, above : 

And farther on a band of sisters, brothers, 

Holding us with the strongest, teudeiest thrall ; 

And finally the Friend above all others. 
The most especial Providence of all! 



iulia lUarb fioiuc. 



AMERICAN, 
Mrs. Howe, a daughter of Samuel Ward, a well-known 
banker, was bora in the city of New York in 1819. Slie 
had the advantage of a thorough education, and iu 1843 
was married to Samuel G. Howe, tlie well-known phi- 
lanthropist of Boston. In 1854 she publislied "Passion 
Flowers," a volume of poems; and iu 185G "Words for 
tlie Hour." In 1S6C appeared her "Later Lyrics," con- 
taining her most notable poem, "The Battle Hymn." 
This seems to have been suggested by one of those im- 
provised ctfusions, got up, by nobody knows whom, on 
stirring occasions, and in this case by some one in a com- 
pany of Boston militia, early in the Civil War. It began: 
" John Brown's body lies a-raouldering iu the grave," 
which, being repeated three times, was followed by " His 
soul is marching on." Then came the refrain, "Glory, 
gloty, hallelujah !" This being sung to a spirited melo- 
dy, the origiu of which is also nnknown, produced a mem- 
orable efTect. Mrs. Howe's poem is a relinement on this 
rough production. She has published several volumes 
of travels ; and is active in all movements for the im- 
provement of the condition of women. 



BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coining of the 

Lord : 
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of 

wrath are stored ; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible 

swift sword ; 

His truth is marching on. 

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred cir- 
cling camps; 

They have bnilded him an altar in the evening dews 
and damps ; 

I can read his righteous sentence by the dim aud 
flaring lamps. 

His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of 

steel : 
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my 

grace shall deal ;" 
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with 

his heel. 

Since God is marching on. 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never 
call retreat ; 

He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judg- 
ment-seat ; 

Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, 
my feet ! 

Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across 

the sea. 
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and 

nie ; 
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make 

meu free. 

While God is marching on. 



SPEAK, FOR THY SERVANT HEARETH. 

Speak, for thy servant heareth ; 

Alone iu my lowly bed. 
Before I laid me down to rest, 

My nightly prayer was said; 
And naught my spirit f<'areth, 

In darkness or by day : 
Speak, for thy servant heareth, 

Aud heareth to obey. 



JULIA ITJBD BOWE.— THOMAS WILLIAM PARSOXS. 



759 



I'vi^ stood before tliiuo altar, 

A cliilil before tby might ; 
No breath within thy tenii>le stirred 

The iliiii ;iiiil rlniuly light ; 
And still I kniw that thou wast there, 

Teaching my heart to say — 
" Speak, for thy servant hearetb, 

And beareth to obey." 

God, my tlcsh may tremble 
When thou speakcst to my soul ; 

But it cannot shun thy presence blessed, 
Nor shrink from thy control. 

A joy my spirit cheereth 
That cannot pass away : 

Speak, for thy servant hearetb, 
And heareth to obey. 

Thou biddest me to ntter 

Words that I scarce may speak. 
And mighty things are laid on me, 

A helpless one, and weak : 
Darkly thy truth declareth 

Its purpose and its way : 
Speak, for thy servant heareth, 

And heareth to obey. 

And shouldst Thou bo a stranger 

To that which Thou hast made? 
Oh! ever be about my path, 

And hover near my bed. 
Lead nic in every step I take, 

Teach me each word I say : 
Speak, for thy servant heareth. 

And heareth to obey. 

IIow hath tliy glory lighted 

My lonely place of rest ; 
How sacred now shall be to mo 

The spot which Thou hast blessed ! 
If aught of evil should draw nigh 

To bring mo shame and fear. 
My steadfast soul shall make reply, 

"Depart, for God is near!" 

1 bless thee th.at thou speakcst 
Thus to an bumble child ; 

The God of .Jacob calls to mo 

In gentlo tones and mild; 
Thine enemies before thy face 

Arc scattered in dismay: 
Speak, Lord, thy servant heareth, 

And heareth to obey. 



I've stood before thee all my days 

Have ministered to thee ; 
Unt in the hour of d.arkness first 

Thou speakcst unto me. 
And now the night appeareth 

More beautiful than day: 
Speak, Lord, tlij' servant hearetb. 

And heareth to obey. 



iLl)oinaG lllilliaiii yarsous. 

AMERICAN. 

Parsons (1819-18..) was born in Boston, Mass., and 
educated at tlic Latin School. lie visited Italy with his 
father in 18:50, and accomplislied himself in the It.ilinn 
langu.igc. He publislied in Boston, in 1S05, a translation 
of seventeen cantos of the "Inferno" of Dante; and to 
these he hiis since made additions. In 1S>4 lie published 
a collection of his poems. His translations are masterly, 
and many of his original lyrics show that his poetical 
vein is of a quality rich and rare. 



SALMT PERAY. 

When to any saint I pray. 
It shall be to Saint Peray. 
He alone, of all the brood. 
Ever did mo any good : 
JIany I have tried that are 
Humbugs in the calendar. 

On the Atlantic, faint and sick. 
Once I prayed Saint Dominick ; 
He was holy, suie, and wi.se ; — • 
Was't not he that did devise 
Auto-da-fd's and rosaries T — 
But for one in my condition 
This good saint was no physician. 

Next, iu pleasant Nomiandie, 
I made a prayer to Saint Denis, 
In the great cathedral, where 

All the ancient kings repose ; 
Hut how I was swindled there. 

At the "Golden Fleece," — he knows! 

Iu my wanderings, vague and various, 
Keaching Naples, — as I lay 
Watching Vesuvius from the bay, 

I besought Saint .lanuarius. 

But I was a fool to try him ; 

Naught I said could lirjuefy him ; 

Aud I swear bo did nio wrong. 

Keeping me shut up so long 



760 



CYCLOPJUDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Ill that pest-house with obscene 

Jews and Greeks and things unclean : — 

Wliat need had I of quarantine ? 

In Sicily at least a score, — 
lu Spain about as many more, — 
And iu Rome almost as many 
As the loves of Don Giovanni, — 
Did I pray to — sans reply ; 
Devil take the tribe! — said I. 

Worn with travel, tired and lame. 

To Assisi's walls I came : 

Sad and full of homesick fancies, 

I addressed me to Saint Francis; 

But the beggar never did 

Anything as he was bid, 

Never gave me anglit — but fleas, — 

Pleut)' had I at Assise. 

But in Provence, near Vaucluse, 

Hard by the Rhone I found a saint 
Gifted with a wondrous jnice, 

Potent for the worst complaint. 
'Twas at Avignon that first — 
111 the witcliing time of thirst — 
To my brain the knowledge came 
Of this blessed Catholic's name ; 
Forty miles of dust that day 
Made me welcome Saint Peray. 

Tliongh till then I had not heard 
Aught about him, ere a tliird 
Of a litre jmssed my lips. 
All saints else were in eclipse. 
For liis gentle spirit glided 

With such magic into mine, 
Tliat methought snoh bliss as I did 

Poet never drew from wine. 

Rest he gave rae, and refection, — 

Chastened hopes, calm retrospection, — 

Softened images of sorrow, 

Bright forebodings for the morrow, — 

Charity for what is past, — 

Faith in something good at last. 

Now why should any almanac 
The name of this good creature lack ? 
Or wherefore should the breviary 
Omit a saint so sage and merry ? 
The Pope himself should grant a day 
Especially to Saint Peray. 



But since no day hath been appointed, 

Ou jinrpose, by the Lord's Anointed, 

Let us not wait — we'll do him right ; 

Send round your bottles, Hal ! and set your night. 



IN ST. JAMES'S PARK. 

I watched the swans in that proud park, 

Which England's Queen looks out upon; 
I sat there till the dewy dark. 

And every other soul was gone ; 
And sitting silent, all alone, 

I seemed to hear a spirit say, 
Be calm ; the night is : never moan 

For friendships that have passed away. 

The swans that vanished from thy sight 

Will come to-morrow at their liour; 
But when thy joys have taken flight. 

To bring them back no prayer Imtli power. 
"Tis the world's law ; and why deplore 

A doom that from thy birth was fate? 
True, '(is a bitter word, " No more !" 

But look beyond this mortal state. 

Believ'st tliou in eternal things? 

Thou kuowest, in thy inmost heart, 
Thou art not clay ; thy soul hath wings, 

And what thou seest is but part. 
Make this thy med'cine for the smart 

Of every day's distress: Be dumb. 
In each new loss thou truly art 

Tasting the power of things to come. 



JTrcbcric Pan lluutincnton. 

AMERICAN. 

Huntington \fas born iu Hadlcy, Mass., in 1819. Grad- 
uating at Amlierst College, lie studied divinity in the 
Cambridge Theological School, and, while quite young, 
was settled as pastor over the South Congregational 
Church iu Boston. He was appointed Plummer pro- 
fessor at Harvard College, which post he resigned, too".,; 
orders in the Episcopal Cliurch, and became Rector of 
Emanuel Church iu Boston. Being appointed Bishop 
of Central New York, he took up liis resilience iu Syra- 
cuse, N. y. 



A SUPPLICATION. 

O Love Divine! lay on me burdens if Thou wilt. 
To break thy faithless one -hour watchman's 
shameful sleep ! 



FBEDEBIC VAN BUNTISGTON.— THOMAS WSTTEBEAD. 



761 



Turn comforts into awfnl jiropliots to my gnilt ! 
Close to tliy garden-travail let me wake ami wcop! 

For while the Kesnrrection waved its signs august, 
Like morning's dew-bright banners on a elond- 
Icsa sky, 
My weak ft'et elnng enamored to the parching dust, 
And the vain sand's jioor pebbles lured my rov- 
ing eye. 

By loneliness or hunger tnrn and re-create tne ! 

Ordain whatever mastera in thy saving school. 
Let the whole prosperous host of Fashion's flat- 
terers hate me, 
So Thou wilt henceforth bless mo with thy gra- 
cious rule. 

I pray not to be saved, Ascended Lord, from sorrow : 
Kedi'cm me only from my fouil and mean self-love. 

Let eaeh long night of wrestling bring a nioiuning 

morrow, [.'ibove ! 

If thus my he.art ascend and dwell with Thee 

V.iles of Repentance mount to hills of high Desire: 
.Seven times seven suffering years gain the Sab- 
batic Kest ; 

Karth's iickle, cruel lap, alternate frost and fire, 
Tempers beloved disciples for the Master's breast. 

Our work lies wide ; men ache and dipulit and die ; 

Thy Ark 

.Shakes in our hands ; lieason and Faith, (Jod's son 

.\nd daughter, light their futile battle in the dark. 

Our sluggish eyelids slumber witli our task half 

done. 

Oh, bleeding Priest of silent, sad Gethseman^,— 
That second Eden where npsprings the Healing 
Vine, 
Press from our careless foreheads drops of sweat 
for Thee ! 
Fill Hs with sacrificial love for souls, like Thine. 

'I lioM who didst promise cheer along witli tribulation, 
Iliild lip our tiiist and keep it firm by much en- 
during : 
Feed fainting hearts with patiint hopes of thy sal- 
vation: [alluring. 
Make glorious service, more than lu.\ury's bed, 

Hallow onr wit with prayer; our mastery steep 
in meekness ; 
Pour on our stumbling studies Inspiration's light : 



How ont for thy dear Chnnh a Future williont 
weakness. 
Quarried from thine eternal Order, Beauty, Might ; 

Met there mankind's great Brotherhood of sonls 
and powers. 
Raise Thou full praises from its farthest corners 
dim ; 
Pour down, (di steadfast Sun, thy beams on all its 
towers ! 
Roll throngh its world-wide space Faith's Eucha- 
ristic Hymn ! 

O W:iy for all that live, win ns by pain and loss! 

Fill all our years with toil, — and comfort with 
Tliy rod! 
Throngh thy ascen.sion cloud, beyond the Cross, 

Looms on onr sight, in peace, the City of our God ! 



iiljoiiias ll1l)iitcl)caLi. 



■VVhytelicnd was a fellow of St. John's College, Eng- 
land, and was second-class medallist in 1837. He died 
early in Australia, wliither he had gone as a missiona- 
ry. He twice obtained the University prize for English 
verse ; and was the author of several short jiocms, print- 
ed for private circulation only. He was born about tlie 
year ISIO. Of the follow ing remarkable poem from his 
pen there have been several differing versions. 



THE SECOND DAY OF CREATION. 

This world I deem 

But .1 beautiful dream 
Of shadows that arc not what they seem ; 

■\Vhen visions ri.se. 

Giving dim surmise 
Of the things that shall meet onr waking eyes. 

Arm of the Lord ! 

Creating Word ! 
WIm>s(^ glory the silent skies record. 

Where stands Thy name 

In scrolls of flamo 
On the firmament's high-shadowing frame, — 

I gaze o'erhead 

Where Thy haiul hath spread 
For tho waters of Heaven that crystal bed. 

And stored the dew 

III its dee|)S of blno 
Which the fires of the sun come tempered tbrongh. 



762 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AKD AMERICAN POETRY. 



Softly they shiue 

Through that jjiire shrine, 
As beneath the veil of Thy flesh divine 

Beams forth the light, 

That vpere else too bright 
For the feebleness of a sinner's sight. 

I gaze aloof 

On the tissneil roof. 
Where time and space are the warp and woof; 

Which the King of kings 

As a curtain flings 
O'er the drcadl'ulness of eternal things, — 

A tapestried tent, 

To shade us meant, 
From the bare everlasting firmament ; 

When the blaze of the skies 

C'oniL's soft to our eyes 
Through a veil of mystical imageries. 

But conld I see, 

As in truth they be. 
The glories of Heaven th.at encompass me, 

I should lightly hold 

The tissued fold 
Of that marvellous curtain of blue and gold. 

Soon the whole. 

Like a parched scroll, 
Shall before my amazed sight nproU ; 

And without a screen, 

At one burst be seen 
The Presence wherein I have ever been. 

Oh ! who shall bear 

The blinding glare 
Of the majesty that shall meet us there ? 

What eye may gaze 

On the unveiled blaze 
Of the light-girdled throne of the Ancient of Days! 

Christ us aid ! 

Himself be our shade, 
That in that dread day we be not dismayed. 



3ixnus Uusscll Comcll. 



Born at Cambridge, Mass., in 1819, the son of a Uni- 
tarian clergyman, Lowell comniencctl authorship early. 
His first volume of poems, "A Year's Life," appeared in 
1841. He graduated at Harvard in the class of 1838, .and 
commenced tlie study of law, but soon left it for litera- 



ture. In 1841 he produced a second series of poems ; in 
1845, " Conversations on some of the Old Poets ;" in 
1848, a witty review, in verse, of some of the conspicuous 
American men of letters, entitled " A Fable for Critics ;" 
also a third series of poems, and " Tlic Bigelow Papers," 
containing some dainty bits of Yankee humor, and indi- 
cating the writer's place in tlie front ranlv of American 
political reformers. In 1809 appeared " Under the Wil- 
lows, and other Poems," and soon afterward " The Ca- 
thedral," perhaps the most mature aud vigorous of all 
his poems. In 1864 appeared " Fireside Travels ;" in 
1870, a volume of prose essays, entitled "Among my 
Books;" and in 1871, "My Study Windows," a second 
collection of essays, chiefly critical. 

In 1855 he succeeded Longfellow as Professor of Mod- 
ern Languages, etc., in Harvard University. Having 
taken a somewhat active part in the Presidential can- 
vass of 1876, he was appointed Minister to Spain in 1877, 
and Minister to England in 1880. His first wife, Maria 
White (1821-18.53), has shown, in some finished verses, 
that she shared with him the jioctic gift. His rank is 
high among the most origin.il and vigorous of the poets 
of the age. He was editor of the AilunUr MonVihj in 
1857, and was also editor for a time of the North Ameri- 
can Jtevieu). 

AUF WIEDERSEHEN! 

Tlie little gate was reached at last. 
Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; 
She pushed it wide, and, as she passed, 
A wistful look she backward cast, 

And said, — "Aiif wicderschen .'" 

With hand on latch, a vision white 

Lingered reluctant, and again 
Half doubting if she did aright, 
Soft as the dews that fell that night, 
She said, — "Auf wiedersehen .'" 

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; 

I linger iu delicious pain ; 
Ah, iu that chamber, whose rich air 
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, 
Thinks she, — "Auf wiedersehen .'" 

'Tis thirteen years ; once more I press 

The turf that silences the lane ; 
I he.ar the rustle of her dress, 
I smell the lilacs, and — >ah, yes, 
I hear "Auf u-icdcrschen !" 

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 

The English words had seemed too fain. 
But these — they drew us heart to heart, 
Yet held us tenderly apart ; 

She said, " Auf wiedersehen !" 



I 



JAMES SVSSELL LOWELL. 



763 



A DAY IN JUXE. 
From " Sie Laixfal," a Poem. 

Anil what is so rare as ^ day in Junef 

Tlien, if ever, conic perfect days ; 
The heavcu tries the earth if it bo iu tniic, 

And over it softly her warm ear lays ; 
Whether wo look, or whether we listen, 
We hear life nmrinnr, or see it glisten ; 
Every clod feels a stir of might, 

Au instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, grasping blindly above it for light. 

Climbs to a sonl in grass and Uowcrs ; 
The llnsh of life may well be seen 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green, 

The buttercup catches the sun iu it^i clialice, 
And there's never a leaf or a blade too nieau 

To be some happy creature's palace ; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
And lets his illuminated being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings. 

And the heart in her duuib breast flutters and 
sings ; 
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest — 
In the nice car of nature which song is the bcstT 

Now is the high tide <if the year. 

And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
I Conies Hooding back, with a ripply cheer, 

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; 
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it; 
We are happy now because God so wills it ; 
No matter how barren the past may have been, 
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves arc green ; 
Wo sit in the warm shade, and feel right well 
How the sap creeps np and the blossoms swell ; 
Wo may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 
That skies are clear and grass is growing ; 
The breeze comes whispering iu our car, 
That daiiilelions are blossoming near. 

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing. 
That tho river is bluer than the sky, 
That tho robin is plastering his bouse hard by ; 
And if the breeze kept the good news back, 
For other couriers we should not lack! 

We could guess it by yon heifer's lowing — 
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer. 
Warmed with tho new wino of the year, 

Tells all iu his lusty crowing! 



Joy comes, grief goes, wo know not bow ; 
Everything is happy now. 

Everything is upward striving ; 
'Tis as easy now for tho heart to be true 
As the grass to bo green, or tho skies to bo blue — 

'Tis the natural way of living. 



TO H. W. L.' 

ON HIS BIRTHDAY, FEIiI!U.\RY 27, 1807. 

I need not praise the sweetness of his song, 
Where limpid verso to limpid verse succeeds 
Smooth as our Charles, when, fearing lest he wrong 
The new-moou's mirrored skift', he slides along. 
Full without noise, and whispers iu his reeds. 

With loving breath of all the winds his name 
Is blown about the world, but to his friends 
A sweeter secret hides behind his fame. 
And Love steals shyly through tho loud acclaim 
To murmur a Hod hhss yoii .' and there ends. 

As I muse backward up tho checkered years 
Wherein so much was given, so much was lost. 
Blessings in both kinds, such as cheapen tears — 
Hut hush! this is not for profaiier ears; 
Let them drink luolten pearls, nor dream the cost. 

Some suck np poison from a sorrow's core. 
As naught but nightshade grew upou earth's ground ; 
Love turned all his to hcart's-ease, and the more 
Fate tried his bastions, slie but found a door 
Leading to sweeter manhood and more sound. 

Even as a wind-waved fountain's swaying shade 
Seems of mixed race, a gray wraith shot with sun, 
So through his trial faith translucent rayed 
Till darkness, half disnatuicd so, betrayed 
A heart of snnshiuo that would fain o'errnn. 

Surely, if skill iu song the shears may stay. 
Anil of its iiurposo cheat the channeil abyss, 
If our poor life be lengthened by a lay. 
Ho shall not go, although his presence may ; 
And tho next age in praise shall double this. 

Long days bo his, and each as lusty-sweet 
As gracious natures find his song to be; 
May -Vge steal on with softly cadonced feet 
Falling iu music, as for him were meet 
Whose choicest verso is not so rnrn as he ! 
' lleiiry Wttdswurth Loucfellow. 



764 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEIIICAN FOETIiY. 



LONGING. 

Of .all the myriad moods of iiiiiul 

Tliat through the soul come thronging, 
Which oue was e'er so dear, so kind, 

So beautiful as longing ? 
Tlio thing we long for, that we are, 

For one tr.anscendent moment. 
Before the present, poor and b.arc. 

Can make its sneering comment. 

Still, through our paltry stir and strife, 

Glows down the wished ideal, 
And longing moulds in clay what life 

Carves in the marble real ; 
To let the new life in, we know 

Desire must ope the portal ; 
Perhaps the longing to be so 

Helps make the sonl immortal. 

Longing is God's fresh, heavenward will 

With onr poor earthward striving; 
We quench it, that we may be still 

Content with merely living; 
Bnt would we learn that heart's full scope 

Which we are hourly wronging, 
Onr lives must climb from hope to hope, 

And re.alize our longing. 

Ah, let ns hope that to onr praise 

Good God not only reckons 
The moments when we tread his ways, 

Bnt when the spirit beckons! 
That some slight good is also wrought. 

Beyond self-satisfaction. 
When we are simply good in thought, 

Howe'er we fail in action. 



"IN WHOM WE LIVE AND MOVE." 

I'ROM " TUE CaTIIEDBAL." 

O Power, more near my life than life itself 

(Or what seems life to us in sense immured). 

Even as the roots, shut in the darksome earth. 

Share in the tree-top's joyance, aud conceive 

Of sunshine and wide air and wing6d things 

By sympathy of nature, so do I 

Have evidence of Thee so far above. 

Vet in and of me! Rather Thou the root 

Invisibly sustaining, hid in light, 

Not darkness, or iu darkness made by us. 

If sometimes I must hear good men debate 



Of other witness of Thyself than Thou, 
As if there needed any help of ours 
To nurse Thy flickering life, th.at else must cease, 
Blown out, as 'twere a candle, by men's breath, 
My soul shall not be taken iu their snare, 
To change her inward surety for their doubt 
Muffled from sight in formal robes of proof: 
While she can only feel herself through Thee, 
I fear not thy withdrawal; more I fear. 
Seeing, to knowThee not, hoodwinked with thought 
Of signs aud wonders, while, unnoticed. Thou, 
AValkiug thy garden still, coramnu'st with meu, 
Missed iu the commonplace of miracle. 



SHE CAME AND WENT. 

As a twig trembles, which a bird 

Lights ou to sing, then leaves unbent. 

So is my nicmiu'y thrilled and stirred; 
I only know she came aud went. 

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, 
The blue dome's measureless content, 

So my soul held that moment's heaven ; 
I only know she came and went. 

As, at oue bound, onr swift spring heaps 
The orchard's full of bloom and scent, 

So clove her May my wintry sleeps ; 
I only know she came and went. 

An angel stood and met my gaze. 

Through the low door- way of my tent : 

The tent is struck, the vision stays ; 
I only know she came and went. 

Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, 
And life's last oil is nearly spent. 

One gush of light these eyes will brim, 
Only to think she came and went. 



cUljavlcs KingGlcji. 

Novelist, poet, and tlieologian, Kingsley (1SI9-1S7.5) 
was one of nature's foremost noblemen in act and 
thoHglit. A native of Devonshire, he studied at King's 
College, London, and Magdalene College, Cambridge, 
where he graduated in 1843. He entered the Church, 
and became Rector of Eversley. From 18.59 to 1869 he 
was Regius Professor of Modern History at Cambridge. 
In 1873 he was transferred to a Canonry in Westminster. 
Two years before his death he travelled and lectured in 
the United States. A volume of his poems was publish- 



CHARLES KINGSLET. 



765 



e<I in 1S58. An inlcTcsthi!; Miiuoir of liiin by tiis wife 
appeared in 187S. His moiUl remains were inlerrcil in 
Westminster Abbey. 



THE THREE FISHEHS. 

Three fishers went sailing away to the West, 
Away to the West as tlio sun went down ; 
E:i< Ii thon^ht on the woman who lovc<l liim tlie best, 
And tlio chililrcn stood watching them ont of 

tho town ; 
For men mnst work, and women mnst weep. 
And there's little to earn, and many to keep, 
Thongli tho harbor bar be moaning. 

Three wives .sat np in the light-house tower. 

And they trimmed the lamps as the snii went down ; 
They looked at the sqnall, and they looked at tho 
.shower, [brown. 

And the uight-rack came rolling np ragged and 
Hnt men mnst work, and women mnst weep, 
Thongh storms be sodden, and waters dee]!. 
And the liarbi^r bar bi' moaning. 

Three corpses lay ont on the shining .sands 

In the morning gleam as the tide went down. 
And tht^ women are weeping and wringing their 
hands 
For those who will never come liomo to the town ; 
l-'or men must work, and women mnst weep, 
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep; 

And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 



THE WOKUr.S ACiE. 

Who will say the world is dying f 

Who will say onr prime is past f 
Sparks from Heaven, within lis lying, 

Fla.sh, and will fla.sli till the last. 
Fools! who fancy Christ mistaken; 

Man a tool to buy and sell ; 
Earth a failure, God-forsaken, 

Anteroom of Hell. 

Slill the race of Hero-spirits 

Pass the laini> from hand to hand; 
Age from age the worils inherits — 

"Wife, and Child, and Father-land." 
Still the yonthfnl linnter gathers 

Fiery joy from wold and wood : 
He will dare as dared his fathers, 

Give him can.se as good. 



While a slave bewails his fetters; 

Wliile an orphan pleads in vain: 
Wliile an infant lisps his lettiMs, 

Heir of all the age's gain : 
While a lip grows ripe for kissing; 

While .1 uioau from man is wrung ; 
Know, by every want and blessing, 

That the world is young. 



THE SAXDS OF DEE. 

"Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home. 
And call the cattle home. 
Across the .sands of Dee.'' 
The western wind was wild and dunk with foam, 
And all alone went she. 

The western tide crept np along the sand. 
And o'er and o'er the sand, 
And round and round the sand, 
As far as eye could see. 
The rolling mist came down and hid the land: 
.\nd never home came she. 

" Oh ! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair, 
A tress of golden hair, 
A drowndd maiden's hair, 
Above the nets at sea ?" 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 
Among tho stakes on Dee. 

They rowed her in acro.ss tho rolling foam. 
The cruel crawling foam. 
The cruel hungry foam. 
To her grave beside the sea. 
lint still the boatmen hear her call tho cattle 
home. 
Across the sauds of Dee. 



A FAREWELL. 

My fairest child, I have no song to give yoii ; 

No lark could ]>ipe to skies so dull and gray : 
Yet, ero we part, one lesson I can leave you 

For every day : — 

He good, my dear, and let who will bo clever ; 

Do noble things, not dream them, all day long; 
And so make life, death, and the vast forever 

One grand, sweet song. 



766 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBIC AN POETRY. 



losial) (!3Ubcrt ijollanb. 

AMERICAN. 
Holland was born iu Belcliertown, Mass., 1819. He 
studied and practised medicine for a time, and was for a 
year superintendent of schools in Vicksburg, Miss. From 
1849 to 1800 he was associate -editor of the Springfield 
(Mass.) licpublkan. He travelled in Europe in ISTO, and 
on bis return became editor of Scribner''s Monthly. Ho is 
the author of two popular poems — " Bitter Sweet " and 
" Katrina." As a prose essaj'ist and a novelist he has 
also been snccessfiil in winning the public attention. His 
" Marble Prophecy, and other Poems," appeared in ISTi. 



GRAUATIM. 

Hefiven is not reached at a single bound, 
But we build the ladder by wliich we rise 
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, 

And we mount to its summit round by round. 

I count this thing to be grandly true : 

That a uoble deed is a step toward God — 
Lifting the soul from the common clod 

To a purer air and a broader view. 

We rise by the things that are under our feet ; 

By what we have mastered of good and gain ; 

By the pride deposed and the passion slain, 
Aud the vanfiuished ills that we hourly meet. 

We hope, we aspire, wo resolve, we trust, 

When the morning calls us to life and light, 
But our hearts grow weary, and, ere the night, 

Our lives are trailing the sordid dust. 

We hope, wo resolve, we aspire, we pray, 

And we think that we mount the air on wings 
Beyond the recall of sensual things, 

While our feet still cling to the lieavy clay. 

Wings for the angel, but feet for men ! 

Wo may borrow the wings to find the way — 
We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray ; 

But our feet must rise, or we fall again. 

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown 

From the weary earth to the .sapphire walls ; 

But the dreauis deji.art, and the vision falls, 
Aud the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone. 

Heaven is not reached at a single bound ; 
But we build the ladder by which we rise 
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, 

And we mount to its summit, round by round. 



WANTED. 

God, give ns men ! A time like this demands 
Strong minds, great hearts, true faith, and ready 

hands, 
Men whom the lust of office does not kill; 
Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy ; 
Men who possess opinions aud a will ; 
Men who have honor ; men who will not lie ; 
Men who can stand before a demagogue, 
And damn his treacherous flatteries without wink- 
ing! 
Tall men, snn-crowned, who live above the fog 
In pulilic duty, and iu private thinking: 
For while the rabble, with their thumb-worn creeds, 
Their large professions aud their little deeds, — 
Miugle in selfish strife, lo ! Freedom weeps, 
Wrong rules the land, aud waiting Justice sleeps ! 



Samuel CongfcUou). 

AMERICAN, 

Longfellow, brother of the eminent poet, Henry W., 
was born in Portland, Me., in 1819. He graduated at 
Harvard College in 1839, and from the Divinity School 
in 1840. He has preached in various pulpits, has made 
several voyages to Europe, and has his home in Cam- 
bridge. In his hymns and other poetical productions, 
he has given ample proof of superior talent. 



APRIL. 



Again has come the Spring-time, 

With the crocus's golden bloom, 
With the smell of the fresh-turued earth-mould, 

And the violet's perfume. 

O gardener ! tell mo the secret 

Of thy flowers so rare and sweet ! — 

— " I have only enriched my garden 
With the black mire from the street." 



NOVEMBER. 

The dead leaves their rich mosaics, 

Of olive and gold aud brown, 
Had laid on the rain-wet pavements, 

Through all the embowered town. 

They were washed by the autumn tempest, 
They were trod by hurrying feet, 



SAMUEL LOXOFELLOir.—EICBASD DALTOS II lUJAMS. 



767 



And the niaiJs came out with their besuma 
And swept them into the street, 

To bo crushed and lost forever 

'Neath the wheels, in the black mire lost,— 
The Summer's precious darliugs, 

Slie nurtured at such cost! 

O words that have fallen from me! 

O golden thoughts and true! 
JIust I see iu the leaves a symbol 

Of the fate which anaiteth you ? 



Uitl)arb Dalton lllillicims. 

Williams, a native of Tipperaiy County, Ireland, was 
born about the year 1819, and educated in the Catholic 
College of Carlow. His poetical vein is peculiar, com- 
binim; tcuderness witli vehemence. For a time he was 
a medical student at Dublin ; l)ut in 1850 he emigrated to 
America, and became Professor of Belles-lettres in the 
Catholic College of Mobile, Ala. 



FROM TllK " LAMENT I'DK CLAKENCE 
MANGAN." 

Ye.', happy friend, the cross was tbiuo ; 

'Tis o'er a, sea of tears 
Predestined souls must ever sail, 

To reach their native spheres: 
May Christ, the crowned of Calvary, 

Who died upon a tree, 
Uci|neath his tearful chalice 

And the bitter cross to me! 

The darkened land is desolate, — 

A wilderness of graves ; 
Our purest hearts are prison-bound. 

Our exiles on the waves : 
Gaunt Famine stalks the blasted plains — 

The pestilential air 
O'erhangs the gasp of breaking hearts, 

Or the stillness of despair. 

No chains are on Ihi/ folded hands, 

No tears bedim thine eyes, 
But round tln^e bloom celestial flowers 

In ever tranquil skies; 
While o'er our dreams thy mystic songs, 

Faint, sad, and solcnni flow. 
Like light that left the distaut stars 

Ten thou.sand years ago. 



Thou wert a voice of God on earth — 

Of those prophetic souls. 
Who hear the fearful thunder 

In the Future's womb that rolls: 
And the warnings of the augcls, 

As the midnight hurried past, 
Rushed in upon thy spirit, 

Like a ghost-o'erladeu blast. 

If any shade of eartliliness 

Bedimuied thy spirit's wings, 
Well cleansed thou art in Sorrow's 

Ever salutary springs : 
And even bitter sufl'ering, 

And still more bitter sin. 
Shall only make a soul like thine 

More beautiful within, 

Tears deck the soul with virtues. 

As soft rains the flowery sod, 
And the inward eyes are purified 

For clearer dreams of God. 
'Tis Sorrow's hand the temide-gates 

Of holiness unbars — 
I?y day we only see the earth, 

'Tis night reveals the stars. 

Alas! alas! — the Miastrel'.s fate! — 

His life is short and drear, 
And if he win a wreath at last, 

'Tis but to sh.ide a bier; 
His harp is fed with wasted life, — 

To tears its numbers flow — 
And strung with chords of broken hearts 

Is Dream-laud's splendid woe ! 

But now — a cloud transfigured. 

All luminous, auroral — 
Thou joinest the Tri.sagion 

Of choired immortals choral ; 
While all the little discords hero 

Hut render more sublime 
The joy-bells of the universe 

From starry chime to chime! 

O Father of the harmonies 

Eternally that roll 
Life, light, and love to trillioncd suns. 

Receive the Poet's soul I 
And bear him in thy bosom 

From this vale of tears and storms, 
To swell the sphere-hymns thundered 

From the rushiug, starry swarms! 



768 



CTCLOPMDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBICAN POETBT. 



JJoijn CHampbcll Sljairjj. 

Born in L'mlitlifjowshirc, Scotlaml, in ]810,Sli;iirp was 
educated at the Edinbui-gli Academy, Glasgow Universi- 
ty, and Baliol College, Oxford. In IStJS he was appoint- 
ed Principal of the University of St. Andrews. He has 
published " Kilnialioe, and other Poems" (1864); "Stud- 
ies in Poetry and Philosophy "(1868); "Lectures ou Cult- 
ure and Religion" (1870); and "The Poetic Interpreta- 
tion of Nature " (1877). 



SONNET: RELIEF. 

Who seekctU finds: \vliat shall be his relief 

Who hiith no power to seek, uo heart to pray, 

No sense of God, but hears as best he may, 

A lonely, incoinuiuuicable grief? 

What shall he do 1 One only thing he knows, 

That his life flits a frail uneasy spark 

In the great vast of universal dark. 

And that the grave may not be all repose. 

Bo still, .sad soul! lift thou no passionate cry, 

But spread the desert of thy being bare 

To the full searching of the All-seeing eye: 

Wait — and through dark misgiving, blank despair, 

God ■will come down in pity, and fill the dry 

Dead place with light and life and vernal air. 



itljomas Dunn (fnglisl). 

AMERICAN. 

Born in Philadelphia in 1819, English became a mem- 
ber of the medical profession. He has been a frequent 
contributor to periodical literature, and published in 
1855 a volume of poems, and in 1880 one of spirited 
American ballads, issued by the Messrs. Harper. 



THE OLD MILL. 

Here from the brow of the hill I look, 

Through a lattice of boughs and leaves, 
On the old gray mill with its gambrel roof, 

And the moss ou its rotting eaves. 
I hear the clatter that jars its ivalls, 

And the rushlug water's sound. 
And I see the black floats rise aud fall 

As the wheel goes slowly round. 

I rode there often when I was young, 
With my grist on the horse before, 

Aud talked with Nelly, the miller's girl, 
As I waited my turn at the door. 

And while she tossed her ringlets brown, 
, And flirted and chatted .so free, 



The wheel might stop, or the wheel might go, 
It was all the same to me. 

'Tis twenty years since last I stood 

Oil the spot where I stand to-day. 
And Nelly is wed, aud the miller is dead, 

And the mill aud I are gray. 
But both, till we fall into ruin and wreck, 

To our fortune of toil are bound ; 
And the man goes and the stream flows, 

Aud the wheel moves slowly rouud. 



!^licc anb JJIja'bc (llarji. 

AMERICANS. 

The sisters, Alice Gary (1830-1871) and Pha;be Cary 
(183-t-lS71), were born on a fiirm, eight miles north of 
Cincinnati, 0. Alice began writing for newspapers and 
magazines before she was sixteen. In 1S50 a volume of 
poems by her and Phosbe appeared, edited by Griswold. 
In 1851 the sisters moved to the city of New York, and 
managed, with the strictest economy, to support them- 
selves by their literary efforts. They wroie novels and 
poems, indicating- rare poetic sensibility. Their creed 
was Universalism ; and deep religious feeling character- 
izes the writings of both. There is a jubilant tone in 
Alice's last hymn. 



ALICE'S LAST HYMN. 

Earth, with its dark and dreadful ills. 

Recedes and fades away : 
Lift up your lieads, ye heavenly hills ; 

Ye gates of death, give way ! 

My soul is full of whispered song ; 

My blindness is my sight ; 
The shadows that I feared so long 

Are all alive with light. 

The while my pulses faintly beat. 

My faith doth so abound, 
I feel grow firm beneath my feet 

The green, immortal ground. 

That faith to me a courage gives 

Low as the grave to go ; 
I know that my Redeemer lives — 

That I shall live, I know. 

The palace walls I almost see 

Where dwells my Lord aud King. 

O grave ! where is thy victory ? 
O death! where is thy sting? 



ALICE JXD PH(EBE CART. 



769 



THOU THAT DRAWEST ASIDE THE CURTAIN. 

KnoM "The Loveb's 1>iary." 
Alice Cart. 

Tliou fli.at drawcst aside tlio curtain, 
Letting in the luoou's broad beams, 

Give mo back the sweet, th' uDcertaiu — 
Give, oh give mo back uiy dreams. 

Take the larger light and grander. 

Piercing all things through and through; 

Give me back the uiisty splendor, 
Give mo back flio darling dew. 

Take the harvest's ripo profusions, 

Golden as the evening skies; 
Give mo back my soft delusions, 

Give me back my wondering eyes. 

Take the passionless caresses 

All to wavdess calm allied ; 
Give mo back my heart's sweet guesses, 

And my hopes unsatistiod. 

Thou that mak'st the real too real, 
Oh, I piay thee, get thee hcuco ! 

Give uie back my old ideal, 
Give ni(^ back my ignorance. 



THOU AND r. 
riirKnf: Cary. 

Strange, strange for thee and me. 

Sadly afar ; 
Thou safe beyond, above, 

I 'ucath the star ; 
Thou where tlowers deathless spring, 

I where they fade ; 
Thou iu God's paradise, 

I 'mid time's shade. 

Thou where each galo breathes balm, 

I tempest-tossed ; 
Thou where true joy is found, 

I where 'tis lost : 
Thou conoting ages thine, 

I not the morrow ; 
Thou learning more of bliss, 

I more of sorrow. 

Thou in eternal peace, 

1 'mid earth's strife; 
49 



Thou where care hath no name, 

I where 'tis life : 
Thou without need of hope, 

I where 'lis vain ; 
Thou with wings dropping light, 

I with time's chain. 

Strange, strange for thee and me, 

Loved, loving ever; 
Thou by Life's deathless fount, 

I near Death's river; 
Thou winning Wisdom's love, 

I strength to trust; 
Thou 'mid the sera|)hini, 

I iu the dust. 



NEARER HOME. 

rUCEDE CaBY. 

One sweetly solemn thought 

Comes to mo o'er and o'er ; 
I'm nearer my home to-day 

Thau I ever have been before! 

Nearer my Father's house. 

Where the many mansions be ; 

Nearer the great white throne. 
Nearer the crystal sea ; 

Nearer that bound of life, 

Where we lay our burdens down ; 
Nearer leaving the cross. 

Nearer gaining the crown ! 

But lying dimly between. 

Winding down through the night. 
Lies the dark and uncertain .stream 

That leads us at length to the light. 

Closer and closer my steps 

Come to the dread abysm ; 
Closer Death to my lips 

Presses the awful chrism. 

Father, perfect my trust ! 

Strengthen my feeble faith ! 
Let rae feel as I shall when I stand 

On the shores of tho river of death :- 

Feel as I would were my feet 

Even now slipping over tho brink, — 

For it may bo I'm nearer homo. 
Nearer now than I think! 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



;2lnna ilTotoatt-Bitcljic. 

AMERICAN, 

Anna Cora Ogilen (1830-1870) was born in Bordeaux, 
France, while her father, Samuel G. Ogden, a New York 
merchant, was residing there. In 1820 the family, a large 
one, returned to New York — two of the children having 
been swept overboard and lost on the vo3'age. Anna 
married James Mowatt in 1837. Owing to his financial 
misfortunes, she went on the stage, and had considera- 
ble success as an actress. She wrote plays, poems, and 
novels, showing great facility in composition. Mr. Mow- 
att having been dead some years, she married, in 1S54, 
Mr. Ritchie, editor of the Richmond {Va. ) Enquirer. 
They passed some time in Europe ; but he returned home, 
and left her there. She died at Twickenham, on the 
Thames — having endeared herself to many distinguished 
persons by her intellectual gifts, and her activity in all 
good and charitable works. Mary Howitt wrote of her: 
"How excellent in character, how energetic, unselfish, 
devoted, is this interesting woman !" She wrote "The 
Autobiograpliy of an Actress," which had a large sale ; 
also " Pelayo, a Poem," published by the Messrs. Harper. 



TO A BELOVED ONE. 

A wish to my lips never sprung, 
A. liope in my eyes never sbone, 

But ere it was breathed by my tongue, 
To grant it thy footsteps bave flown. 

Thy joys tbey bave ever been mine, 
Thy sorrows too often thine own; 

Tbe sun that on me still would sbine, 
O'er theo threw its shadows alone. 

Life's garland then let us divide, 
Its roses I'd fain .see thee wear 

For once — but I know thou wilt chide — 
Ah ! leave uie its thoru.s, love, to bear. 



illrs. annc (Cijnclj) Botta. 

AMERICAN. 

Miss Anne Charlotte Lynch was born about 1820, in 
Bennington, Vt. — the dauglitor of a gallant Irishman, 
who, having partaken in the rebellion of 1798, was ban- 
ished from his native country. She was educated in 
Albany. A handsomely illustrated volume other poems 
was published in 1848. She is the author of a valuable 
" Hand-book of Universal Literature," and has contrib- 
uted largely to periodical literature. She was married 
in 1855 to Vineenzo Botta(boni 1818), Professor of Italian 
Literature in the University of the City of New York, 
and a relative of Charles Botta, who wrote a history of 
the American Revolution. 



LOVE WINS LOVE. 

Go forth in life, O friend, not seeking love, — 
A mendicant that witb imploring eye 
And outstretched baud asks of tbe passer-by 
Tbe alms his strong necessities may move : — • 
For such poor love, to pity near allied, 
Tby generous spirit may not ^oop and wait, — 
A .sniipliant whose prayer may be denied 
Like a spurned beggar's at a palace gate ; — 
Bnt tby heart's aiBaeuce lavish, uncontrolled ; 
The largess of thy love give full and free, 
As monarehs in their progress scatter gold ; 
And be thy heart like tbe exbaustless sea. 
That must its ^vealth of cloud and dew bestow,. 
Though tributary streams or ebb or flow. 



IN THE ADIRONDACKS. 

O clouds and winds and streams, that go your 

way, 
Obedient to fulfil a high behest. 
Unquestioning, Avithout or baste or rest, — 
Y'our only law to be and to obey, — 
all ye beings of the earth and air 
That people these primeval solitndes. 
Where never doubt nor discontent intrudes, — 
In your divine accordance let rae share ; 
Lift from my sonl this burden of unrest, 
Take me to your companionship; teach me 
Tbe lesson of your rhythmic lives; to be 
At one with the great All, and iu my breast 
Silence this voice, that asks forever " why. 
And whence, and where ?" — unanswerable cry ! 



THE LESSON OF THE BEE. 

The honey-bee that -wanders all day long 
The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er. 
To gather iu his fragrant winter store, 
Humming in calm content his quiet song, 
Scok.s not alone tbe rose's glowing breast, 
Tbe lily's dainty cup, tbe violet's lips, 
But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips 
The single drop of sweetue.ss closely pressed 
Within tbe poisou chalice. Thus, if we 
Seek only to draw forth the bidden sweet 
In all tbe varied human flowers wo meet 
In the wide garden of humanity, 
And, like the bee, if home the spoil wo bear. 
Hived in our hearts it turns to nectar there. 



MARIAX EFJXS CJiOSS (GEOIIGE ELIOT).— ilATCIliy M. liALLOV. 



771 



iUaiiaii iL'uans Qlioss ^CP'coiijc tfrliotj. 

Mrs. Cross, whose maiden rmiiic was Marian C. Evans, 
was born in Warwiclisliire, England, in 1820. Slic uniU'd 
licrself informally to George Henry Lewes, an eminent 
Enijlisli pliilosopliieal writer (1S17-1S7S), who was sepa- 
i-.ilcd from his wife, but, on account of legal obstacles, 
not regularly divorced. About two years after the death 
of Lewes she married ( ISSO) Mr. Cross, hcrlinancial agent, 
>aid to be iibout twenty years her junior. As Miss Evans 
-he translated Feiierbaeh and Strauss, botli atheistic 
writers. Under the pseudonyme of George Eliot, she 
published "Scenes of Clerical Life" (1858); "Adam 
Bedc" (185'J); "The Mill on the Floss "(1860); "Silas 
-Marner " (ISUl) ; " Romola " (ISUU); " Felix Holt" (1800) ; 
".Middleniareh" (1S71); "Daniel Deronda" (1870). Of 
poetry she has published " The Spanish Gypsy " (1808), 
a drama in blank verse, interspersed with short lyrical 
pieces; "The Legend of Jubal, and other Poems." Her 
reputation as a novelist far exceeds what she has won by 
her poetry. That lacks spontaneity, and she does not 
reach the art to conceal art. The following often-quoted 
passage, in w hich, with an artilicial show of enthusiasm, 
she attempts to glorify the aspiration to an immortality 
of mortal inlluenec, as if it were a desideratum superior 
to that of immortal life (belief in which she rejects), is 
a proof of the way in which she has made the intellect 
dominate tlie natural aficctions and emotions of the heart 
of humanity : 

"Oh, may I join the choir invisible 
or Ihose Immortal dead who Uve again 
In minds made belter by Iheir presence; live 
Iti pubcs stirred to generosity, 
In deeds of daring rcctitnde, in scorn 
Of nili^crable ninis that end with self. 
In lhoui,'hl8 sublime that pierce the night like stars, 
.\nd with their mild persistence nrge men's minds 

To vaster issues So to live is heaven ; 

To make nudying music in the world. 
Breathing a beauteous order that controls 
With groiving sway the growing life of man. 

That better self shall live till human Time 
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb, 
I'nread forever.— r/iM w life to mmt,— 
Which martyred meu have made more glorious 
For us, who strive to follow. May I reach 
That pitrrnt fifaren,~\)c to other souls 
The cup of strength in si>me great agony, 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, 
Begot the smiles that have no cruelly, 
Be the sweet presence of u good diffused, 
And in dilTusion evermore tutensc ! 
So shall I join the choir invisible, 
\\'hosc music is the gladness of the world." 

The real sentiment of these lines is, that the good influ- 
ences, which a man may posthumously shed on the hu- 
man generations, form tlic true, the desirable, the unself- 
ish, and the only real immortality. Were not the mean- 
ing subtly disguised In the gush of a forced enthusiasm, 
ihc passage would hardly have the elTect of poetry upon 
the mind that craves reunion with loved ones gone be- 



fore, and has great philosophical, religious, and psycho- 
physiological reasons for its expectations. As a critic 
in Jliir/ier'x JIaijazine aptly remarks: "The philosophy 
is a pitiful and painful one. Were it truth, it still 
would iiul be poetry; there is in it nothing inspiring: 
no rhythmical attire, no poetic ornament, can redeem it 
from its essential coldness and lifelcssness. In depicting 
the known and the present, George Eliot is almost with- 
out a peer. In attempting to soar into the unseen and 
unknown, she fails. To her there is, in truth, no unseen, 
no unknown."' 



DAY IS DYING. 

FuoM "The Spanisu (ivi-sy." 

Day is ilyiii-; ! Float, O song, 
Down the westward river, 

Keqiiitrins chanting to the Day — 
Diiy, the mighty Giver. 

rii'iced by Kh:ift.s of Time, ho bleeds, 

Melted rubies sending 
Tliioiigli the liver and the sky, 

Karth and heavcu blending ; 

All tlio long-drawn earthy banks 

fp to cIoiid-l;ind lifting; 
Slow between them drifts the swan, 

'Twixt two bcavcus drifting. 

^Ving8 half open, like a flower 

July deeper Hushing, 
Xeck and brea.st as virgin's pure — 

Virgin proudly blushing. 

Day is dying! Float, O swan, 

Down llio ruby river; 
Follow, .song, in re(|uieiu 

To the miglitv Giver. 



illatiuiu ill. Gallon. 

AMERICAN. 

Ballou, the son ofHosca Ballou.a distinguished Uni- 
versalist clergyman, was born in Boston in 1820. He was 
litted for Harvard College, and passed his examination, 
but did not enter. His tastes led him to an editorial 
career. lie became connected with the Olire Bram-li, a 
nourishing weekly paper, in 1838. From that time to 
the present, excepting his visits to Europe, he has not 
lost his connection with the Press a single week. lie is 
the author of "The Trc.isury of Thought," "Biography 
of Hosea Ballou," " The History of Cuba," etc. He has 
also exhibited, in his short lyrical pieces, a marked tasto 
for poetry. 



•772 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



FLOWERS. 

Is there not a sotil bej'oiul utterance, bnlf nynipli, half child, 
in these delicate petals which glow and breathe about the cen- 
tres of deep color?— GnoKGK, Eliot. 

Sweet letters of the angel tongue, 

I've loved ye long anil well, 
And never liavc failed in yonr fragrance sweet 

To find some secret spell, — 
A cliarm that has bound me with witching power, 

For mine is the old belief, 
That, midst your sweets and midst yonr bloom. 

There's a soul in every leaf! 

Illnmined words from God's own hand. 

How fast my pulses beat, 
As each quick sense in rapture comes. 

Your varied sweets to greet ! 
Alone and in silence, I love you best. 

For mine is the old belief. 
That, midst yonr sweets and niitlst your bloom, 

There's a soul iu every leaf! 

Ye are prophets sent to this heedless world. 

The scei>tic's heart to teach — 
And 'tis well to read your lore aright, 

And mark the creed ye preach. 
I never could pass ye careless by, 

For miuo is the old belief. 
That, midst yonr sweets and midst your bloom, 

There's a soul iu every leaf! 



llHlliam €oi Bennett. 

Bennett is the son of a watch-maker, and was born at 
Greenwich, England, in 1830. About 1845 he began to 
contribute poems to the English periodicals ; but it was 
not till the publication of his volume of IStll that he won 
a place in literature. His themes are of domestic joys 
and sorrows, and the beauties of nature; in his treat- 
ment of which ho shows true feeling and a cultivated 
taste. He belongs to the school of Hunt and Keats, and 
occasionally reminds us of Herrick and Wither. Among 
his works are : " War Songs" (1855) ; " Baby May, and oth- 
er Poems on Infants" (18(51); "Songs forSailors" (1873). 



A MAY-DAY SONG. 

Out from cities haste away: 
This is earth's great holiday ; 
Who can labor while the hours 
In with songs are bringing May, 
Through the gaze of buds and flowers, 
Through the golden pomp of day ! 



Haste, oh, haste ; 

'Tis sin to waste 
In dull work so sweet a time ; 

Joy and song 

Of right belong 
To the hours of Spring's sweet prime; 
Golden beams and shadows brown, 
Where the roofs of knotted trees 
Fling a pleasant coolness down, 
Footing it, the young May sees; 
In their dance, the breezes now 
Dimple every pond you jjass ; 
Shades of leaves from every bough 
Leaping, beat the dappled gra.ss ; 
Birds are noisy — bees are humming 
All because the May's a-coming; 
All the tongues of nature shout, 
Out from towns — from cities out ; 
Out from every busy street ; 
Out from every darkened court ; 
Through the ticld-p.aths, let yonr feet 
Lingering go, in pleasant thought; 
Out through dells, the violet's hauutiug ; 
Out where golden rivers run ; 
AVhere the wallflower's gayly flaunting 
In the livery of the sun ; 
Trip it through the shadows hiding 
Down in hollow winding lanes ; 
Where through leaves the sunshine gliding. 
Deep with gold the woodland stains ; 
Where in all her pomp of weeds, 
Nature, asking but the thanks 
Of our pleasure, richly pranks 
Painted heaths and wayside banks. 
Smooth-mown lawus and greeu deep meads; 
Leave the noisy bustling town 
For still glade and breezy down ; 

Haste away 

To meet the May ; 
This is earth's great holiday. 



A THOUGHT. 

"God wills but ill," the doubter said — 
" Lo, time doth evil only bear; 

Give me a sign His love to prove — 
His vaunted goodness to declare." 

The poet jjansed by where a flower, 
A simple daisy, starred the sod, 

And answered, " Proof of love and power- 
Behold — behold a smile of God." 



HESRY HOWAItD BllOWXELL. 



77:5 



tjcurn tjouHiii) Uroumcll. 

AMERICAN, 

In \9iH II volume of verse appeared in New York, in 
which a hi^lier and bolder strain than we had been ac- 
custoniod to seemed to be struck. It was modestly en- 
titled " Lyrics of a Day ; or, Newspaper Poetry by a Vol- 
unteer in the United States Service," and was from the 
pen of llcnry Howard IJrownell (1820-1872). It was not 
his first venture in verse. He had published a volume 
some fifteen years before, givius; ample promise of some- 
thin;; better. He was a native of East Hartford, Conn., 
and a nephew of the well-known Bishop Brownell of 
that State. Henry ;;raduated at Trinity College, taught 
school fur awhile, and when the Civil War broke out 
entered the naval service as a volunteer, and took part 
in several of the great sea-fights in the Southern waters. 
These he has described in two spirited poems of some 
length, entitled severally "The River Fight" and "The 
Bay Fight ;" the latter first published in Ilai-per's JAij.i- 
iitie for December, 1804. They were the outcome of his 
own experiences — of what he had been personally en- 
gaged in— and boar the marks of that earnest sincerity 
and graphic power, which could only come from the un- 
ion of im.ai;inative force with actual recollection. " Some 
of the descriptions," he says, "might seem exaggerated, 
but better authorities than I am say they are not." 
Thomas Bailey Aldrieh writes of him : 

" Little did he crave 
Men's praises. Modestly, with kindly mirth. 

Not end nor bitter, he accepted Sate,— 

Drank deep of life, knew books and hearts of men, 
Cities and cnnips, and War's immortal woe ; 

Tet bore thronjjh all («urh virino in him pate— 
His spirit is not whiler now Ihan then!) 
A simple, loyal nature, pare as snow." 

In the Preface to his Lyrics, Brownell says of thcin : 
" Penned, for the most part, on occasion, from day today 
(and often literally currenic calamn), they may well have 
admitted instances of dilfuseness, contradiction, or repe- 
tition." 



AT SEA: A FRAGMENT. 

On !i niglit like this, how many 

Must sit by the licartli, like me, — 
Hearing the stormy weather, 

Anil thinking of those at sea! 
Of the hearts chilled through with watching, 

The oycs that wearily blink. 
Through tlio lilinding gale and snow-drift, 

For the Lights of Navcsiuk! / 

Like a dream, 'tis all around inc — 

Tlio gale with its steady boom, 
And the crest of every roller 

Torn into mist and spume ; — 
The shroud of snow and of spoon-drift 

Driving like mad a-lec — 



And the huge black hnlk that wallows 
Pcej) in tho trough of the sea! 

T1)0 creak of cabin and bnlk-head — 

The wail of rigging and mast, — 
The roar of tho shrouds, as she rises 

From a deep Ice-roll to tho blast; — 
Tho sullen throb of the engine, 

\Vho.so iron heart never tires, — 
The swarthy faces that redden 

Ity the glare of his caverned tires! 

Till) binnacle slowly swaying 

And nursing the faithful steel^ 
And the grizzled old ([narterniaster. 

His horny bands on tho wheel : — 
I can see it — tho little cabin. — 

Plainly as if I were there — 
The chart on tho old green table. 

The book, and tho empty chair! 



FKOM "THK BAY FICillT." 

MOBILE BAY, AUGUST 5, 18(«. 

Three days through sapphire seas we sailed, 
Tho steady Trade blew strong and free, 

Tho Northern Light his banners paled, 

Tho Ocean Stream our channels wet, 
We rounded low Canaveral's lee. 

And jiassed the isles of emerald set 
In blue Bahain.a's tuninoiso sea. 

By reef and shoal obscurely mapped. 

And haunt ings of the gray sea- wolf, 
The i)aliny Western Key lay lapped 

In the warm washing of the Gulf. 

I?nt weary to tho hearts of all 

Th(i burning glare, the barren reach 
Of Santa Rosa's withered beach, 

And Ponsacola's mined wall. 

And weary was the long patrol, 

The thousand miles of shapeless strand. 

From Brazos to San Bias that roll 
Tliiir drifting dunes of desert sand. 

Yet, coastwise as wo cruised or lay, 
Tho land-breeze still at nightfall bore. 

By beach and fortress-guarded bay. 
Sweet odors friun the em iny's shore, — 



774 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AX^D AMERICAN POETRY. 



Fresh from the forest solitudes, 
Uuchallengeil of his seutry-liiies — 

The bursting of his cypress buds, 

And the \'\arui fragrnuce of his pines. 

Ah, never braver bark and crew, 

Nor bolder flag a foe to dare, 
Had left a wake ou ocean blue 

Since Liou-hearfc sailed Trenc-Ie-mer .' 

But little gain by that dark ground 
Was ours, save, sometime, freer breath 

For friend or brother strangely found, 
'Scaped from tlie drear domain of deatli. 

And little venture for the bold, 
Or laurel for our valiant Chief, 
Save some blockaded British thief. 

Full fraught with murder in his hold, 

Caught unawares at ebb or flood — 
Or dull bombardment, day by day, 
With fort and earthwork, far away, 

Low couched iu suUeu leagues of mud. 

A weary time — but to the .strong 
The day at last, as ever, came ; 

And the volcano, laid so long. 

Leaped forth iu thunder and in llame! 

" Man your starboard battery !" 

Kimberly shouted — 
The ship, with her hearts of oak. 
Was going, 'mid roar and smoke, 
Ou to victory ! 

None of us doubted. 

No, not our dying — 

Farragnt's flag was flying! 

Gaines growled low on our left, 
Morgan roared on our right — 

Before us, gloomy and fell. 

With breath like the fume of hell, 

Lay the Dragon of iron shell. 
Driven at last to the fight ! 

Ha, old sliip! do they tlivill, 

The brave two hundred scars 

You got in tlie River-wars? 
Tliat were leeched with clamorous skill 

(Surgery savage and hard). 
Splinted with bolt and beam, 
Probed in scarfing and seani. 



Rudely linted and tarred 
With oakum and boiling pitch. 
And sutured with si)lice and hitch, 

At tlie Brooklyn Navy-yard! 

Our lofty s]iars were down, 
To bide the battle's frown, 
(Wont of old renown) — 
But every ship was dressed 
Iu her bravest and her best, 

As if for a July day ; 
Sixty flags and three. 

As we floated up the bay — 
Every peak and mast-head Sew 
The brave Red, White, and Blue — 

We were eighteen ships that day. 

With hawsers strong and taut, 
The weaker lashed to port, 

Ou we sailed, two by two — 
That if either a bolt should feel 
Crash through caldron or wheel. 
Fin of brouze or sinew of steel, 

Her mate might bear her through. 

Forging boldly ahead, 
The great flag-.ship led. 

Grandest of sights! 
Ou her lofty mizzen flew 
Our Leader's dauntless Blue, 

That had waved o'er twenty fights — 
So we went, with the first of the tide, 

Slowly, 'mid the roar 

Of tlie rebel guns ashore. 
And the thunder of each full broadside. 

All, how poor the prate 
Of statute and State, 

We once held with these fellows — 
Here, ou the flood's pale-green, 

Hark how he bellows. 

Each blurt' old Sea-lawyer! 
Talk to them, Dahlgren, 

Parrott and Sawyer! 

On. iu the whirling shade 

Of the cannon's siiliiliury breath, 
We drew to the line of death 

That our devilish foe had laid — 

Meshed in a horrible net, 
And baited villanous well. 

Right iu our path were set 
Three hundred tiaps of helj ! 



II LSI! y HO ir.i UT) nnowxELL. 



775 



And there, O sight forlorn ! 
There, wliilo the cannon 

Iliit'tli'd anil tliiUHlered — 
(All, what ill raven 
Flappeil o'er the ship that morn !) — 
Caught by the uniler-death, 
III tlie iliawiiig of a breath, 
Down went danntless Craven, 
He nntl his hnndred ! 

A moment ivc saw her turret, 

A little heel she gave. 
And a thin white spray went o'er her 

Like the crest of a breaking wave- 
In that great iron coffin. 

The channel for their grave, 

The fort their monnment 
(Seen afar in the offing), 
Ten fat hum deep lie Craven 

And the bravest of our brave. 

Then, in that deadly tr.iek, 
A little the ships held back. 

Closing up in their stations — 
There are niiniitcs that fix the fate 

Of battles and of nations 

(Christening the generations) — 
\Vhen valor were all too late. 

If a moment's doubt be harbored — 
I'roni the main-top, bold and brief, 
Came the word of our grand idd Chief — 
" Go on .'"—'twas all he said : 

Our helm was put to starboard, 
And the Uurtford passed ahead. 

Ahead lay the Tcnnemee, 

On our starboard bow he lay, 
Witli his mail-clad consorts three, 

(The rest had rnn up the Bay) — 
There ho was belching steam from his bow. 
And the steam from his throat's abyss 
Was a Dragon's niaildcned hiss — 

In sooth a most ciirsdd craft I — 
111 a sullen ring, .at bay. 
By the Middle Ground they lay, 

Kakiiig us fore and aft. 

Trust ine our berth wa.s hot. 

Ah, wickedly well they shot — 
How their death-bolts howled .ind stung! 

And the water-batteries played 

With their deadly cannonade 
Till the air around us rung; 



So the battle raged and roared — 
Ah, had you been aboard 

To have seeu the tight we made ! 



THE BCRIAL OF THE DANE. 

Blue Gulf all around us. 

Blue sky overhead, — 
Muster all on the quarter. 

Wo must bniy the dead! 

It is but a Danish sailor, 

Kugged of front and form ; 
A common son of the foiec.istle. 

Grizzled with sun and storm. 

His name, and the strand lie liailed from. 
We know — and there's nothing more I 

But perhaps bis mother is waiting 
On the lonely Island of Folir. 

Still, as he lay there dying, 

Keason drifting awieck, 
"'Tis my watch,'' he would mutter, 

" I must go upon deck !" 

Ay, on deck — by the foremast !^ 
But watch and lookout are done ; 

The Union-Jack laid o'er him. 
How quiet he lies in the sun ! 

Slow the ponderous engine, 

Stay the hurrying shaft ! 
Let the roll of the ocean 

Cndle our giant craft — 
Gather around the grating, 

Carry your messmate aft ! 

St.iud in order, and listen 

To tlie lioliest page of prayer! 

Let every foot bo quiet, 
Every head bo bare — 

Tlie soft trade-wind is lifting 
.\ hnndred locks of hair. 

Our captain reads the service, 
(.V little spray on his cheeks). 

The grand old words of buri.il. 

And the tnist a true heart seeks — 

"We therefore commit his body 
To Hie deep" — and. as he speaks, 



776 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BllITISH AND AMERICAN FOETRT. 



Ijauuched from the weather railing, 
Swift as the eyo can mark, 

The ghastly, shotted hammock 
Plunges, away from the shark, 

Down, a thousand fathoms, 
Down into the dark ! 

A thousand summers and winters 
The stormy Gulf shall roll 

High o'er his canvas coffin, — 
Bnt, silence to doubt and dole ! 

There's a quiet harbor somewhere 
For the poor a-wcary soul. 

Free the fettered engine. 

Speed the tireless shaft ! 
Loose to'gallant and top-sail, 

The breeze is fair abaft ! 
Blue sea all around us, 

Bine sky bright o'erhead — 
Every man to his duty ! 

We have buried our dead. 



€)t\\xr\ Hootcs iFackson. 



Gen. Jackson, a native of Athens, Ga., was born in the 
year 1820. He was educated in Edgehill Seminary, Prince- 
ton, N. J., and at Yale College, wliere he graduated in 
1839. A lawyer by profession, he resides in Savannah. 
lie distinguished himself in the Mexican War, and also 
in the war for Southern separation from the Union. He 
was United States Minister at Vienna from 1853 to 1858. 
He is the author of" Tallulah, and other Poems" (1858), 
full of evidences of genuine emotion, finding fit utterance 
in lyrical expression. 



MY FATHER. 

As die the embers on the hearth, 

And o'er the floor the shadows fall, 
And creeps the chirping cricket forth. 

And ticks the death-watch in the wall, 
I see a form in yonder chair. 

That grows beneath the waning light ; 
There are the wan, sad features — there 

The pallid brow, and locks of white! 

My father ! when they laid thee down, 
And heaped the clay upon thy breast, 

And left thee sleeping all alone 
Upon thy narrow couch of rest, 

I know not why I could not weep, 
The soothing drops refused to roll ; 



And oh ! that grief is wild and deep 
Which settles tearless on the soul ! 

But when I saw thy vacant chair, 

Thine idle hat upon the wall. 
Thy book — the j)encilled passage where 

Thine eye had rested last of all — 
The tree beneath whose friendly shade 

Thy trembling feet had wandered forth — 
The very prints those feet had made. 

When last they feebly trod the earth ; 

And thought, while countless ages fled, 

Thy vacant seat would vacant stand ; 
Unworn thy hat, thy book unread, 

Efi'aced thy footsteps from the sand ; 
And widowed in this cheerless world 

The heart that gave its love to thee — 
Torn, like the vine whose tendrils curled 

More closely round the falling tree! — 

Then, father, then for her and thee 

Gushed madly forth the scorching tears ; 
And oft, and long, and bitterly. 

Those tears have gushed in later years; 
For as the world grows cold around, 

And things their real hue take on, 
'Tis sad to learn that love is found 

With thee, above the stars, alone! 



THE LIVE-OAK. 

With his gnarled old arras, and his iron form. 

Majestic in the wood. 
From age to age, in the sun and storm, 

The live-oak long hath stood ; 
With his stately air, that grave old tree. 

Ho stands like a hooded monk, 
With the gray moss waving solemnly 

From his shaggy limbs and trunk. 

.\nd the generations come and go, 

And still he stands upright. 
And he sternly looks on the wood below. 

As conscious of his might. 
But a mourner sad is the hoary tree, 

A mourner sad and lone. 
And is clothed in funeral drapery 

For the long since dead and gone. 

For the Indian hunter beneath his shade 
Has rested from the chase ; 



HENRY BOOTES JACESOX.— FREDERICK LOCKER. 



And he here has wooed his dusky maid — 

Thi' dark-eyed of her race ; 
And the tree is red with the gushing gore 

As the wild deer p.iutiiig dies : 
But the maid is gone, and the chase is o'er, 

And the ohl oak hoarsely sighs. 

In former days, when the battle's din 

Was loud amid the land, 
111 his friendly shadow, few ami thin, 

Have gathered Freedom's band ; 
And the stern old oak, how prond was lie 

To slifltiT hearts so brave ! 
Hut tiny all are gone — the bold and free — 

And ho moans above their grave. 

And the aged oak, with his looks of gray, 

Is ripe for the sacritice ; 
For the worm and decay, no lingering prey, 

Shall he tower toward the ski<'s ! 
He falls, ho falls, to become our guard. 

The bulwark of the free. 
And his bosom of steel is proudly bared 

To bravo the raging sea ! 

■\Vlicn the battle comes, and the cannon's roar 

Booms o'er the shuddering deep. 
Then nobly he'll bear the bold hearts o'er 

The waves, with bounding leap. 
Oh! may those hearts be a.s lirm and true, 

When the war-clouds g.ather dun. 
As the glorious oak that proudly grew 

Beneath our Southern sun. 



MY WIFE AXD CHILI). 

The tattoo beats, the lights are gone, 
The camp around in slumber lies ; 

The night with solemn pace moves on, 
The shadows thicken o'er the skies ; 

But sleep my weary eyes hath flown. 
And s.id, uneasy thoughts arise. 

I think of thee, oh ! dearest one, 

Whose love mine early life hath blcssed- 

Of thee and him — our baby boh— 
Who slumbers on thy gentle breast ; 

God of the tender, frail, and lone. 
Oh ! guard the little sleeper's rest ! 

And hover gently, hover near 

To her, whoso watchful eye is wet — 



The mother-wife ; the doubly dear — 
In whose young heart have freshly met 

Two streams of love so deep and clear. 
And cheer her drooiiing spirit yet. 

Now, as she kneels before Thy throne. 
Oh ! teach her, Kuler of the skies, 

That while, by Thy behest alone, 
Earth's mightiest powers fall or rise. 

No te.ar is wept to Thee unknown, 
No hair is lost, no sparrow dies! 

That Tlioii canst stay the ruthless hand 
Of dark disease, and soothe its pain; 

That only by Thy stern command 
The battle's lost, the soldier's slain ; 

That from the distant sea or land 

Thou bring'st the wanderer homo again. 

And when upon her pillow lone 

Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed. 

May happier visions beam upon 

The brightening currents of her breast, 

Nor frowning look, nor angry tone, 
Disturb tlicf Sabbath of her rest. 

Wherever fate those forms may throw, 
Loved with a passion almost wild; 

By day, hj' night, in joy, or woe, 

By fears op[)resscd, or hopes beguiled, 

From every danger, every foe, 

O God ! protect my wife and child ! 



i^iCLicvick ilocK'cr. 

Locker, boin in 1821, lias published "London Lyrics" 
(1857), a volume of rem de xocir'U', wliiili has passed 
through several editions. He lins also edited a book of 
drawing-room poetry, called " Lyra Elegantiarum." His 
effusions at times seem to be colored somcwliat by his 
reminiscences of Pracd and Holmes; but he not unfrc- 
qucntly daslics into a style of his own. He assigns to 
Holmes the first place among living writers ofirrn dc so- 
cU'lt'. Locker may be read with pleasure, for his gajcty 
is always sweet and genial. 



ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE. 

She passed up the aislo on the arm of her sire, 
A delicate lady in bridal attire. 

Fair emblem of virgin simplicity; 
Half London was there, aiul, my word, there wore 
few 



778 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISB AND AMEltlCAN POETRY. 



1 



That stood by the altar, or hid iu a pew, 

But envied Lord Nigel's felicity. 

O beautiful Bride ! So meek in thy splendor, 

So frank iu thy love aud its trusting surrender, 

Departing you leave us the town dim ! 
May happiness wing to tliy bosom, unsought, 
And may Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought, 
Prove worthy thy worship, — confound hiju ! 



THE UNREALIZED IDEAL. 

My ouly love is always near : 

In country or in towu 
I see her twinkling feet, I hear 

The whisper of her gown. 

Slie foots it ever fair and young; 

Her locks are tied in haste. 
And one is o'er her shoulder flung 

And hangs below her waist. 

She ran before me in the meads ; 

And down this world-worn track 
She leads me on ; but while she le.ads 

She never gazes back. 

And yet her voice is in my dreams, 
To witch me more and more; 

That wooing voice — ah me! it seems 
Less ucar me thau of yore. 

Lightly I sped when hope was high, 
And youth beguiled the chase; 

I follow, follow still, for I 
Shall never see her face! 



Horace Biuncji Sargent. 

AMERICAN. 

Sargent wi\s born in Qiiincy, Mass., in 1831. His father 
was Lucius Manlius Sargent (1T86-1S67), who published a 
volume of poems in liis youth, and in his latter days was 
a writer of essays, full of wit, in the style of Montaigne. 
Horace graduated at Harvard College in 1843, being first 
in his class. He was admitted to tlie Bar in 184.5. He 
recruited the Fiist Massachusetts Cavalry in ISfil, iu the 
war for the Union ; became colonel, aud w.as breveted 
brigadier-general March 21st, 18e4; but was discharged 
from service September 39lh, 1864, for disability from 
wounds in action. Tlie fine poem we quote was written 
in his tent on a saddle-box, the night after a sharp fight- 
ing reconuoissance. His younger brother, Lucius Man- 



lius, Jr., who also had poetical aud artistic tastes, entered 
the army as a surgeon, became captain of cavalry, was 
obliged by a wound in the lungs to go home on a fur- 
lough ; after a brief respite, rejoined his regiment as 
lieutenant-colonel, and was killed in action by a shell, 
December Hth, 18(14, near Bellficld, Va., while leading a 
gallant charge against the enemy. 



AFTER " TAPS." 

Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! 

As I lay with ni5' blanket on. 
By the dim tire-light, in the moonlit night, 

When the skirmishing tight was done. 

The measured beat of the sentry's feet, 

With the jingling scabbard's ring! 
Tramp ! tramp !• iu my meadow-camp 

By the Shenandoah's spring ! 

The moonlight .seems to shed cold beams 

On a row of pale" grave-stones : 
Give the bugle breath, aud th.at imago of Death 

"Will fly from the reveilld's toues. . 

By each tented roof, a charger's hoof 

Makes the frosty hill-side ring: 
Give the bugle breath, aud a spirit of Death 

To each horse's girth will spring. 

Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! 

The sentry before my tent. 
Guards in gloom his chief, for whom 

Its shelter to-uight is lent. 

I am not there. On the hill-side bare 

I think of the ghost within ; 
Of the brave who died at my sword-hand side, 

To-day, 'mid the horrible din 

Of shot and shell and the infantry yell. 
As wo charged with the s.abre drawn. 

To my heart I said, "Who shall be the dead 
In mij tent at another dawn ?" 

I thought of a blossoming .almond-tree, 

Tlie stateliest tree that I know ; 
Of .a golden bowl ; of a parted soul ; 

And a lamp that is burning low. 

Oh, thoughts that kill ! I thought of tlie hill 

In the far-off Jura chain ; 
Of tho two, tlie three, o'er the wide s.alt sea. 

Whose hearts would break with pain: 



HORACE BINNEY SARGENT.— AMELIA B. WELBY.— CORNELIUS G. FEXNEIt. 



779 



Of inv jiriilc ami joy — my ihlcst boy ; 

Of my ilaiiiiij;, the kccoimI — in years; 
Of Willie, whose faco with its pure, mihl grace, 

Milts memory into tears; 

Of their mother, my bride, by tlio Alpine lake's side, 

And the angel asleep in her arms; 
Love, Ueanty, and Truth, w hieli she brought to my 
youth, 

lu that sweet April day of her charms. 

" Halt I Jl /lo tomcii there f The cold midnight air 
And the challenging word chills mo through : 

The ghost of a fear whispers, close to my ear, 
" Is peril, love, coming to you ?" 

The hoarse answer, " Rklief,"' makes the shade of 
a grief 

Hie away, with the stop on the sod. 
A kiss melts in air, while a tear and a prayer 

Conlido my belov(5d to God. 

Tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! 

With a solemn pendulum-swing I 
Though / slumber all night, the fire burns bright, 

And my sentinels' scabbards ring. 



"Boot and saddle!'' is sounding. Our |>ul.scs are 
bounding. 

"To horse!" And I touch wiili my heel 
Black (!ray in the tlanks, and riile down the ranks. 

With my heart, like my sabre, of steel. 



::imclia C. lUclbii. 



AMERICAN 

Mrs. Welby (1821-18.-,3) was born at St. Michael's, Md. 
Hei- miiiilen name was Coppuck. Her ftither removed to 
Louisville, Ky., in ISio, where, in 1838, she wa."! married 
to Mr. Welivy, a merchant of that city. Slic began to 
write for the LouimiUe Juuriial under tlic signature of 
" AnieUa." Poe, not always an uuhiasscil judge, said of 
her: " As for n\xr pncteues (an alisurd hut necessary word), 
few of them approach her." A volume of her poems was 
published iu Boston in 1H44, and went through four edi- 
tions. Another appeared in New York in 1S50. 



TWILIGHT AT SKA:— A FRAGMENT. 

The twilight hours, like birds flew by, 

A.s lightly and as free; 
Ten thousand stars were in the sky. 

Ten tlxMisand on the sea ; 



l'"or every wave, with dimpled face, 
That leaped upon the air, 

Had caught a star iu its embrace, 
And held it trembling there. 



THE GOLDEN RINGLET. 

Hero is a little golden tress 

Of soft, unbraided hair, 
Tlic! all that's left of loveliness 

That once was thought so fair ; 
And yet, though time hath dimmed its sheen, 

ThoMgh all beside hath lli'd, 
I hold it here, .a link between 

Sly spirit and the dead. 

Yes! from this shining ringlet still 

A mournful memory springs, 
That melts my heart, and sheds a thrill 

Tlirougli all its trembling strings. 
1 think of her, the loved, the wept, 

llpou whoso forehead fair. 
For eighteen years, like sunshine, slept 

Tliis golden curl of hair. 

O sunny tress! the joyous brow 

Where thou didst lightly wave, 
With all thy sister-tresses now 

Lies cold withiu the grave: 
That cheek is of its bloom bereft; 

That eye no more is ga.v ; 
Of all her beauties thou art left, 

A S(ditarv rav. 



ConicliuG (3corgc J^ciiiicr. 

, AMERICAN. 

A modest little volume of ciiihtyscven pages, entitled 
" Poems of Many Moods," appeared iu lioston in 1846, 
puhli>lied by Little & Brown. It was from the pen of 
Fenner, of w liom we know little except that he was born 
in Providence in 1833, and died in 1H47 in Cincinnati, 
where lie had been settled as a Unitarian minister. His 
"(iulf-Wecd" shows that young as he was he bad in 
him tlic elements of the true poet. 



WINXIPISEOGEE LAKE. 

The blue waves gently kiss the strand, 
And How nl(Mig the pebbly shore, 

Then rippling leave the verdant land, 

And seek the lake's calm breast once more. 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



No white sail gleams upon the wave, 
Nor motion hath it, save its own 

Bright flow of waters, ami no sound 
Save its own gentle moan. 

And deep and pure the summer blue 

Reflected iu its bosom lies, — 
And mirrored there intensely true 

The thousaud-tinted foliage dyes! 
Far towering stretch the pine-trees round, 

And from those leafy seas so dim 
I hear the wind's mysterious sound. 

Like faint heard augel's hymu. 

Nature, kiud mother! from this scene 

Of holy and serenest calm, 
May the sad soul a lesson glean, 

A Boothiug tone 'mid life's alarm : — 
To bid each stormy passion rest. 

And lie in lake-like, calm repose. 
With sunshiue sleeping on my breast, 

Till death-shades round me close. 



GULF-WEED. 

A weary weed, tossed to and fro, 

Dre.nrily drenched in the ocean brine, 
Soaring high and sinking low, 

Lashed along without will of mine ; 
Sport of the spoom of the surging sea, 

Flung on the foam afar and auear ; 
Mark my manifold mystery, — 

Growth and grace in their place appear. 

I bear round berries, gray and red. 

Rootless aud rover though I be ; 
My spangled leaves, when nicely spread, 

Arborcsco as a truukless tree ; 
Corals curious coat me o'er, 

White and hard in apt array ; 
'Mid the wild waves' rude uproar. 

Gracefully grow I, night and day. 

Hearts there arc on the sounding shore. 

Something whispers soft to me. 
Restless aud roaming for evermore, 

Like this weary weed of the sea ; 
Bear they yet on each beating lireast 

The eternal type of the wondrous whole : 
Growth unfolding amid unrest, 

Grace iuformiug with silent soul. 



(illjomas 33ufl)anan Reab. 



Read (183^-1873) was a native of Chester, Pa. His ad- 
vantages of early education were limited. When four- 
teen, he went to Cincinnati, and became a pupil of the 
sculptor, Clevenger ; but soon turned his attention to 
IJainting, iu which he was financially successful. The 
poetical element was strong in his nature, as some of liis 
shorter pieces show. He published three long poems, 
"The New Pastoral," "The House by the Sea," and 
"The Wagoner of the Alleghanies." Iu 18.50, and again 
in 1853, he visited Italj'. The last few years of his life 
were spent in Rome. Returning to New York, he died 
there after a short illness. Among his ballads "Sheri- 
dan's Ride" has been quite popular; but his "Drift- 
ing" (published 1859) is Hir the most memorable of his 
poems. 

DRIFTING. 

My soul to-daj' 

Is far away. 
Sailing the Vesuviau Bay ; 

My winged boat, 

A bird afloat, 
Swims round the purple peaks remote : — 

Round purjilc peaks 

It sails, aud seeks 
Bine inlets and their crystal creeks, 

Where high rocks throw, 

Throngh deeps below, 
A duplicated golden glow. 

Far, vague, and dim, 

The mountains swim ; 
While on Vesuvius' misty brim, 

W^ith ontstretched hands. 

The gray smoke stands 
O'erlookiug the volcanic lands. 

Here Ischia smiles 

O'er liquid miles ; 
Aud yonder, bluest of the isles. 

Calm Capri waits, 

Her sapphire gates 
Beguiling to her bright estates. 

I heed not, if 

My rippling skiff 
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff ;- 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise. 



THOMAS BUCHANAN RKAD. 



781 



Under the walls 

Where swells and fulls 
The Bay's deep breast at intervals, 

At peace I lie, 

Blown Koflly by, 
A cloud upon this lifiuid sky. 

The day, so mild, 

Is Heaven's own child, 
With Earth and Ocean reconciled; — 

The airs I feel 

Around mo steal 
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 

Over the rail 

My hand I trail 
Within the shadow of the sail ; — 

A joy intense. 

The cooling sense 
Glides down my drowsy indolence. 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Where Summer sings aud never dies, — • 

O'erveiled with vines. 

She glows and shines 
Among her future oil aud wines. 

Her children, hid 

The dill's amid. 
Are gambolling with the gambolling kid ; 

Or down the walls. 

With tipsy calls, 
Laugh on the rocks like water-falls. 

The fisher's child. 

With tresses wild. 
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled. 

With glowing lips 

Sings as she skips. 
Or gazes at the far-oli' ships. 

Yon deep baik goes 

Wlierc Trallic blows, 
From lands of sun to lands of snows ; — 

This happier one. 

Its course is run 
From lands of snow to lands of sun. 

O happy ship. 
To rise and dip. 
With the blue crystal at yonr lip ! 



O happy crew. 
My heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! 

No more, no more 

The worldly shore 
Upbraids mo with its loud uproar! 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise ! 



SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 

Up from tlii^ Soutli at break of day. 

Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 

The all'righted air with a shudder bore. 

Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door. 

The terrible grumble and rumble and roar. 

Telling the battle was on once more, 

And Sheridan twenty miles away ! 

And ■wider still those billows of war 

Thundered along the horizon's bar, 

And louder yet into Winchester rolled 

The roar of that red sea uncontrolleil. 

Making the blood of the listener eold 

As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray. 

Ami Sheridan twenty miles away ! 

Bnt there is a road from Winehcster town, 
A good broad higliway leading down ; 
And there through the Hush of the morning 
A steed, as black as the steeds of night, 
Was seen to pass as with eagle flight — 
As if ho knew the terrible need, 
Ho stretched away with his utmost speed ; 
Hill rose aud fell — but his he.art was gay. 
With Sheridan lifteen miles away ! 



Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south, 
The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth, 
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, 
Foreboding to traitors the doom of <lisaster; 
Tlie heart of the steed and the heart of the master 
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls. 
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; 
Every nerve of tlie charger was strained to full play. 
With Sheridan only ten miles away ! 

Under his spurning feet the mad 
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 



light, 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Au(l the laiulscape sped away bebiiul 

Like ail ocean flying before the wiud ; 

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, 

Swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire. 

But lo ! be is nearing bis heart's desire — 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 

AVitli Sheridan only five miles away ! 

The first that the General saw were the groups 
Of stragglers, and then the retreating trooi)S ; — 
What was done — what to do — a glance told him both : 
Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, 
He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzas. 
And the wave of retreat checked its course there, 

because 
The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 
With foam and with dust the black charger was 

gray : 
By the flash of his eye, and his red nostrils' jjlay, 
He seemed to the whole great army to say : 
" I have bronglit yon Sheridan all the way 
From Winchester down to save the day!" 

Hurrah, hurrah, for Sheridan ! 
Hurrah, hurrah for hor.se and man ! 
And when their statues are placed ou high, 
Under the dome of the Uuiou sky. 
The American soldiers' Temple of Fame, — 
There with the glorious General's name 
Be it said in letters both bold and bright : 
" Here is the steed that saved the day 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight. 
From Winchester — twenty miles away !" 
1S64. 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 

Within the sober realm of leafless trees 
Tlie rnsset year inhaled the dreamy air ; 

Like some tanned reaper iu his hour of ease, 
When all the fields arc lying brown and bare. 

The gray barns, lookiug from their hazy hills 
O'er the dim waters, widening iu the vales, 

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills. 
On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued, 
The hills seemed farther, and the streams sang 
low ; 

As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed 
His winter log with many a muffied blow. 



The endjattled forests, erewhile, armed iu gold, 
Their banners bright with every martial hue, 

Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old 
AVithdrawn afar iu Time's remotest blue. 

On sliimberons wings the vulture tried his iiigbt ; 

The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's com- 
plaint ; 
And like a st.ar, .slow drowning in the light, 

The village church vane seemed to pale and faint. 

The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew — 
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before — 

Silent till some replying warder blew 

His alien horn, and then was beard no more. 

Where, erst, the j.ay within the elm's tall crest 
Made garrulous trouble round her imfledged 
young; 

And where the oriole hung her swaying nest. 
By every light wind like a censer swung; 

Whei-e sang the noisy masons of the eaves. 
The busy swallows circling ever near, 

Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 
An early harvest, and a plenteous year : — 

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast, 
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn. 

To warn the reapers of the rosy east ; — 
All now was sougless, empty, and forlorn. 

Alone, from out the stubble, piped the quail. 
And croaked the crow through all the dreamy 
gloom ; 

Aloue the i>heasant, drumming in the vale. 
Made echo to the distant cottage-loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom upou the bowers; 

The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by 
night ; 
The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers. 

Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of sight. 

Amid all this — iu this mo,st cheerless air. 

And where the woodbine shed upon the porch 

Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stoo<l there. 
Firing the floor with his inverted torch ; — 

Amid all this, the centre of the scene. 

The white-haired matron, with monotonous treaJ, 

Plied the swift, wheel, aud with her joyless mien. 
Sat like a Fate, aud watched the flyiug thread. 



THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.— MATTHEW ARNOLD. 



783 



Slic hail known 'sorrow. He had walked with her, 
Oft Slipped, and broke with her the ashen crust; 

And, in the dead leaves, still she heard the stir 
Of his lilaek niautle trailing in the dnst. 

While yet her cheek was bright with snininer bloom, 
Her country summoned, and she gave her all. 

And twice, war bowed to her his sablo plume — 
Ke-gave the swords, to rnst upon the wall. 

Rc-gave the swords — but not the hand that drew, 
And struck for liberty the dying blow ; 

Xor him who, to his sire and country true, 
Fell "niicl the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on. 
Like the low niurninrs of a hive at noon ; 

Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone, 
Breathed throngh her lips a sad and treinnlous 
tune. 

.\t last the thread was snapped — her head was 
bowed — 

Life dropped the distatl through his hands serene ; 
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shrond. 

While Death and Winter closed the Autumn scene. 



inattl)ciu :^niolti. 



Born at Lalcliani, in England, ]S2'2, Arnold was the 
eldest son of llic celcbriited Dr. Arnold of Kusiby School. 
He has pul)lished several volumes of poems, and a trag- 
edy, entitled " J[cropc.>' As a theological writer he has 
also won distinction. His poetry, though not of the ob- 
vious and popular kind, is evidently the work of a pro- 
found thinker, a sclinliir, and a true poet. In 1857 lie was 
elected Professor of Poetry at Cxford. 



SELF-DEPENDEXCE. 

Weary of myself, and sick of a.sking 
What I am, and what I ought to be, 

.\t the vessel's prow I stand, which bears mo 
Forward, forward o'er the starlit sea. 

.\nd a look of passionate desiro 

O'er the sea, and to the stars I send,— 

"Ye who from my ehlldhood up have calmed me! 
Calm mo, ah ! compose me, to the end I" 

"Ah! onco more," I cried, "ye stars! yo waters! 
Ou my heart your mighty cliariu renew; 



Still, still let me, as I gazo upon you. 
Fed my soul becoming vast like yon." 

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven. 

O'er the lit sea's unquiet way, 
In the rustling night-air came the answer, — 

" Would'st thou he as these are t Lhe as they. 

'' I'nalVrighted by the silence round them, 
I'ndistracted by the sights they see. 

These demand not that the things without tbein 
Yield them love, aransenieut, sympathy. 

"And with joy tho stars perform their shining, 
And the sea its long, moon-silvered roll; 

For alone they live, nor pino with noting 
All the fever of some ditVering soul. 

" Bounded by tlicuKselves, and tinobservant 
In what state God's other works may be, 

In their own tasks all their jiowers pouring, 
These attain the mighty life you see." 

O air-born voice ! long since severely clear, 
A cry like thine in my own heart I hear: 
"Uesolve to be thyself; and know that ho 
Who tind.s him.self loses his misery." 



A WI.>^H. 

I ask not that my bed of death 

From bands of greedy heirs be free ; 

For these besiege the latest breath 
Of fortune's favored sons, not me. 

I ask not each kind soul to keep 

Tearless, when of my death ho hears; 

Let those who will, if any, weep! 

There are worse plagues ou earth than tears. 

I ask but that my death may find 

The frcediun to my life denied ; 
j\sk but the folly of mankind. 

Then, then at last, to <iuit my side. 

.''pare me the whispering, crowdi'd rimm, 
The friends who eouie, and gape, and go; 

The ceremonious air of gloom: — 

All that makes death a hideous show! 

Xor bring to see me cease to live, 
Some doctor full of phrase and fame, 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BBITISB AND AMERICAN POETBY. 



To shake bis sapient head, and give 
The ill lie cauuot cure a name. 

Nor fetcli to take the accustomed toll 
Of the poor sinner bound for death, 

His brother doctor of the soul, 
To canvass with ofiScial breath 

The future and its viewless things — 

That imdiscovered mystery 
Which one who feels death's winnowing wings 

Must needs read clearer, sure, than he ! 

Bring none of these! but let me be. 

While all around in silence lies. 
Moved to the window near, and see 

Once more before my dying eyes. 

Bathed in the sacred dews of morn, 
The wide, aerial landscape spread — 

The world which was ere I was born, 
The world which lasts when I am dead. 

Wliicli never was the friend of one, 
Nor promised love it could not give. 

But lit for all its generous sun, 
And lived itself, and made us live. 

There let me gaze, till I become 
In soul with what I gaze on wed! 

To feel the universe my home ; 
To have before my mind — instead 

Of the sick-room, the mortal strife. 
The tuEmoil for a little breath — 

The pure eternal course of life, 

Not human combatings with death. 

Thus feeling, gazing, let me grow 
Composed, refreshed, ennobled, clear ; 

Then willing let my spirit go 

To work or wait elsewhere or here ! 



DR. ARNOLD. 

O strong soul, by what shore 
Tarricst thou now ? For that force, 
Surely, has not been left in vain : 
Somewhere, surely, afar. 
In the sounding labor-house vast, 
Of being, is practised that strength, 
Zealous, beneficent, firm ! 



Yes, in some far-shining sphere. 

Conscious or not of the past. 

Still thou performest the word 

Of the Spirit iu whom thou dost live. 

Prompt, unwearied, as here ! 

Still thou upraisest with zeal 

The humble good from the ground, 

Sternly repressest the bad, 
Still, like a trumpet dost rouse 
Those who with half-open eyes 
Tread the border-land dim 
'Twixt vice and virtue ; reviv'st, 
Succorest — this was thy work, 
This was thy life upon earth. 



AUSTERITY OF POETRY. 

That sou of Italy who tried to blow. 
Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song, 
Iu his light youth, amid a festal throng, 
Sat with his bride to see a public show. 

Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow 
Youth like a star ; and what to youth belong — 
Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong. 
A prop gave way — crash fell a platform I Lo ! 

'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay! 
Shuddering, they drew her garments ott' — and found 
A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin. 

Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay. 
Radiant, adorned outside ; a hidden ground 
Of thought and of austerity within. 



(Sljomae £akc Ijarris. 

Harris was born at Fenny-Stratford, England, May 1.5, 
1S23, and brought to America when only live years old. 
The career of Harris is a study for the psychologist. 
Impulsive and impressionable, he became at an early age 
a Univcrsalist preacher. In. 18.50 he was one of the lead- 
ers in a movement for a communist settlemeut at Moun- 
tain Cove, Fayette County, Virginia. It was not a suc- 
cess. He lectured for a time in opposition to Christian- 
ity, but tliis phase of his doctrinal belief was transient: 
he cliiimed a new development, became zealously Chris- 
tian, and assumed a theosoijhic authority. He taught 
that in many mediums the possession is of a demoniac, 
ratlier than of an angelic origin; and he admitteil that 
he had at times been under the inlluence of these " sub- 
jective devils," from whom he was now happily free. 
Believing that his inspiration was at length purely divine. 



TEOilAS LAKE HARRIS.— ROBERT LEIGHTOX. 



785 



Uc became somewhat dictatorial in liis tone. There is 
no evidence that lie has not been conscienti(ras and sin- 
cere in all his chan^'cs. As a writer he is forcible and 
eloquent. After preaching In London (1859, 'CO), he re- 
turned to the United States, and orijanized a new society. 
William Ilowitl says of him : " lie arrives at his conclu- 
sions by Hashes of intuition." In wliat appeared to be 
a stale of trance, he dictated his poems, a volume at a 
lime, or as fa.*t as liis amanuensis — generally his publish- 
er—could write. Tlic cliief of these productions are: 
"The Epic of tlie Starry Heavens" (New York, lS5i; 
fourth edition, 1S5.5); "The Lyric of the Morning Land" 
(ia>l);"Tlie Lyric of the Golden Age" (1S5«); "Regina, 
a Song of Many Days " (London, IS-iO). Tlie amazing 
celerity with wliich these remarkable poems, all show- 
ing extraordinary literary facility and bursts of true 
poetry, were written is attested by Mr. S. B. Brittan 
and others. Among tlie distinguished converts who 
followed Harris was Mr. Lawrence Oliphant, an English 
author of note. In ISSO Harris was the cliicf of a so- 
ciety, called "The Brotlicrliood of the New Life," estab- 
lished at Fountain Grove, Santa Rosa, C'al. He says of 
his poems: "They are not mine; they are the work of 
mighty poets in their glory above." In this extraor- 
dinary assertion he was doubtless sincere. 



THE SPIRIT-BOKN.= 

Nigbt overtook mc ero my race was rnn, 

Aud mind, which is the chariot of the sonl, 
AVIioso wheels revolve in radiance like the sun. 

And utter glorious music as they roll 
To the eternal go;il. 
With sudden shock stood still. I heard the hoom 

Of thunders ; many cataracts seemed to pour 
Trom the invisible mountains; through the gloom 

Flowed the great waters ; then I knew no more 
But this, that thought was o'er. 

As one who, drowning, feels liis anguish cease. 

And clasps his doom, a pale but gentlo bride. 
And gives his soul to slumber aud sweet peace, 

Yet thrills when living shapes tho waves divide. 
And niovcth with tho tide, 
So, sinking deep beneath the unknown sea 

Of intellectual sleep, I rested there ; 
I knew I was not dead, though soon to be, 

But still alive to love, to loving care. 
To sunshine and to prayer. 

And Life and Death and Immortality, 
Each of ray being held a separate part ; 



' IlnrrlB clnims to have altered this niider the control of the 
flpirit (if Robert Somlicy, who, It will be rcmembcretl, died In- 
-line. There 1» bulh nielliod and beauty in llic " niadiicfs "— 
Ifeiicb it be. 

50 



Life there, as sap within an o'erlilown tree; 
Death there, as frost, with intermitting smart; 
But in tho secret heart 
Tho sense of immortality, tho breath 

Of being indestructible, the trust 
In Christ, of final trininph over death, 
And spiritual lilo.ssoming from dust. 
Anil heaven with all the just. 

The soul, like some sweet flower-bud yet unblown. 

Lay tranced in beauty in its silent cell : 
The spirit slept, but dreamed of worlds unknown, 

As dreams the clirv.salis within its sludl 
Ere summer breathes her spell. 
But slumber grew more deep till morning broke, 

Tho Sabbath morning of tho holy skies; 
An angel touched my eyelids, and I woke ; 

A voice of tendcrcst love said, " Spirit, rise," — 
I lifti'd up mine eyes, 

And lo ! I was in Paradise. The beams 

Of morning shone o'er landscapes green and gold. 
O'er trees with star-like clusters, o'er tho streams 

Of crystal, and o'er many a tented fold. 
A patriarch — as of old 
Slelchiscdec might have approached a gnest — 

Drew near me, as in reverent awe I bent. 
And liade mo welcome to tho Land of Rest, 

Aud led mc upward, wondering, but content. 
Into his milk-white tent. 



Uobcvt Ccicil)tou. 

A man of genius and true poetical tastes, Leighton 
(18:23-1860) was a native of Dundee, He engaged in 
mercantile pursuits in Liverpool. In 18.5.5 he put forth 
a volume entitled " Rhymes and Poems," which was re- 
printed in IHt'A. Another volume of poems from his pen, 
published in 18G9, was received with much favor. 



YE THREE VOICES. 

Y'e glasse was at my lippc. 
Clear spirit sparkling was; 

I was about to sippe, 

When a voice came from ye glasse ; 
"And wonld'st tlion have a rosio nose, 

A blotched face and vacant eye, 
A shakey frame that fecblio goes, 

A form and feature alle awry, — 
A bodio racked with rheuniic paine, 

A burnt-iip stomach, fevered braine, 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



A muddie niiud that cauimt thiuke ? 
Then driuke, driiikc, driukc."' 

Tbus spoke yo voice and fledde, 

Nor auy more did say ; 
But I tlioiight on wliat it saide, 

And I threw ye glasse away. 

Yo pipe was iu mj' mouth, 

Ye first cloude o'er me broke ; 
I was to blow another, 

When a voice came from ye smoke. 

Come, this must be a hoaxe ! 

Then I'll suuffe if I may not smoke ; 
But a voice came from ye boxe ! 

And thus these voices spoke : 

" And would'st thou have a swimmie hedde, 

A smiikio breath and bbickened tooth ? 
And would'st thou have thy freshness fade, 

And wrinkle up thy leafo of youthe ? 
Would'st have thy voice to lose its tone, 
Thy heavenly note a bagpipe's drone ? 
If thou would'st thy health's channels choke. 

Then smoke, smoke, smoke ; 
Ye pipes of thy sweet music stuffe, 

Then suutfe, snufl'e, snufi'e !'' 

Thus spoke, and fledde they both ; — 

Glasse! pipe! boxe! iu a day. 
To lose them was I lo.ath ; 

Yet I threw them alle away. 

Oh ! would we be alle healthe, alle liglituesse, 

Alle youthe, alle sweetness, freshness, brightness, 
Seeing through every thingo 
With minds like ye crystal springe ; 

Oh! would wf) be just right enoughe — 

Not driuke — not smoke — uot siiulfe. 

Then would our forwarde course 

To the right be as naturall 
As it is, withouten force, 

For stones downwarde to falle. 



BOOKS. 



I cannot think the glorious world of mind. 
Embalmed in books, which I can only see 
In patches, though I read my moments blind, 
Is to be lost to me. 



I have a thought, that as we live elsewhere. 
So will those dear creations of the brain ; 
That what I lose unread, I'll find, and there 
Take uji my joy again. 

01), then the bliss of blisses, to be freed 

From all the wants by which the world is driven ; 
With liberty and endless time to read 
The libraries of Heaven ! 



nioDilr ^^tmoob lHasson. 

AMERICAN. 

Wasson was bom at West Brooktield, Me., May 14tli, 
1S33. He entereil Bowdoiu College, but left before the 
close of his sophomore year. Afterward he studied law, 
but, declining tlie practice, turned his attention to theol- 
ogy. His writings have appeared chiefly in the Atlaulie 
MontJdij. North Ainericart Rcvieio, and Christian Examiner. 
For twelve years he has been a student of the moral and 
political sciences ; and it is understood that he lias on 
hand, nearly complete, an elaborate work on the funda- 
mental principles of political society. An independent 
thinker, well versed in the highest philosophy, Wasson 
has also given evidences of hifih genius as a poet; while 
he has controverted the materialism of the age with a 
skill at once logical and seientiflc. His residence (1880) 
was West Medford, Mass. 



MINISTERING ANGELS TO THE IMPRISONED 
SOUL. 

From an Unpcblished PoEsr. 

The bread of life we bring, immortal Truth, — 
The wine of life, pure joy of Love, we bear ; 

Eat, famished heai't, regain thy godlike youth. 
Drink, arid soul, and thy lost hopes repair ! 

Yet luminous ;cthers hidd the hills of heaven. 
Yet breathe its meadows unexhausted balm, 

Yet, sUiuiug 'mid the groves at morn and even. 
The wise with wise have speech in regal calm. 

unforgotten, how couldst thou forget % 

claimed of heaven, claim thy birth divine. 

O heir to all things, why in misery yet ? 

Put forth thy palm, the very stars are thine! 

In each, iu thee, would fain Existence flower. 

We come to quicken all thy death to bloom. 
Make live in thee all grace, all pe.aee, .all power: 

Fling wide the heart-gates ! give thy brothers 



DAriD ATWOOD WASSON. — WILLIAM CALDWELL nOSCOE. 



787 



ALLS WKLL. 

Swcet-voicc'J Hopo, tliy lino discourso 
Foretold not half life's good to me ; 
Tliy painter, Fancy, hath not force 
To show how sweet it is to be ! 

Thy witching dream 

And picdired scheme 
To match the f;ut still want the power; 

Thy promise brave 

From birth to gi-avo 
Life's boon may beggar in an lionr. 

Ask and receive, — 'tis sweetly said; 

Vet what to plead for know I not ; 
For Wish is worsted, Hope o'ersped, 
And aye to thanks returns my thonght. 

If I would pray, 

I've naULtht to say 
Itiit this, that God may be God still; 

For Him to live 

Is still to give, 
And sweeter than my wish his will. 

wealth of life beyond all bound ! 
Kternity each moment given! 

What plummet may the Present sound ? 
Who promises a future heaven ! 

Or glad, or grieved. 

Oppressed, relieved. 
In blackest night, or brightest day, 

Still pours the flood 

Of golden good, 
And more than heartful fills me aye. 

My wealth is common ; I possess 

No petty province, but the whole; 
What's mine alone is mine far less 
Than treasure shared by every soul. 

Talk not of store. 

Millions or more, — 
Of values which the purse may bold, — 

Hut this divine ! 

I own the mine 
Whose grains outweigh a planet's gold. 

1 have a stake in every star. 

In every beam that fdls the day ; 
All hearts of men luy coffers are. 
My ores arterial tides convey ; 
The fields, the skies. 
And sweet replies 



Of thought to thought are my gold-dnst- 

Tho oaks, the brooks, 

And speaking looks 
Of lover's faith and friendship's trnst. 

Life's youngest tides joy-brimming How 

For him who lives above all years, 
Who all-immortal makes the Now, 
And is not ta'en in Time's arrears : 

His life's a hymn 

The seraphim 
Might bark to hear or help to sing, 

And to bis soul 

The boundless whole 
Its bounty all doth daily bring. 

"All mine is thine," the sky-soul sailli ; 

" The wealth I am, must thou become : 
Richer and richer, breath by breath, — 
Immortal gain, immortal room!" 

And since all his 

)linc also is. 
Life's gift outruns my fancies far, 

And drowns the dream 

In larger stream, 
As morning drinks the morning-star. 



lUilliam Calinvcll Uostoc. 

Roscoc wns born in England in ISSi, and died in 18.50. 
He was the author of " V'iolcnzia," a tragedy published 
anonymously in 1S.5I. His volume of" Poems and Es- 
says, edited, with a Memoir, by his brother-in-law, Rich- 
ard Holt Hutton,'' was published in 18G0. 



TO A FRIEND. 

Sad .soul, whom God, resuming what ho gave, 
Medicines with bitter anguish of the tomb, 
Cea.se to oppress the portals of the grave. 
And strain thy .aching sight across the gloom. 
The surged Atlantic's winter-beaten wave 
Shall sooner pierce the i)urpose of the wind 
Than thy storm-tossed and heavy-swelling mind 
Grasp the full import of his means to save. 
Through the dark night lie still; God's faithful 

grace 
Lies hid, like morning, underneath the sea. 
Let thy slow hours roll, like these weary stars, 
Down to the level ocean patiently; 
Till His loved hand shall touch the eastern bar<. 
And His full glory shine upon thy face. 



788 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETKT . 



(Uaroliue ^tljerton fHason. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Mason was bom in Marblchead, Mass., in 1833. 
She was a daughter of Dr. Calvin Brit;'gs of tliat town. 
She married Charles Mason, Esq., a lawyer of Fitchburg, 
Mass. In 1853 she published a volume of her verses, en- 
titled " Utterance : a Collection of Home-Poems." They 
are of superior merit, showing a genuine vein of poetic 
sentiment, with a command of appropriate language, rich 
in its simplicity. 

NOT YET. 

Not yet : — along the purpling sky 

We see the dawning ray, 
But leagues of cloudy distance lie 

Between u.s anil the day. 

Not yet : — the aloe waits serene 

Its promi.sed advent hour, — 
A patient century of green 

To one full perfect flower. 

Not yet : — no harvest song i.s snng 
In tlie sweet ear of spring, . 

Nor hear we, while the blade is young, 
The reaper's sickle swing. 

Not yet: — before the crown, the cross; 

The struggle ere the prize ; 
Before the gain the fearful loss, 

And death ere Paradise. 



BEAUTY FOE ASHES. 

I dare not echo those who say 
That life is but a troubled way, 
A barren waste devoid of charms. 
And ripe with dangers and alarms; 

A cross to take up and to bear ; 
A vapor chilly with despair ; 
A desert where no roses blow, 
Nor any healing waters flow. 

Is life a cross? O burden blessed 
To those of God's dear love possessed ! 
Let me on him but la.y it down, 
And lo ! my cross becomes my crown. 

Is it a, desert vast and dim ? 
On every side beholding him, 
The barren wilderness doth bloom 
And sweeten with a sweet perfume. 



Is it a vapor chill with death ? 
I'll breathe it with a trusting breath ; 
'Tis health to me ! 'Tis sweet and rare 
As Araby's best spices are. 

Oh, only^ lie who lets his smart 
Grow cankered in a thankless beart. 
Dares scout with carping discontent 
His thousand blessings daily sent. 

And he who lias and would iucrease 
Within his soul God's jierfect peace, 
Because the Lord is made his song, 
May well go singing all day long. 



AN OCTOBER WOOD HYMN. 

My soul has grown too great to-day 

To utter all it would. 
Oh ! these preventing bonds of clay ! 
Wheu will my spirit learn to say, 

Unfettered, all it shonld ! 

I'm out in the free wood once more. 
With whispering boughs o'crhead ; 

Strange influences round me steal, 

And yet, what deepliest I feel 
Must ever bo unsaid. 

These glowing, glowing autumn liours! 

These wildering, gorgeous days ! 
This dainty show of gorgeous flowers. 
As though with dusty, golden sliowers 

The air were all ablaze ! 

This liviug, shining, burnished wood, 

Tricked with a thousand dyes! 
Its strong ribs laced with crimson sheen, 
And decked with gold and glittering green. 
Like kingly tapestries ! 

This tangled roof of braided light 

Above mo richly flung ! 
These glimpses of the sky's soft blue! 
This quivering sun.shine melting through ! 

The wide earth, glory-hung ! 

How shall I utter all I would ? 

Alas ! my struggling sonl — 
It strives to grasp these glorious things 
As strives a bird on broken wings 
to its goal. 



JOBN KAXDOLPU TUUMPSOX. 



789 



3ol)ii lutuDolpI) <iljoiin]Son. 

AMERICAN. 
Thompson (1S2;S-1ST2), a imlivc of Uiohmoiul, was edu- 
cated at tlic Univei-f ity of Vii-;;iiiia. lie Btudied law, and 
was admitted to tlie Bar in lS-15 ; but foreook it for llio 
more congenial pursuit of literature, lie coutributed 
largely to the Suul/iem Literarij J/cMcniycc, which he ed- 
ited from 1*17 to 1S(;1. Durinj: the Civil War he went 
to England, where he contributed to lUackwood's Maga- 
zine and other jieiiodieals. lie was afterward engaged 
on the editorial staff of the Sew York Evening That. 



MUSIC IN C.VMP. 

Two armies covered hill luul plain 
AVhero Rappahannock's waters 

Kun deeply crimsoned with the staiu 
Of battle's receut slaughters. 

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents 

In uieails of heavenly aznic, 
And each drcail gun of tho elements 

Slept in its hid embrasnre. 

Tho brcczo so softly blew, it made 

No forest leaf to qnivcr, 
Ami the smoke of the random cannonade 

Rolled slowly from the river. 

And now where circling hills looked down, 

With cannon grimly planted, 
O'er listless camp and silent town 

The golden sunset slanted, — 

When on the fervid air there came 
A strain, now rich, now tender : 

The music seemed itself aflame 
With day's departing spleudor. 

A Federal band, which eve and morn 
riayod measures bravo and nimble, 

Had just struck up with flute and horn, 
And lively clash of cymbal. 

Down flocked the soldiers to tho banks, 

Till, margined by its pebbles, 
One wooded shore was blue with " Yanks," 

And oMo was gray with "Rebels." 

Then all was slill ; and then the band. 
With movement light and tricksy, 

Made stream and forest, hill and strand. 
Reverberate with "Dixie." 



The conscious stream, with burnished glow, 

Went proudly o'er its pebbles. 
But thrilled throughout its deepest How 

With yelling of tho Rebels. 

Again a jiause, and then again 

The trumpet iiealed sonorous. 
And " Yandle Doodle "was the strain 

To which the shore gave chorus. 

The laughing ripple shoreward flew 

To kiss the shining pebbles : 
Loud shrieked the swarming " Boys in Blue" 

IJeliance to the Rebels. 

And yet once more the bugle sang 

Above the stormy riot ; 
No shout upon tho evening rang, 

There reigned a holy quiet. 

Tho sad, slow stream its noi.sclcss Hood 
Poured o'er the glistening i)ebbles ; 

All silent now the Yankees stood. 
All silent stood the Rebels. 

No uurcspousivo sonl had heard 
That plaintive note's appealing. 

So deeply "ilome, Sweet Home" had stirred 
Tho hidden founts of feeling. 

Of blue or gray, the soldier sees, 

As by the wand of fairy, 
The cottage 'neath tho live-oak trees. 

The cabin by the prairie. 

Or cold or warm his native skies 

Bend in their beauty o'er him ; 
Seen through tho tear-niist in his eyes. 

His loved ones stand lieforo him. 

As fades tho iris after rain 

In April's tearful weather. 
The vision vanishe<l, as the strain 

And daylight died together. 

But memory, waked by music's art, 

Expressed in simplest numbers. 
Subdued tho sternest Yankee's heart, 

Made light the Rebel's slumbers. 

And fair the form of Music shines, 

That bright, celestial creature. 
Who still 'mid war's embattled linos 

Gave this one touch of nature. 



790 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



(CoBciitr}) |Jatmorc. 

Coventry Kearsey Digiiton Patmore was born in Wood- 
ford, England, in 1823. He published a volnme of poems 
in 1844; and between 1854 and 1803, "The Angel in the 
House," issued in four parts; "The Betrothal," "The 
Espousal," "Faithful Forever," and "The Victories of 
Love." He occupied a position in the literary depart- 
ment of the British Museum. 



FROM "FAITHFUL FOREVER." 

All I am sure of Heaven is this ; 
Howe'er the mode, I shall not miss 
One true delight whieh I have known : — 
Not ou the changeful earth aloue 
Shall loyalty remain unmoved 
Toward everything I ever loved. 

So Heaven's voice calls, like Rachel's voice 
To Jacob in the field, Rejoice ! 
Serve on some seven more sordid years, 
Too short for weariness or tears ; 
Serve on ; then, O beloved, well-tried, 
Take me forever for thy bride ! 



THE TOYS. 

My little son, who looked from thoughtful eyes, 
And moved and spoke in quiet growu-np wise, 
Having my law the seventh time disobeyed, 
I struck him, and dismissed, 
With hard words and uukissed, — 
His mother, who was patient, being dead. 
Then, fearing lest bis grief should hinder sleep, 
I visited his bed ; 
But found him slumbering deep. 
With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet 
From his late sobbing wet; 
And I, with moan. 

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own ; 
For on a table drawn beside his head 
He had put, within his reach, 
A box of counters, and a red-veined stone, 
A piece of glass abraded by the beach, 
And six or seven §hells, 
A bottle with bluebells, 

And two French copper coins ranged there with care- 
ful art. 
To comfort his sad heart. 
So, when that night I prayed 
To God, I wept and said : 

Ah! when at last we lie with tranced brealli, 
Not vexing Tliee in death, 



And thou rememberest of what toys 

We made our joys, 

How weakly understood 

Thy great commanded good, — 

Then, fatherly, not less 

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, 

Thon'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 

" I will be sorry for their childishness." 



illvs. Saral) lane £ippincott. 



The maiden name of Mrs. Lippincott w.a3 Clarke, and 
she gained her literary reputation under the pen-name 
of Grace Greenwood. She was born in 1833 iu Ponifrey, 
Onondaga County, N. Y., and in 1853 married Mr. Lip- 
pincott of Philadelphia. She has published a volume of 
poetry and several volumes in prose ; and is known as a 
graceful, vivacious writer. Latterly she has resided iu 
Colorado. 



THE POET OF TO-DAY. 

More than the sonl of ancient song is given 
To thee, O poet of to-day ! — thy dower 

Comes from a higher than Olympian heaven, 
In holier beauty and in larger power. 

To thee Humanity, her woes revealing, 

Would all her griefs and ancient wrongs rehearse ; 

Would make thy song the voice of her appealing. 
And sob her mighty sorrows through thy verse. 

While in her season of great darkness sharing. 
Hail thou the coming of each promise-star 

Which climbs the midnight of her long despairing. 
And watch for morning o'er the hills afar. 



<. 



Wherever Truth her lioly warfare wages, 

Or Freedom pines, there let thy voice be heard. 

Sound like a prophet-warning down the ages 
The human utterance of God's living word! 

But bring not thou the battle's stormy chorus, 
Tlie tramp of armies, and the roar of fight. 

Not war's hot smoke to taint the sweet morn o'er us, 
Nor blaze of pillage, reddening up the night. 

Oh, let thy lays prolong that angel-singing. 
Girdling witli music the Redeemer's star. 

And breathe God's i>eace, to earth glad tidings bring- 
ing 
From the near heavens, of old so dim and far! 



GEORGE HENRY BOEER.— THOMAS WEXTJTORTH HIGGINSOX. 



791 



(George tjcurn Colvcr. 

AMERICAN. 

BoUcr, born in Pliiladelpliia in 1823, was graduated at 
Princeton Colleije, N. J., in 1842. He travelled in Eu- 
rope, and, returning home, published in 1847 his first 
volume of poems. In 1S4S he produced " Cnlaynos, a 
Tragedy " — played with success in the United Stales and 
in England. He wrote other plays, showing line dra- 
matic talent ; and in 1870 published his " Plays and 
Poems," in two volumes. In 1S71 he was sent United 
.Sliites Minister to Constantinople by President Grant; 
a jiost whioli he resigned in 1877. 



DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. 

IX MEMOnV OF GENEIi.\L PHILIP KEARXKY, KILI.Kl) 
SEPTE.MBER 1, 18C2. 

Close his eyes; liis work is clone! 

What to him is frieiul or foeman, 
IJis<> of moon, or set of snn, 

llanil of man, or kiss of woman ? 
Lay hira low, lay biin low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares be f he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

As man ma.v, lie fongbt his light, 

Proved his trntli by liis endeavor; 
Let him sleep in solemn night, 
Sleep forever and forever : 

Lay him low, lay him low, 
III the clover or the snow ; 
What cares he f he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

1"()1(1 liini in his country's stars, 

Kiill the (Irnm and fire the volley! 
What to him are all onr wars, 

What but dealh-beinockiug folly f 
Lay him low, lay bim low, 
III the clover or the snow! 
What cares be ! bo cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

Leave him to God's watching eye, 

Trust bim to the baml that niaile bim. 
Mortal love wec|is idly by : 

God alone has power to aid bim. 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow! 
What cares bet bo cannot know: 
Lay bim low ! 



y! 1)0111115 lllcutujoi'tl) tlujtVniGoii. 

AMERICAN 

Born in Cambridge, Mass., in 182:!, Iliggiiison was grad- 
uated at the College in 1841. He studied theology, and 
was settled as pastor in Newbniyport in 1847, and in 
Worcester from 1852 to 1858. When the Civil War broke 
out he gave up preaching, and was appointed colonel of 
the lii'st black regiment raised in South Carolina. Hav- 
ing been wounded, he was discharged for disability, Octo- 
ber, 1804. He has since resided at Newport, K. I., or at 
Cambridge. He is the autlior of "Out- door Papers" 
(18C;i); "Malbone, an Oldport Konianec" (18I)'J); "Army 
Life in a Black Kegiment'' (1870); "Atlantic Essays" 
(1871); "Harvard Memorial Biographies ;" "History of 
the United States for Schools," etc. His prose style is 
fresh, graceful, and compact; and his poem "Decora- 
tion" establishes his claim as a poet. The poem, enti- 
tled "Gifts," which we append, is from the pen of his 
wife, Mary Tli.acher Higginson, daughter of Peter and 
Margaret (Potter) Thacher of West Newton, Mass. 



'I WILL ARISE, AND GO TO MY FATHER." 

To thine eternal arms, O God, 

Take us, tbiiie erring children, in ; 
From dangerous paths too holilly trod. 

From wandering thoughts and dnams of sin. 

Those arms were round onr childLsh ways, 
A guard through helpless years to be : 

Oh, leave not our maturer days, — 
We still are liel|)lcss without thee! 

We Irnsleil hope and pride and strength; 

Onr strength proved false, our pride was vain ; 
Onr dreams have faded all at length, — 

We come to thee, O Lord, again ! 

A guide to trembling steps yet be ! 

Give ns of thine eternal powers! 
So shall our paths all lead to thee. 

And life smile on, like childhood's hours. 



GIFTS. 



A tlawle.ss pearl, snatched from an ocean cave 

Remote from light or air, 
And li.v the mad caress of stormy wave 

Made but more pure and fair: 

A diamond, wrested from earth's bidden zone, 

To whoso recesses deep 
It rlnng, and bravely flashed a ligbt Hint shone 

Where dusky shadows cree]i ; 



792 



CTCLOFMDIA OF BEITISR AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



A sappbire, iti wbose heart the teuder rays 

Of summer skies liavo met; 
A riiby, glowiug with the anient blaze 

Of suns that never set : — 

These priceless jewels shone, one happy day, 

On my bewildered sight : 
" We bring from earth, sea, sky," they seemed to say, 

■'Love's richness and delight." 

"For mo?" I trembling cried. ''Tluni nced'st not 
dread," 

Sang heavenly voices sweet ; 
And niiseeu hands placed on my lowly head 

This crown, for angels meet. 



DECORATION. 

"Manibus date lilia pleuis." 

'Mid the flower-wreathed tombs I stand, 
Bearing lilies in my hand. 
Comrades ! iu what soldier-grave 
Sleeps the bravest of the brave ? 

Is it he who sank to rest 
With his colors round his breast ? 
Friendship makes his tomb a shrine, 
Garlands veil it ; ask not mine. 

One low grave, yon trees beneath. 
Bears no roses, wears no wreath ; 
Yet uo heart more high and warm 
Ever dared the battle-storm. 

Never gleamed a pronder eye 

Iu the front of victory ; 

Never foot had firmer tread 

On tlio field where hope lay dead, 

Tban are hid within this tond), 
Where the nn tended grasses bloom ; 
And no stone, with feigned distress. 
Mocks the sacred loneliness. 

Youth and beauty, dauntless will, 
Dreams that life could uo'er fulfil, 
Here lie buried, — here in peace 
Wrongs and woes have found release. 

Turning from my comrades' eyes, 
Kneeling where a woman lies, 
I strew lilies on the grave 
Of the bravest of the brave. 



THE EEED IMMORTAL.' 

Reed of the stagnant waters ! 

Far in the Eastern lauds 
Rearing thy peaceful daughters 

In siglit of the storied Bauds ; 
Armies and fleets defying 

Have swept by th.at quiet spot, 
But thine is the life undying, 

TLeirs is the tale forgot. 

Tlio legions of Alexander 

Are scattered and gone and fled ; 
And the Queen, who ruled commander 

Over Antony, is dead ; 
The marching armies of Cyrus 

Have vanished from earth again ; 
And only the frail papyrus 

Still reigns o'er the sons of men. 

Papyrus ! reed immortal ! 

Survivor of all renown ! 
Thou heed'st not the solemn i)ortal 

Where heroes and kings gn down. 
The nionarchs of generations 

Have died into dust away : 
O I'eed that ontlivest nations. 

Be our symbol of strength to-day ! 



Hobn-t (Hollncr. 

Born at Kcighley, Yorksliirc, England, in 1833, CoUyer 
left school at seven to luaru his father's trade — that of ii 
blacksmith. He worked at the anvil till 18.50, whun be 
emigrated to America. He followed the blacksmith's 
trade at Shocmakcrtown, Pa., till 1850, when he went to 
Chicago. He had been a Wesleyan and local preacher 
iu England, and continued to preach in the United States 
some nine years, when he was silenced for heresy. But 
his talents were too conspicuous to be repressed. He 
became pastor of a Unitarian Church in Chicago, and 
soon rose to be one of the most popular preachers in 
the country. In 1879 he was invited to take charge of a 
church in New York, and removed to that city. He is 
the author of" Nature and Life," "A Man in Earnest," 
and other esteemed prose works. His poem, " Saxon 
Grit," shows his literary versatility. It was read at the 
New England dinner, December 22d, 1879, and iu intro- 
ducing it, after a brief speech, lie said : "As I found my 
thought going offin a sort of swing, and taking the shape 
of an old ballad, I concluded to drop into poetry, though 
it ' comes more expensive,' as Mr. Wegg says." 



' Pliny tells lis that the Egyptians regarded the pnpyrns as a 
symbol of immortality. 



nOBERT COLLY ER.— GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. 



793 



SAXON GRIT. 

Worn with the battle, by Stamford town, 

Fifiliting the Norman, by Hastings Bay, 
llanilil, the Saxon's, snu went down, 

While the acorns were falling one autumn day, 
Then the Norman said, ■' I am lord of the laud : 

By tenor of conquest here I sit ; 
I will rule you now with the iron baud ;" 

But ho had not thought of the Saxon grit. 

He took the laud, and ho took the men, 

.\iid burnt the homesteads from Trent to Tync, 
Made the freemen serfs by a stroke of the pen, 

Eat np the corn and drank the wine, 
.\nd said to the maiden, pure and fair, 

'• You shall be my Icuian, as is most fit, 
Your Saxoii churl may rot in his lair;" 

But he had not measured the Saxou grit. 

To the merry green-wood went bold Robin Hood, 

With his strong-hearted yeomanry ripe for the 
Driving the arrow into the marrow [f'ay. 

Of all the proud Normans who came in his way ; 
I Scorning the fetter, fearless and free, 

Winning by valor, or foiling by wit. 
Dear to our Saxou folk ever is he, 

This merry old rogue with the Saxon grit. 

I And Kelt the tanner whipped out his knife. 

And Watt the smith his hammer brought down, 
I'or ruth of the maid he loved better than life, 

And by breaking a head, made a hole in the Crown. 
From the Saxon heart rose a mighty roar, 

■'Our life shall not be by the King's permit; 
We will light for the right, we want no more ;" 

Then the Norman fonud out the Saxon grit. 

I For slow and sure as the oaks had grown 
I From the aecuiis falling that autumn day. 
So the .Saxon manliond in tlicupe and town 

To a nobler stature grew alway; 
Winning by inches, holding by clinches, 

Standing by law and the human right. 
Many times fiiling, never once quailing, 
.So the now day came out of the night. 

'I'lieu rising afar in the Western sea, 

.V r.cw world stood in the morn of the day, 

i;>ady to wi'lcome the brave ;iud free, 

Who could wrench out the heart and ninrcli away 

lioui the narrow, contracted, dear old land. 
Where the poor are held by a cruel bit, 



To anijiler spaces for heart and hand — 
Aud hero was a chance for the Saxou grit. 

Steadily steeling, eagerly peering, 

Trusting in God your fathers came, 
Pilgrims and strangers, fnuitiiig all dangers, 

Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts atlame. 
Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter, 

Aud hiding their freedom in Holy Writ, 
They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy, 

An<l made a new Moses of Saxon grit. 

They whittled aud waded through forest and fen, 

Fearless as ever of what might befall ; 
Pouring out life for the nurture of men ; 

In faith that by manhood the world wins all. 
Inventing baked beans an<l no end of nuichines ; 

Great with the ritle and great with the axe — 
Sending their notions over tlio oceans. 

To fill empty stomachs aud straighten bent backs. 

Swift to t.ako chances that end in the dollar. 

Yet open of hand when the dollar is made. 
Maintaining the meetin', exalting the scholar. 

But a little too anxious about a good trade ; 
This is young Jonathan, son of ohl John, 

Positive, peaceable, firm in tlic right, 
Saxou men all of us, may wo be one, 

.Steady for freedom, and strong in her might. 

Then, slow and sure, a.s the oaks have grown 

From the acorns that fell on that .autunm day. 
So this new manhood in city and town. 

To a nobler stature will grow alway ; 
Wiiniing by inches, holding by clinches, 

.Slow to contention, and slower to quit. 
Now and then failing, never ouce quailing, 

Let us thank God for the Saxon grit. 



(!?coiqc UVilliam (Uurtii; 



Bom in Providence, R. I., February 34lh, 1824, Curtis 
received his early education at Mr. Weld's ecliool, Ja- 
maica Plain, Mass. In 1S42 he joined the Brook Farm 
Association, in West Roxbury, where he passed a year 
and a half. In 1S4G he went to Europe, passing four 
years in study and travel, and extending Ids tour to 
Egypt and Syria. On his return home he published 
"Nile Notes of ii Howadji." He was connected with 
Piiliiam'n Mimthlij, for wliich he wrote largely and well; 
but having taken a pecuniary interest in the pul)lication, 
lie sank his private fortune in saving the creditors from 
loss, lie became a public lecturer in 1853, and was high- 



794 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



iy successful. In all the Presidential campaigns since 
1856 he has been prominent as a politician, far above all 
the arts by which politicians usually tlirive. There is 
no public man more trusted by the best citizens. For 
some years Mr. Curtis has controlled certain departments 
in Harper's Weekly and Harper^s JIugazine ; to which liis 
fresh and vigorous style always imparts interest. 



EGYPTIAN SERENADE. 

Sing ngaiu the soug you sung, 
When we were together young — 
When there were hut you and I 
Uuderncath the summer sky. 

Sing the song, and o'er and o'er, 
TliongU I know that uevermoro 
Will it seem the song you sung 
When we were together youug. 



PEARL SEED. 

Sougs are sung iu my mind 

As pearls are formed iu the sea; 

Each thought with thy name entwined 
Becomes a sweet song in me. 

Dimly those pale pearls shine, 

Hidden under the sea, — 
Viigne are those sougs of mine, 

So deeply they lie iu me. 



EBB AND FLOW. 

I walked beside the evening sea. 
And dreamed a dream that could not be; 
The waves that plunged along the shore, 
Said only — " Dreamer, dream no more !" 

But still the legions charged the beach, 
Loud rang their hattlo-ory, like speech ; 
But changed was the imperial strain ; 
It murmured — " Dreamer, dream again!" 

I homeward turned from out the gloom, — 
That sound I heard uot iu my room ; 
But suddenly a sound that stirred 
Within my very breast, I heard. 

It was my heart, that like a sea 

Withiu my breast beat ceaselessly : 

But like the waves along the shore. 

It said — " Dream on !" and " Dream no more !" 



MAJOR AND MINOR. 

A bird sang sweet and strong 
In the top of the highest tree ; 

He sang — " I pour out my soul iu song 
For the summer that soon shall be." 

But deep in the shady wood 
Another bird sang — " I pour 

My soul on the solemn solitude 

For the springs that return no more." 



MUSIC r THE AIR. 

Oh listen to the howling sea, 

That beats on the remorseless shore ; 

Oh listen, for that sound shall be 

When our wild hearts shall beat no more. 

Oh listen well, and listen long! 

For, sitting folded close to me. 
You could not hear a sweeter song 

Than that hoarse murmur of the sea. 



SjibiicM iTIjoiiipson Dobcll. 

Dobell (183J-1874) was a native of Craubrook, Eng- 
land. His earliest poetical productions appeared under 
the pscudonyme of "Sydney Yendys." His dramatic 
poem, "Tlie Roman," was published in 18.50; "Balder, 
Part the First," in 18.55. In 1871 he published a spirited 
political lyric, entitled "England's Day." Miss liroute, 
author of "Jane Eyre," was one of liis friends and corre- 
spondeuts. Y'eudys is Sydney spelled backward. 



HOW'S MY BOY? 

"Ho, sailor of the sea! 
How's my boy — my boy ?" 
"What's your boy's name, good wife, 
And iu what ship sailed he ?" 

"My boy John — 

Ho that went to sea — 

What care I for the ship, sailor ? 

My boy's my boy to me. 

Y'ou come back from sea. 

And uot know my John f 

I might as well h.ave asked some landsman 

Yonder dowu in the town. 

There's not au ass in all the parish 

But he knows my John. 

How's my Tjoy — my boy ? 



STDXEY THOMPSOX VOBELL.— ADELINE D. T. WHITXET. 



795 



And unless you let me know, 

I'll Kwcar you are no sailor, 

nine jacket or no — 

Brass buttons or no, sailor, 

Anchor and crown or no ! — 

Sure Lis ship was the JolUj Briton — " 

"Speak low, woman, speak low !" 

"And why slionld I speak low. sailor. 
Abont my own boy John f 
If I was loud as I am pronil, 
I'd sing liim over the town ! 
Why should I speak low, sailor ?" 

"That good ship went down!" 

"How's my boy — my boy f 

What care I for the ship, sailor? — 

I was never aboard her ! 

Bo she afloat or be she aground. 

Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound 

Her owners can afford her ! 

I say, how's my John V — 

" Every man ou board went down, 
Every man aboard her !'' 

" How's my boy — my boy f 
What care I for the men, sailor ? 
I'm not their mother — 
How's my boy — my boy ? 
Tell mo of him and no other! 
Hnw's my boy — my boy f" 



AMERICA. 

Nor force nor frand shall sunder us ! Oh ye 
Who north or south, on east or western laud, 
Native to noble sonuds, say truth fur trull). 
Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God 
I'ur God ; oh ye who in eternal youth 
Speak with a living and creative flood 
Tiiis universal Engli.sh, and do stand 
Its breathing book ;• live worthy of that grand 
Heroic utterance — parted, yet a whole, 
I'.ir, yet unsevered, — ehihiren brave and free 
I H' the great mother-tongue, and yo shall bo 
Lords of an empire wide as Sliakspeare's soni, 
Sublime as Milton's immemorial tht^me, 
And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's 
dream. 



vllicliiic D. (jr. Il1l)itncij. 



Adeline Dnttoa Train was born in Boston in IS^, and 
married iu lS>i3 to Seth D. Whitney. Her residence 
(18S0) was Milton, Mass. She is known chiefly for licr 
spirited novels, the last of which, " Odd or Even," ap- 
peared iu 1880. Of poetry she has published " Footsteps 
ou tlie Seas" (18.57) and " Pimsies." Her novels, pure, 
bright, and healthy iu sentiment and action, arc much 
prized both by young and old. 



BEHIND THE MASK. 

It was an old, distorted face, — 

An ttocouth visage, rough and wild ; 

Yet from behind, with laughing grace. 
Peeped the fresh beauty of a child. 

And so contrasting, fair and bright, 

It made me of my fancy ask 
If half earth's wrinkled grimne.ss might 

Be but the baby in the mask. 

Behind gray hairs and furrowed brow 
And withered look that life puts on. 

Each, as ho wears it, comes to know 
How the child hides, and is not gone. 

For, while the inexorable years 

To saddened features fit tlieir mould. 

Beneath the work of time and tears 

Waits something that will not grow old I 

And pain and petulance and care, 
And wasted hope and sinful stain 

Shape the strange guise the soul doth wear, 
Till her young life look forth again. 

The be.Tuty of his boyhood's smile, — 
What hnujan faith eonld find it now 

In yonder man of grief and guili', — 
A very Cain, with branded brow f 

Yet, overlaid and hidden, still 

It lingers, — of his life a part; 
As the scathed pine upon the hill 

Holds the yonng Hbres at its heart. 

And, haply, round the Etcrn.il Throne, 

Heaven's pitying angels shall not iisk 
I'lir that last look the world hath known, — 
But for the face behind the mask I 



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CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



(Hljarlcs (!?oi)fvc}) f clanir. 



Lelrtiid was born in Philadelpliia in 1834, nnd graduated 
at Princeton College in 1S45. After passing tlirce years 
in Europe, lie returned home and studied law, but soon 
gave it up fur literature. He translated many of Heine's 
pieces from tbe German, and wrote the Hans Breitmau 
ballads, wliich bad an extraordinary success. In 1869 be 
revisited Europe, and passed several years iu travel, re- 
siding most of tbe time in England. 



MINE OWN. 

Ami oil tlic longing, bnruing eye.s ! 

Ami ob tbe gleaming bair 
■\Vliicli waves around mo night anil day, 

O'er cbamber, hall, and stair ! 

And oh tlio .step, half dreamt, half hoard! 

And oh tho laughter low! 
And memories of merriment 

Which faded long ago. 

Oh, art thou Sylph,— or truly Self,— 

Or either, at thy clioice ? 
Oh, speak in breeze or beating heart, 

But let me hear thy voice ! 

" Oil, some do call mo Laughter, love ; 

And some do call mo Siu :" — 
"And tliey might call thee what tlipy will, 

So I thy love may win." 

"And .some do call me Wantonness, 

And some do call me Play :" — 
"Oh, they might call thee what they would 

If thou wcrt mine alway !" 

"' And some do call me Sorrow, love. 

And some do call me Tears, 
And some there bo who name me Hope, 

And some that name me Fears. 

"And some do call mo Gentle Heart, 

And some Forgetfnluess :" — 
"And if thou com'st as one or all. 

Thou couiest but to bless!'' 

"And some do call me Life, sweetheart. 

And some do call me Death ; 
And he to whom the two are one. 

Has won my heart and faith." 



She twined her white arms round his heck: — 

Tbe tears fell down like raiu: 
"And if I live, or if I die, 

We'll never part again." 



Jraiuis iinrncr Palgvane. 

Palgrave, born 1834, was edurated at Oxford. He lias 
published "Idyls and Songs" (18.54) ; "The Passionate 
Pilgrim, or Eros and Anteros" (1858), which appeared 
under the nom de plume of Henry T. Thurston ; " Essays 
on Art" (1866); "Hymns" (1867); "Lyrical Poems'" 
(1871). He has also edited " The Golden Treasury of the 
bust Songs and Lyrical Poems in the English Language ;" 
a tasteful and judicious collection. 



FAITH AND SIGHT: 

IN THE LATTER DAYS. 
"I proa : sequar." 

Thou say'st, " Take up thy cross, 

O Man, and follow me :" 
The night is black, the feet are slack, 

Yet we would follow thee. 

But, O dear Lord, we cry. 

That we thy face could see ! 
Tliy blessM face one moment's sj^ace — 

Then might wo follow thee! 

Dim tracts of time divide 

Those golden days from me; 
Thy voice comes strange o'er years of change ; 

How can I follow thee ? 

Comes faint and far tliy voice 

From vales of Galilee ; 
Thy vision fades in ancient shades; 

How should we follow thee? 

Unchanging law binds all. 

And Nature all we seec 
Thou art a star, far off, too far, 

Too far to follow thee! 

— Ah, sense-bound heart and blind ! 

Is naught but what wo see ? 
Can time undo what once was true ? 

Can we not follow thee ? 

Is what we trace of law 
The whole of God's decree ? 



FRJNCIS T. PJLG RAVE.— WILLIAM ALEXAXDER.— GEORGE MACDOXALD. 



797 



Docs our brief span grasp Nature's plan, 

Ami liid iii)t follow tbeo ? 

O bcavy cross — of faith 

III what wo caiiuot see ! 
As oiico of yore tbyself restore, 

And help to follow thee! 

If not as once thou cani'st 

In true linnianity, 
Come yet as guest within the breast 

That hums to follow thee. 

Within our heart of hearts 

In nearest nearness be : 
Set up thy throne within thine own :— 

Go, Lord : we follow thee. 



TO A CHILD. 

If by any device or knowledge 
The rose-bud its beauty could know. 

It would stay a rose-bml forever. 
Nor into its fulness grow. 

And if thou could'st know thy own sweetness, 

O little one, perfect and sweet, 
Thou wonld'st bo a child forever. 
Completer while incomplete. 



lllilliam vHcianbcr. 

AVilllam Alexander, D.D., Bishop of Derry and Raphoe, 
lias published a theological prize essay, a volume of po- 
ems, several lectures and sermons, pupcre on the Irish 
Clmrcli, and numerous fui;ilive works. He was born in 
Wa, and is tlie husband of .Mrs. Cecil Frances Alexander, 
author of " The Buri;d of Moses," and other poems. 



WAVKS AND LEAVES. 

Waves, waves, waves ! 
Graceful ai'ches, lit with night's pale gold, 
Boom like thunder through the mountains rolled, 
IlisH and make their music manifold, 

Sing and work for God along the strand. 

Leaves, leaves, leaves ! 
Beautifie«l by Autumn's scorching breath, 
Ivory skeletons carven fair by deatli, 
Float and drift at a sublime command. 



Thoughts, thonghts, thoughts ! 
Kolling wave-like on the mind's strange shore. 
Hustling leaf-like through it evermore. 

Oh that they might follow God's good Hand ! 



JACOB'S LADDER. 

Ah, many a time we look on starlit nights 
l.'p to the sky, as Jacob did of old. 

Look lougiug up to the eternal lights, 
To spell their lines in gold. 

But never more, as to the Hebrew boy. 
Each on his way the angels walk abroad ; 

And never more we hear, with awful joy. 
The audible voice of God. 

Yet, to pure eyes the ladder still is set. 
And angel visitants still come and go; 

Many bright messengers arc moving yet 
From the dark world below. 

Thonghts, that are red-crossed Faith's outspreading 
wings, — . [tryst, — 

Pr.ayers of the Church, are keeping time and 
Heart-wishes, making bee-like murnnirings, 

Their llower the Eucharist. 

Spirits elect, through suffering rendered meet 
For those high mansions ; fron\ the nursery door, 

Bright babes that climb up with their clay-cold feet, 
Unto the golden door. 

These are the messengers, forever wending 

From earth to heaven, that faith alone may scan ; 

These are the angels of our God, .ascending 
L'pon the Son of Man. 



©corge illacboiialb. 



JIacdouald, the author of numerous imaginative works, 
was born at Huntly, Scotland, in 1824, and educated at 
Aberdeen. For a while he was minister of a C'ongrc!^- 
tional Church, but gave up preaching on aceonnt of the 
state of his health. He has published a volume of po- 
ems and some theological works. He lectured in the 
United States in 1874. 



BABY. 



Where did you come from, baby dear? 
Out of the everywhere into here. 



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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AilEltlCAN POETRY. 



Where ilid you get those eyes so blue ? 
Out of the sky as I came through. 

What makes the light iu them sparkle and spiu \ 
Some of the starry spikes left iu. 

Where did you get that little tear 1 
I found it waiting when I got here. 

What makes your forehead so smooth and high ? 
A soft haud stroked it as I went by. 

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose i 
I saw something better than auy one knows. 

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss ? 
Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 

Where did you get this pearly ear? 
God spoke, and it came out to hear. 

AVhere did you get those arms and hands ? 
Love made itself into bonds and bands. 

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things? 
From the same box as the cherubs' wings. 

How did they all j ust come to be you ? 
God thonght about me, and so I grew. 

But how did you come to «s, you dear? 
God thought about you, and so I am here. 



"LORD, I BELIEVE; HELP THOU MINE 
UNBELIEF." 

Come to me, come to me, O my God ; 

Come to me everywhere! 
Let the trees mean thee, and the grassy sod, 

And the water and the air. 

For thou art so fiir that I often doubt. 

As on every side I stare. 
Searching within, and looking without, 

If thou art anywhere. 

How did men find thee iu days of old ? 

How did they grow so sure? 
Tbcy fought iu thy name, they were glad and 
bold. 

They suft'ered, and kept themselves pure. 



But now they say — neither above the spheic 

Nor down iu the heart of man, 
But only in fancy, ambition, or fear, 

The thought of thee began. 

If only that perfect tale were true 
Which with touch of sunny gold, 

Of the ancient many makes one anew, 
And simitlicity manifold ! 

But he said that they who did his word. 

The truth of it should know : 
I will try to do it — if he be Lord, 

Perhaps the old spring will flow ; 

Perhaps the old spirit-wind will blow 
That he promised to their prayer ; 

And doing thy will, I yet shall know 
Thee, Father, everywhere ! 



llVilliitm 0ib5on. 

AMERICAN. 

A coramaniler in the United States Navy, Gibson has 
contributed some remarkable poems (1870-1878) to Har- 
per's Ilagaaine and otber periodicals. He was bora in 
Baltimore, Md., May 2.5tli, 18i5. A volume of his poems 
was published in 18."i3 by Jiimes Monroe & Co., Boston ; 
and another and more important collection was to ap- 
pear iu 1880. 



FROM THE "HYMN TO FREYA." 

Her thick hair is golden ; 
Her white rube is floating on air; 

And, thougli unbeholden, 
We know that her body is fair. 

For a rosy efiulgence 
Reveals the warm limbs as they move 

In rapturous indulgence 
Of grace — the sweet Goddess of Love. 

Like dew-drops ethereal. 
Jewels her white. neck adorn; 

But alone her imperial 
Eyes make the dawning of morn. 

Oh! sweeter than singing 
She whispers — the birds burst to soug, 

And golden bells ringing, 
The charm of her presence prolong. 

The groves where she passes 
Hang heavy with blossoms and fruit ; 



WILLI Air GIBSON. — WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER. 



799 



In rich nieadow-griisses 
Spring flowers at tbo touch of her foot. 

She loves best the roses — 
A rose branch for sceptre she takes ; 

Ami where'er she reposes 
Droop willows o'er crystalline lakes. 
II * » * 

.She is .nil that is fairest 
111 the world and the welkin on high, — 

The grace that is rarest, 
The glow that is homely and nigh; 

She is Freedom and Unty, 
Frank Morn and the Veiling of Light, 

The Passion of Bcanty, 
The Fragrance and Voices of Night. 

Divinest, supreniest, 
Crowned Queen of the Quick and the Dead ; 

She is more than thou drcamest, 
O sonl of desire and of dread ! 

She is Spriuii-tinic and Gladness, 
And raptnro all glory above; 

She is Longing and Sadness; 
She is Birth — she is Death — she is Love ! 



lllilliam 2.\[i\\ Butler. 

AMERICAN. 

Butler was born in Albany in 1825. Ilis father was 
tlie estimable and genial Bunjiiinin F. Butler, a member 
"f the Cabinet of Presidents Jackson and Van Burcn. 
William completed liii education at the University of 
tlie City of New York, and then passed a year or two in 
Kuropean travel. He has made some fine translations 
from the German of Uhlaud; is the author of "Out-of- 
tlieway Places in Europe," and has shown, in a scries of 
liio^rapliical and critical sketches of the Old Masters, 
that he is an excellent judge in art. His "Nothing to 
Wear" shows that he is both a humorist and a poet. It 
1- amusing without coarseness, and rises, at its elo.se, 

'o a strain of pathos as easy and unforced as it is 

..lutiful and apt. 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

AX ETISODE OF CITV LIFE. 

MiMS Flora M'Flimsey, of Madison Square, 

Has made three separate journeys to Paris, 
.\nd her father a-ssiires me, e.icli time she was there. 

That she and her friend Mrs. Harris 
(Not till' lady whose name is so famous in liistory. 
But ]dain >lrs. H., without romance or mystery) 
'^peut six con.secutivo weeks without stopping, 
In one continnons round of shopping; 



Shopping alone, and shopping together, 
At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather ; 
For all manner of things that a woman can put 
On the crown of her head or the sole of her foot. 
Or wrap round her shoulders, or lit round her waist. 
Or that can he sewed on, or piniu-d on, or laced, 
Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow. 
In front or behind, above or below : 
For bonnets, mantillas, capes, c(dlar.s, and shawls; 
Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and halls; 
Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in ; 
Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in ; 
Dresses in which to do nothing at all ; 
Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and full ; 
All of them different in color and pattern. 
Silk, ninslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin. 
Brocade and broadcloth, and other material. 
Quite as expensive and much more ethereal ; 
In short, for all things that could ever bo thought of, 
Or milliner, modinte, or tradesman bo bought of. 

From fen-thousand-fraucs robes to twenty-sons 
frills; 
In all quarters of Paris, and to every store, 
While M'Flimsey iu vain stormed, scolded, and swore. 

They footed the streets, and he fooled tho bills. 

The last trip, their goods shipped by tho steamer 

Arago 
Formed, M'Flimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo, 
Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest, 
Snflicient to fill the largest-sized chest. 
Which did not appear on the ship's manifest. 
But for which tho ladies tlienisclves manifested 
.Siuli partic'ular interest, that they invested 
Their own proper persons in layers and rows 
Of muslins, embroideries, worked under-clothes. 
Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as 

thouse ; 
Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian 

beauties. 
Gave good-bije to the ship, and go-hij to the duties. 
Her relations at homo all marvelled, no doubt, 
Miss Flora had grown so enormously stout 

For an ncln.al belle and a possible bride; 
But the miracle cea.sed when she turned inside out, 

And the truth came to light, and the dry goods 
beside, [try. 

Which, in spite of Collector and Custom-house sen- 
Hail entered tho port withont any entry. 

And yet, though scarce three months have p.i.s.sed 

since the day [way, 

This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broad- 



800 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



This same Miss M'Flimsey, of Madisou Square, 
The last time we met, was iu utter despair. 
Because she had notbiug whatever to wear! 

NOTniNG TO WEAR ! Now, as this is a trae ditty, 
I do not assert — this, you know, is between us — 

That she's in a state of absolute nudity, 

Like Powers' Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus ; 

But I do mean to say, I have heard her declare, 
When, at the same moment, she had on a dress 
Whicli cost five huudred dollars, and not a ceut less. 
And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess, 

That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear ! 

I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's 

Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers, 

I had just been selected as he who should throw all 

The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal 

On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections, 

Of those fossil rcmaius which she called her " aftec- 

tioiis," fart, 

And that rather decayed, but well-known work of 
Which Miss Flora persisted iu styling " her heart." 
So we were engaged. Our troth had been jilighted. 
Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove. 
But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted, 
Beueath the gas-fixtures wo whispered our love. 
Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs. 
Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes. 
Or blushes, or transports, or such silly .actions. 
It was one of the quietest business transactions. 
With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any. 
And a very largo diamond imported by TifJauy. 
On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss, 
Slie exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis, 
And by way of putting me quite at my ease, 
"You know, I'm to polka as much as I please. 
And flirt when I like — now stop, don't you speak — 
Aud you must uot come here more than twice iu the 

week, 
Or talk to me either at party or ball. 
But always be ready to come when I call ; 
So don't prose to mo about duty aud stuff, 
If we dou't break this oft', there will be time enough 
For that sort of thing ; but the bargain must be 
That, as long as I choose, I am perfectly free, 
For this is a sort of engagement, you see. 
Which is binding on you, but not binding on me." 

Well, having thus wooed Miss M'Flimsey and gained 
her, [lier. 

With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained 
I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder 



At least in the property, aud the best right 
To appear as its escort by day and by night ; 
And it being the week of the Stuckup'.s grand 
ball— 

Their cards had been out a fortnight or so, 

And set all the Avenue ou the tiptoe — 
I considered it only my duty to call, 

Aud see if Miss Flora intended to go. 
I found her — as ladies are apt to be found, 
When the time intervening between the first sound 
Of the bell aud the visitor's entry is shorter 
Than usual — I found — I won't say — I caught her — 
Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning 
To see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning. 
She turned as I entered — " Why, Harry, you sinner, 
I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner !" 
"So I did," I replied, "but the dinner is swal- 
lowed, 

Aud digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine and more, 
So being relieved from that duty, I followed 

Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door. 
And now will your ladyship so condescend 
As just to inform me if you intend 
Your beauty, and graces, aud presence to lend 
(All which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow) 
To the Stuckup.s, whose party, you know, is to- 
morrow ?" 

The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air, 
Aiid answered quite promptly, " Whj-, Harrj', mon 

cher, 
I should like above all things to go willi you there; 
But really and truly — I've nothiug to wear." 

"Nothing to wear! go just as you are ; 

Wear the dress you have ou, and you'll bo by far, 

I engage, the most bright and particular star 

On the Stuckup horizon" — I stopped, for her eye. 
Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery. 
Opened on me at once a most terrible battery 

Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply. 
But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose 

(That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say, 
"How absurd that any sane man should suppose 
That a lady would go to a ball iu the clothes. 

No matter how fine, that she wears every day !" 

So I ventured again — " Wear your crimson brocade " 
(Second turn up of nose) — "That's too dark by a 

shade." 
"Your bine silk " — "That's too heavy;" "Your 

pink"— "Th.at's too light." 
"Wear tulle over satin" — "I can't endure white." 



WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER. 



801 



"Your rosc-coloretl, tUeii, tlio best of the batch" — 
■• I havoii't a thread of jioiiit-laco to match." 
■Your brown moire aiiliijiii" — " Yes, and look like 

a Quaker ;"' 
"The pearl-colored" — '•! would, but that plagney 

drcss-niaker 
lt:i9 had it a, week" — "Then that exquisite lilac, 
III which you would melt the heart of a Shylock." 
(Here the nose took a^aiu the same elevation) 
"I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation." 
'• Why not ? It's my fancy, there's nolliin^ could 

strike it 
As more contme il faiit — " "Yes, but dear me, tliat 

lean 
Sophrouia Stuekup has got one just like it, 
And I won't appear dressed like a chit of si.Kteen." 
"Then that splendid purple, that sweet Mazarine; 
That superb point d'aigiiillc, that imperial green. 
That zephyr-like tarleton, that rich grenadine" — 
■• Not one of all which is fit to be seen," 
Saiil the lady, becoming excited and Ihislied. 
"Then wear," I exclaimed, in a. tone which quite 

crnshed 
Opposition, "that gorgeous toilette which yon 

siiorted 
III Paris last spring, at the grand presentation. 
When you quite turned the head of the bead of 

the nation ; 
.\iid by all the grand court were so very much 

courted." 
The cud of the nose was p(ntentously tipped up, 
.\iid both the bright eyes shot forth indignation. 
As she burst upon nic with the fierce exclamation, 
" I have worn it three times at the least calculation. 
And that and the most of my dresses are ripped 

up!" 
Here / ripped out something, perhaps rather r.tsh, 
(^iiite innocent, though ; but, to u.se an expression 
Mure striking than classic, it "settled my ha.sh," 
And proved very soon the last act of onr session. 
■ Kiddlesticks, is it. .Sir f I wonder the ceiling 
Doesn't fall down and crush you — oh, you men have 

no feeling, 
Von sellish, nnuatnral, illiberal creatures, 
Wlio set yonrsclvcs up as patterns and preachers. 
Your silly pretence — why, what a mere guess it is! 
I'lny, what do you know of a woman's necessities T 
I have told yon aii<l shown you I've nothing to 

wear, 
And it's perfectly plain you not only don't care. 
Hut yon do not believe me" (here the nose went 

si ill higher). 
• 1 suppose if yon dared Toii would call mo a liar. 
51 



Our engagement is ended. Sir — yes, on the spot ; 
Y'ou're a brute, and a monster, and — I don't know 

what." 
I mildly suggested the words — Hottentot, 
Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief. 
As gentle expletives which might give relief; 
But this only proved as spark to the powder. 
And the storm I hail raised caino faster and lonilcr. 
It blew and it rained, thundered, liglitened, and 

hailed 
Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite 

failed 
To express the abusive, and linn ils arrears 
AVere brought np all at once by a torrent of tears, 
And my last faint, des|iairiiig attempt at an obs- 
Ervatiou was lost in a tiiiipi'st of sobs. 

Well, I felt for the lady, ami IVlt lor my hat, too. 
Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo. 
In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay 
Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say : 
Then, without going through the form of a bow, 
Found myself in the entry — I hardly know how — 
On door -step and sidewalk, past lamp -post and 

square, 
At home and np-stairs, in my own e.asy chair: 

Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze. 
And said to myself, as I lit my cigar, 
Sup]>osing a man had the wealth of the Czar 

Of the Kiissias to boot, for the rest of his days. 
Ou the whole, do yon think he would have niuili to 

spare 
If he married a woman with nothing to wear? 

.Since that night, taking pains that it should not be 

bruited 
Abro.ad in society, I've instituted 
A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough, 
On this vital subject, and find, to my horror, 
Th.at the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising, 

But lliat there exists the greatest distress 
In our female community, solely arising 

From this nnsnpplied destitution of dress. 
Whose unfortunate victims are tilling the air 
With the ]>itiful wail of "Nothing to wear." 
Researches in some of the " I'pper Ten" districts 
Reveal the most |>ainful and startling statistics, 
Of which let me mention rinly .i few: 
III one single house on the Fifth Avenue, 
Three young ladies were found, all below twenty- 
two. 
Who have been three whole weclts without anything 



802 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BBITISE AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Ill the way of flounced silks, and, thus left in the 

luich, 
Ave unable to go to ball, concert, or clinrcli. 
In another large mansion near the same place 
Was fonnd a deplorable, lieart-reuding case 
Of entire destitntiou of Brnssels iioint-lace. 
In a neighboring block there was fonnd, in three 

calls, 
Total want, long continued, of camels'-hair shawls; 
And a sntifering family, whose case exhibits 
The most pressing need of real ermine tippets; 
One deserving young lady almost unable 
To snrvive for the want of a new Russian sable; 
Another confined to the house, when it's windier 
Thau usual, because her shawl isn't India. 
Still another, whose tortures have beeu most terrific 
Ever since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific, 
In which were ingulfed, not friend or relation, 
(For whose fate she perhaps might have found con- 
solation, 
Or borne it, at least, ■with serene resignation), 
Unt the choicest assortment of French sleeves and 

collars 
Ever sent out from Paris, worth thousands of dol- 
lars, 
And all as to stylo most rcclierche and rare. 
The want of which leaves her with nothing to 

wear. 
And renders her life so drear and dyspeptic 
That she's quite a recluse, and almost a sceptic. 
For she touchingly says that this sort of grief 
Cannot find in Keligiou the slightest relief, 
And Philosophy has not a maxim to spare 
For the victims of such overwhelming despair. 
But the saddest by far of all these sad features 
Is the cruelty practised upon the poor creatures 
By husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and Ti- 

mons, 
Who resist the most touching appeals made for dia- 
monds 
By their wives and their daughters, and leave them 

for days 
Uusupplied with new jewelry, fans or bouquets. 
Even laugh at their miseries whenever they have a 

chance. 
And deride their demands as useless extravagance ; 
One case of a bride was brought to my view, 
Too sad for belief, but, alas! 'twas too true, 
Whose husband refused, as savage as Charon, 
To permit her to take more than ten trunks to Sha- 
ron. 
The consequence was, that when she got there, 
At the end of three weeks she had nothing to wear. 



And when she proposed to finish the season 
At Newport, the monster refused out and out, 
For his infamous conduct alleging no reason, 
Except that the waters were good for his gout ; 
Such treatment as this was too .shocking, of course. 
And proceedings are now going on for divorce. 

But why harrow the feelings by lifting the curtain 
From these scenes of woe? Enough, it is certain. 
Has hero been disclosed to stir up the pity 
Of every benevolent heart in the city, 
And spur up Ilnmauity into a canter 
To rush and relieve these sad cases instauter. 
Won't somebody, moved by this touching descrip- 
tion, 
Come forward to-morrow and head a subscription i 
Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing that aid is 
So needed at once by these indigent ladies, 
Take charge of the matter ? or won't Peter Coopeu 
The corner-stone lay of some splendid super- 
structure, like that which to-day links his name 
lu the Union unending of honor and fame; 
And fonnd a now charity just for the care 
Of these unhappy women with nothing to wear. 
Which, in view of the cash which would daily be 

claimed, 
The LaijiiKj-out Hospital well might be named? 
Won't Stewart, or some of our dry-goods importers, 
Take a contract for clothing our wives and our 

daughters ? 
Or, to furnish the cash to supply these distresses, 
And life's pathway strew with shawls, collars, and 

dresses, 
Ere the want of them makes it nnich rougher and 

thornier. 
Won't some one discover a new California ? 

O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day 
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, 
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride. 
And the temples of Trade which tower on each side. 
To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt 
Their children have gathered, their city have built; 
Whore Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey. 
Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair; 
Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered 

skirt, 
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and 

dirt, [stair 

Grope throngh the dark dens, climb the rickety 

To the garret, where wretches, the young and the 

old, [cold. 

Half-starved and half-naked, lie crouched from the 



WILLIAM ALLEX BUTLER.— ItlCHAKD BEKRT STODDARD. 



t<o;{ 



^1' those skeleton limbs, tboso frost-bitten feet, 
All bleoilinj; and bruised by tbe stones oftlio street; 
Then lionie to yonr wanlmbes, and say, if you dare. 
Spoiled children of fashion, you've nothing to wear! 

And oh, if perchance there nhould bo a sphere 
Where all is made right which so puzzles ns hero; 
Where the glare and the glitter and tinsel of time 
Kade and die in the light of that region snbliinc ; 
Where the sonl, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, 
rnscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pre- 
tence, 
Must be cloth<-d for the life and the service above 
With purity, truth, faith, nieekuess, and love, — 
O daugliters of earth! foolish virgins, beware! 
Lest in that upper realm yon have nothing to wear! 



llicl)arii (ociu-ji Stoil^al•Ll. 

AMERICAN. 

Stoddard, Ijorn in Hinslmm, Mass., in 1825, removed 
when (|uitu joung to New York. He engaged early in 
literary pursuits; published a volume of poems in 1842; 
another iu 1S49; "Songs of Summer," in 1S5C; "The 
King's Bell," in 1SG3; "The Book of the East," iu 
18(1; "L;»ter Poems" (1871-1880). In the hist-nnmed 
year an elegant edition of liis collected poems,with a fine 
portrait, was published by Charles Scril)uer's Sous, New 
York. Stoddard has done much literary work for pub- 
lishers as author, editor, and compiler. For some time he 
held a place in the Custom-house. Ilis wife (Elizabeth 
Drew Barstow,bom lS2;i), a native of Mattapoisctt, Mass., 
has also achieved success in authorship, having produced 
several novels and contributed largely to magazines. One 
of her poems is subjoined. In his short lyrical pieces 
Stoddard exhibits much of the grace, tenderness, and del- 
icacy of expression that ehaim us iu Ilerriek, Tennyson, 
and the German Heine. He is one of the born poets, 
having manifested when a child extreme sensitiveness 
to the inllucuces of external nature and to all that is 
beautiful in art. A scries of short poems on the death 
of his little boy are remarkable for the deep aud true 
pathos they embody. 



SONGS UNSUNG. 

Let no poet, great or small. 
Say that ho will sing a song; 

For song conieth, if at all. 
Not because we woo it long. 

But because it suits its will, 

Tired at last of being still. 

Kvery song that has been snng 
Was before it took a voice : 



Waiting since tho world was young 

For tlio poet of its choice. 
Oh, if any waiting be, 
Maj- they come to-day to mc! 

I am ready to repeat 

Whatsoever they impart; 
Sorrows seut by them are sweet — 

They know how to heal tho heart: 
Ay, aud in tho lightest strain 
Something sci'ious doth remain. 

What are my white liair.s, forsooth, 
.'Vnd tbe wrinkles on my brow? 

I have still the soul of yonth — 
Try nie, merry Muses, now. 

I can still with numbers fleet 

Fill the world with dancing feet. 

No, I am 11(1 longer young ; 

Old am I this many a year ; 
But my songs will yet be sung. 

Though I shall not live to hear. 
Oh, my son, that is to be. 
Sing my songs, and think of me ! 



FROM Tin: PKOEM TO COLLECTED POEMS. 

These songs of mine, the best that I have sung, 

Are not uiy best, for caged within tho lines 

Are thousands better (if they would but sing!). 

Silent amid the clamors of their mates: 

I know they are imperfect, none so well, — 

Echoes at first, no doubt, of older songs, 

(Not knowingly caught, but echoes all the same.) 

Fancies where facts were wanting, or hard fads 

Which only fancies made endurable ; 

I grant, beforehand, all the faults they have, 

Too deeply rooted to be plucked up now, 

.\nd leave them to their fate; content to know 

That they sustained me iu nij- dreariest days. 

That they consoled me iu ray darkest nights. 

And to believe, now I have done with them, 

I may do well enough to win at last 

The Laurel I have mis.sed so many years. 



now ARE SONGS BEGOT AND BRED? 

How are songs begot and bred f 
How do golden measures flow f 



804 



CYChOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



From the heart, or from the head ? 
Happy Poet ! let lue know. 

Tell me first how folded flowers 
Bnd and bloom in vernal bowers; 
How the sonth wind shapes its tuue- 
TLo harper he of June! 

None may answer, none may know ; 
Winds and flowers come and go, 
And the self-same canons bind 
Nalnre and the Poet's mind. 



THE COUNTRY LIFE. 

Not what we would, but what we must, 

Makes up the sum of living; 
Heaven is both more and less than just 

In taking and in giving. 
Swords cleave to hands that sought the plough. 
And laurels miss the soldier's brow. 

Me, whom the city holds, whose feet 

Have worn its stony highw.ays, 
Familiar with its loneliest street — 

Its ways were never my ways. 
My cradle was beside tlie sea. 
And thei'e, I hope, my grave will ije. 

Old homestead! In that old, gray town, 

Tby vane is seaward blowing. 
The slip of garden stretches down 

To where the tide is flowing: 
Below they lie, their sails all furled, 
The ships that go about the world. 

Dearer that little country house, 

Inland, with pines beside it; 
Some peach-trees, with unfruitful boughs, 

A well, with weeds to hide it: 
No flowers, or only such as rise 
Self-sown, poor things, which all despise. 

Dear country home! Can I forget 

The least of thy sweet trifles ? 
The window-vines that clamber yet, 

Whose bloom the bee still rifles? 
The roadside blaekl)errics, growing ripe, 
And in the woods the Indian Pipe ? 

Happy the man who tills his field, 
Content with rustic labor; 



Earth does to him her fulness yield, 

Hap what may to his neighbor. 
Well days, sound nights, oh, cau tliere Ik 
A life more rational and free ? 

Dear country life of child and man ! 

For both the best, the strongest. 
That with the earliest race began, 

And hast outlived the longest : 
Their cities perished long ago; 
Who the first farmers were we know. 

Perhaps our Babels too will fall ; 

If so, no lamentations, 
For Mother Earth will shelter all. 

And feed the unboru nations ; 
Yes, and the swords that menace now 
Will then bo beaten to the plough. 



ON THE CAMPAGNA. 

Mrs. R. H. Stoddard. 

Stop on the Apjiian Way, 
In the Roman Campagua, — 

Stop at my tomb. 
The tomb of Cecilia Sletella ! 

To-nay as you see it 
Alario saw it ages ago, 
When he, with his pale-vis.nged Goths, 
Sat at the g.ates of Rome, 
Reading his Runic shield. 
Odin, thy cur.se remains. 

Beneath these b.attlenients 
Jly bones were stirred with Roni.an pride. 
Though centuries before my R()mans died: 
Now my bones are dust: the Goths are dn.st, 
Tiie river-bed is dry where sleeps the king ; 

My tonil) remains. 
When Rome commandi'd the earth 

Great were the Metelli : 

I was Metellus' wife ; 

I loved him, — and I died. 
Tlieu with slow patience built he this memorial ; 

Each century marks his love. 

Pass by on the Appian Way 

The tomb of Cecilia Metella. 
Wild shepherds alone seek its shelter, 
Wild buft'aloes tramp at its base : 
Deep in its desolation. 
Deep as the shadow of Rome ! 



THOMAS D'ARCr McGEE.— ADELAIDE A.XXE PROCTER. 



805 



£l)omas D':^rcii fllc^cc. 

.\lc'(ico(l)oni it) lSi"))\vasaiialivci)fC':uiingfi>rd,Coiiiity 
Loutli, Iiclaiul; the son of a ineiiibtT of thu Coast liiiaid 
Sonicc. Ill lSi3 Thomas einii;iateil to America, and was 
connected for awhile with The Pilot, lie returned to 
Ireland to be assoeiatud, lirst with the Dublin FixciuaiCs 
Journal, ixni then with The yation. In 184S he returned 
to America, and started the New York Xation; it was not 
a success, and he cotninenced The American Celt iu Bos- 
ton. Sellins; out his interest in that paper, he accepted 
an invitation to reniovc to Montreal, where he was elect- 
ed to the Canadian Parliament. Here he opposed the 
Fenian movement, and, incurring the hatred of the most 
radical of his countrymen, was assassinated April 7th, 
I8CS. His poems are unequal in merit, many of them 
shoHinj; a ^reat lack of artistic care. A collection of 
tliem was published in New York in 1869. 



CAI'lIAI/S FAREWELL T(1 THE KVK. 

(-'atlial L'i-ov-(ler'4 (the red-handed) O'Connor, bohig banished 
from Ci)iinaiij;ht, was found reapinjj rye in a llcid in Leinsier, 
when news w;i8 brought thai called him to nwserl hia rl;xhts. 
Cathal threw down the sickle, saying. "Fju-ewell, sickle ; now 
for the sword !" The saying S''ew to be proverbial iu Irelaud. 

Shining sickle! lie tlmii there; 

.Viiollier harvest iiced.s my hand, 
Aniitlicr sickle I must bcur 

IJack to tbo tields of my own land. 
Earcwell, sickle ! welcome, sword ! 

A crop waves red on Coiinauglil's plain. 
Of bearded men and banners gay, 

lint wc will beat them down like rain. 
And sweep tlicm like, the storm away. 
Farewell, sickle ! welcome, sword ! 

I'caceful sickle! lie tlioii there, 

Deep buried in the vanqiiislied rye; 

May this that in tliy stead I bear, 
Above as thick a reaping lie! 

Farewell, sickle! welcome, sword ! 

Welcome, sworil ! out from your sheath. 
And look upon the glowing sun! 

.Sharp shearer of the field of death, 
Your time of rust and rest is done. 
Welcome, welcome, trusty sword! 

Welcome, sword ! no more repose 
For Cathal-Crov-Uorg or for thco, 

Until we walk o'er Erin's foes, 
Or they walk over yon and me, 

My lightning, bauuer-cleaving sword! 



Welcome, sword ! thou magic wand, 

Which raises kings and casts them down ; 

Tlion .sceptro to the fearless hand. 

Thou fetter-key for limbs long bound, — 
Welcome, wonder-working sword ! 

Welcome, sword ! no more with love 
Will Cathal look on laud or main. 

Till with thine aid, my sword ! I prove 

What race shall reap and king shall reign. 
Farewell, sickle! welcome sword! 

Shilling sickle I lie thou there; 

Another harvest needs my hand. 
Another sickle I must bear 

Back to the fields of my own l.iiid. 
Farewell, sickle ! w elconie, sword ! 



iniicltxibc ^nnc }3roctcr. 

Miss Procter (ISij-lSOi) was that "golden- tressed 
Adelaide," of whom her father, while writing under the 
pseudonymc of Barry Cornwall, used to sing. N. P. 
Willis described her while a child as "a beautiful girl of 
eight or nine years, delicate, gentle, and pensive, as if she 
was born on the lip of Castaly, and knew she was a poet's 
daughter.'' In 1S.58 she published "Legends and Lyr- 
ics," a book of verse. Mauy of her earliest poems ap- 
peared in Charles Dickens's weekly magazine, JIonmlKilil 
Ilorrf-s. Tliey breathe an earnest religious sentiment, 
and have a character of their own which distinguishes 
them from all mere imitations. Miss Procter became a 
Roman Catholic in the latter part of her short life. An 
American edition of her poems has met with a good sale. 
One of her critics says : "It is full of a thoughtful seri- 
ousness, a grave tenderness, a fancy temperate but not 
frigid, with touches of the true artist." 



MINISTERING ANGELS. 

Angels of light, spread your bright wings and keep 

Near mo at morn ; 
Nor ill the starry eve, nor midnight deep, 

Leave me forlorn. 

From all dark spirits of unholy power 

Guard my weak heart. 
Circle around me in each perilous hour, 

And take my part. 

From all foreboding thoughts and dangerous fe.irs 

Keep mo secure ; 
Teach me to hope, and through the bitterest tears 

Still to endure. 



806 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



]f lonely in the roacT so fair anil wide 

My feet slioiild stray, 
Tlieu througli a rougher, safer pathway guide 

Me day bj' daj'. 

Sliouhl my heart faint at its unequal strife. 

Oil, still he uear — 
Shadow the peiilons sweetness of this life 

With holy fear. 

Then leave me not alone in this bleak world. 

Where'er I roam ; 
And at the end, with yonr bright wings uufniled, 

Oh, take me home I 



THE LOST CHOKD. 

Seated one day at the organ, 
I was weary and ill at ease. 

And my fingers wandered idly 
Over the noisy keys. 

I know not what I was playing. 
Or what I was dreaming of then, 

Bnt I struck one chord of music 
Like the sound of a great Ameu ! 

It flooded the crimson twilight, 
Like the close of an angel's psalm. 

And it lay on my fevered spirit 
With a touch of infinite calm. 

It quieted pain and sorrow, 
Like love overcoming strife; 

It seemed the harmonious echo 
From our discordant life. 

It linked all perplexed meanings 

Into one perfect peace. 
And trembled away iuto silence 

xVs if it were loath to cease. 

I have sought, bnt I seek it vainly. 
That one lost chord divine. 

That came from the soul of the organ, 
And entered into mine. 

It may bo that Death's bright angel 
Will speak in that chonl again; 

It may be that only in heaven 
I shall bear that grand Amen! 



STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY. 

Strive ; yet I do not promise. 

The prize you dream of to-day, 
Will not fade when you think to grasp it. 

And melt in your hand away ; 
Bnt another and holier treasure, 

You would now perchance disdain, 
Will come when yonr toil is over, 

Aud pay yon for all your pain. 

Wait; yet I do not tell yon, 

The hour you long for now. 
Will not come with its radiance vanished, 

Aud a shadow upon its brow ; 
Yet far through the misty future. 

With a crown of starry light, 
An hour of joy you know not 

Is winging her silent flight. 

Pray ; though the gift yon ask for 

May uever comfort your fears. 
May uever repay your pleading. 

Yet pray, and with hopeful tears; 
An answer, not that you long for. 

But diviner, will come oue day ; 
Your eyes are too dim to see it. 

Yet strive, aud wait, and pray. 



Baiiarb (iiaDlor. 



James Bayard Taylor, as lie was christened (18:2.5-1878), 
was a native of Keimet Square, Chester County, Pa. His 
active career began with an apprcnticesliip in a prhiting- 
office of his native place. When nineteen years old he 
set out for Europe, and travelled afoot for two years. 
His first book, "Views Afoot," had a profitable sale. 
He subsequently travelled in California, Central Africa, 
India, Cliiua, Japan, Sweden, Denmark, Lapland, Greece, 
and Russia, and embodied his experiences in many books 
of travel. He was connected editorially with the Kern 
York Tribune. He published three novels, made a brill- 
iant translation of Goethe's " Faust," aud was the au- 
thor of several volumes of poems, containing some lyrics 
of a high order. Married to a German lady, he became 
an aceomplishcd German scholar, and undertook a life 
of Goethe, for preparing which his opportunities were 
ample. Under the Presidency of Mr. Hiiyes he was made 
Minister to Bei'lin in tS7S, but died in that city in tlie 
flush of his schemes of literary labor and of diplomatic 
culture. He wtis a man greatly beloved by numerous 
friends, and has left a literary record that is likely to 
make his name long fiimiliar. A complete edition of his 
poems apiJCared in Boston in 1880. 



BAY.mi) TAYUll:. 



607 



STORM-SONG. 

Tlie clouds are sciuUUng across llic moon ; 

A inisty light ia oti tbo eca; 
TLe wind in tlic shrouds has a windy (niie, 

And tho foam is living free. 

Brothers, a night of terror and gloom 
Speaks ia tho cloud and gathering roar ; 

Thank God, lie has given ns broad sea-room, 
A thousand miles from shore! 

Down with the hatches on those who sleep! 

Tho wild and whistling deck have we ; 
Good watch, ray brothers, to-night we'll keep, 

While tho tempest is on the sea! 

Though the rigging shriek in his terril)le giip, 
And tho naked spars bo snapped away, 

Lashed to tho helm, we'll drive our ship 
Straight through tho whelming spray I 

Hark, how the surges o'orloap tho deck! 

Hark, how the pitiless tempest raves! 
Ah, daylight will look upon many a wreck. 

Drifting over the desert waves! 

Yet courage, brothers ! we trust the wave, 
■\Vith Ood above ns, our star ami chart ; 

So, whether to harbor or ocean-grave, 
Be it still with a cheery heart! 



A CKIMKAX EPISODE. 

" Give ns a song," tho soldier cried. 

The outer trenches guarding, 
When the heated gnus of the camp allied 

Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Kedan, in silent scoff, 
Lay grim and threatening under. 

And tho tawny mound of MalakolT 
Xo longer belched its thunder. 

"Give us a song," the Guardsmen gay, 
" Wo storm tho forts to-morrow ; 

Sing while we nmy, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow." 

Tliey lay along the battery's side, 
Below the smoking cannon; 



Brave hearts from Severn and the Clyde, 
And from the banks of Shannon ! 

They sang of love, and not of fame, 

Forgot was Britain's glory — 
Each heart recalled a ditl'erent nanu>, 

lint all sang Annie Laurie! 

Voice after voice caught up the song. 

Until its tender passion 
Bo.se like an anthem rich and strong. 

Their battle-evo coufessiou. 

Beyond the darkening ocean, burned 

The bloody sunset otubers ; 
And the Crimean valley learned 

How English love remembers. 

And once again tho tires of lull 
Rained on the Russian ([uarters — 

With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
And bellowing of the mortars! 

And Irish Norah's eyes were dim. 
For a singer dumb and gory, 

And English Slary munrns for him 
Who .sang of Annie Laurie. 

Ah! soldiers, to your honored rest 
Your love and glory bearing, — 

The bravest are tho loveliest, 
Tlio loving are the daring ! 



THE FIGHT OF PASO DEL MAR. 

Gusty and raw w.as the morning, 

A fog hung over tho seas. 
And its gray skirts rolling inland. 

Were torn by the uionntaiu trees; 
No sound was heard but tho dashing 

Of waves on tho sandy bar. 
When Pablo of San Diego 

Rode down to the I'aso del Mar. 

The pescailiir, out in his shallop. 

Gathering his harvest .so wide. 
Sees the dim bulk of the headland 

Loom over the waste of the tide; 
Ho sees, like a white thread, the pathway 

Wiiul rouiul on the terrible wall. 
Where tho faint moving speck of the rider 

Seems bovcring close to its fall. 



808 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Stout Pablo of Sau Diego 

Rode (lowu from the bills bebiud ; 
With the bells on his gray mule tinkling, 

He sang through the fog and wiud. 
Under his thick, misted eyebrows 

Twinkled his eye like a star. 
And fiercer he sang as the sea-winds 

Drove cold on the Paso del Mar. 

Now Berual, the herdsman of Cliinn, 

Had travelled the shore since dawn, 
Leaving the ranches behind him, — 

Good reason had he to be gone ! 
The blood was still red on liis dagger, 

The fury was hot in his brain, 
And the chill, driving scud of the breakers 

Beat thick on his forehead in vain. 

With his poncho wrapped gloomily round him, 

He mounted the dizzying road. 
And the chasms and steeps of the headland 

Were slippery and wet as he trode : 
Wild swept the wind of the ocean, 

Rolling the fog from afar, 
Wlion near him a mule-bell came tinkling, 

Midway ou the Paso del Mar. 

" Back 1" shouted Beriial, full fiercely, 

And " Back !" shouted Pablo, in wrath. 
As his mule halted, startled and shrinking, 

Ou the perilous line of the path. 
The roar of devouring surges 

Came up from the breakers' hoarse war; 
And " Back, or you perish!" cried Berual, 

" I turn not ou Paso del Mar !" 

The gray mule stood firm as the headland: 

He clutched at the jingliug rein. 
When Pablo rose up in his saddle 

And smote till he dropped it again. 
A wild oath of passion swore Berual, 

And brandished his dagger, still red, 
While fiercely stout Pablo leaned forward, 

And fought o'er his trusty mule's head. 

They fought till the black wall below them 

Shone red through the misty blast ; 
Stout Pablo, then struck, leaning farther. 

The broad breast of Bernal at last. 
And, frenzied with pain, the swart herdsman 

Closed ou him with terrible strength. 
And jerked hiin, despite of his struggles, 

Down from the saddle at length. 



They grappled with desperate madness, 

Ou the slippery edge of the wall ; 
They swayed ou the brink, and together 

Reeled out to the rush of the fall. 
A cry of the wildest death-anguish 

Rang faint through the mist afar. 
And the riderless mule went homeward 

From the fi«ht of the Paso del Mar. 



Jllrs. iJulia €. Porr. 

AMERICAN. 

Julia Curoline Riplcj-, the (laughter of a gentleman for 
some lime President of the Rutland County (Vt.) Bunk, 
was born in Charleston, S. C, in 18:i5. Her father re- 
moved to New York, and she had a Northern education. 
In 1847 she married Seneca M. Dorr, of Ciiathain, N. Y., 
and they removed to Rutland. She has had liteiaiy 
tastes from childliood, and is the author of some lialf- 
dozcu sHccessfid novels. Her iirst volume of poems 
appeared in 1873; and in 1879 it was followed by "Friar 
Ansclnio, and other Poems." She shows a truly original 
vein in these productions, which seem always prompted 
by genuine feeling and a natural lyrical endowment. A 
happy wife and motlier, her best work has been given 
to other than literary pursuits. 



QUIETNESS. 

I would bo quiet. Lord, nor tease, nor fret ; 
Not one small need of mine wilt Thou forget. 
I am not wise to know what most I need ; 
I dare not cry too loud lest Thou shouldst heed, — 

Lest Thou at length shouldst say, "Child, liave thy 

will ; 
As thou hast chosen, lo ! thy cup I fill !" 
What I most crave, jierchanco Thou wilt withhold. 
As we from hands unmeet keep pearls or gold ; 

As we, when childish hands would play with fire, 
Withhold the burning goal of their desire. 
Y'et choose Thou for me — Thou who knowcst best ; 
This one short prayer of iniiio holds all the rest ! 



HEIRSHIP. 

Little store of wealth have I, 
Nut a rood of land I own ; 

Nor a mansion fair and high. 
Built of towers of fretted stone. 

Stocks nor bonds, nor title-deeds, 
Plocks nor herds have I to show ; 



Mils. JULIA C. DOlin. 



809 



When I liJc, no Arab stccils 

Tuss lor inv tlH'ir manes of euow. 

I have neither pearls nor gohl, 

Massive pKale, nor jewels rare; 
Broidereil silks of worth nntolil, 

Nor rich robes a qnccn might wear. 
In my garden's narrow bonnd 

riannt no costly tropic blooms, 
Ladening all the air around 

With a weight of rare perfumes. 

Yet to an immense estate 

Am I heir by grace of God, — 
ISielier, grander than doth wait 

Any earthly monareh"s nod. 
Heir of all the Ages, I — 

Heir of all that they have wrought, 
All their stores of emprise high. 

All their wealth of precious thought. 

Every golden deed of theirs 

Sheds its lustre on my way ; 
All their labors, all their prayers. 

Sanctify this present day ! 
Heir of all that they have earned 

Hy their passion and their fears, — 
Hiir of all that they have learned 

Through the weary, toiling years! 

Heir of all the faith sublime 

On whose wings they soared to heaven ; 
Heir of every hope that Time 

Til Earth's fainting sons hath given! 
Aspirations pure and high, — 

Strength to dare and to endure, — 
Heir of all the Ages, I — 

Lo ! I am no longer poor ! 



TO-DAY: A SONNET. 

What dost thou bring to me, O fair To-day, 
That comest o'er the mountains with swift feet t 
All the young birds make hnstc thy steps to greet; 
And all the ilcwy roses of the May 
Turn red and white witli joy. The breezes play 
On their soft harps a welcome low and sweet ; 
.Ml nature hails thee, glad thy face to meet, 
And owns thy iire.senco in a brighter ray. 
liut my ]Mior sonl distrusts thee! One as fair 
As thou art, O To-day, drew near to me. 
Serene and smiling, yet she bade me wear 



The sudden sackclotli of a great despair ! 
O, pitiless! that through the wandering air 
Sent uo kind warning of the ill to bo! 



SOMEWHERE. 

How can I cca.se to pray for thee f Somewhere 
In God's great universe thoti art to-day. 

Can he not reach thee with his teuder caret 
Can he not hear me when for thee I pray 1 

What matters it to him who holds within 
The hollow of his hand all worlds, all space. 

That thou art done with earthly pain and sin f 
Somewhere within his ken thou hast a place, 

Somewhere thou livest and hast need of him ; 

Somewhere thy soul sees higher heights to climb; 
And somewhere still there may be valleys dim 

That thou must iiass to reach the hills sublime. 

Then all the more because thou canst not hear. 
Poor human words of blessing will I pray. 

O true, bravo heart ! God bless thee, wberesoe'er 
In his great universe thou art to-day. 



TWENTY-ONE. 

Grown to man's stature! O my little child! 

My bird that sought the skies so long ago! 
My fair, sweet blos.som. pure and undeliled. 

How have the years llown since we laid thee low ! 

What have they been to thee ? If tliou wert here 
Standing beside thy brothers, tall and fair, 

With bearded lip, and dark eyes shining ele.ir. 
And glints of sunnncr sunshine in thy hair, 

I .shoulil look up into thy face and say, 

Wavering, perhaps, between a tear and smile, 

" O my sweet son, thou art a m.iu to-day !'' — 
And thou wouldst stoop to kiss my lips the while. 

But — up in Heaven — how is it with thee, dear? 

Art thou a man — to man's full stature grown t 
Dost thou count time as wo do, year bj- yearT 

And what of all earth's changes hast thou known T 

Thou hadst not learned to love me. Didst t hnu t.ako 
Any small germ of love to heaven with thee. 

That tlnni hast w.itched and nurtured for my sake, 
Waiting till I its perfect flower may see 1 



810 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEHICAN POETRY. 



What is it to have lived iu beaven alvpays ? 

To Lave no ineiiioiy of paiu or siu 1 
Ne'er to Lave knowu in all tLo calm, LrigLt days 

The jar aud fret of earth's discordant din ? 

Thy brothers — tbey are mortal — tlioy ninst tread 
Ofttimes in rough, hard ways, with bleeding feet ; 

Mnst fight Tvith dragons, mnst bewail their dead. 
And fierce Apollyon face to face nuist meet. 

I, who would give my very life for theirs, 

I cannot save them from earth's iiain or loss ; 

I cannot shield them from its griefs or cares ; 
Each human heart must bear alone its cross! 

Was God, then, kinder nnto thee than them, 
O thou whoso little life was but a s^ian ? 

Ah, think it not ! In all his diadem 

No star shines brighter than the kingly man, 

Who nobly earns whatever crown he wears. 
Who grandly conquers, or as grandly dies ; 

And the white banner of his manhood bears. 
Through all the years uplifted to the skies ! 

What lofty pseans shall the victor greet ! 

What crown resplendent for his brow be fit'. 
O child, if earthly life be bitter-sweet, 

Hast thou not something missed in missing it? 



Stcpljcn (HoUins -foster. 

AMERICAN. 

Foster (1S26-18C4), known chiefly for liis musical com- 
positions, was a native of Pittsburgh, Pa. At an early age 
he had become a skilful performer on the flute, flageo- 
let, and piano-forte. His voice was clear, and well un- 
der control. When a boy of sixteen he produced his 
song "Oil, Susanna," which was sung by a travelling 
minstrel troupe, was published by Peters of Cincinnati, 
and largely sold. Foster was accustomed to attend Meth- 
odist camp-meetings, both white and black, .and thus got 
many a hint for liis wonderfully popular "folk-songs," 
founded many of them on extemporized, unwritten ne- 
gro melodies. Of his "Old Folks at Home," 200,000 
copies were sold ; of "My Old Kentucky Home," 1.50,000; 
of "Ellen Bayne," 12.5,000; and of sever.al others, the 
sale was enormous. Foster was a poet, as his songs at- 
test, the words of nearly every one of them being of his 
own composition. Though he enriched others, he laid 
up little for himself Unhappily, he was intemperate. 
His death was occasioned by a severe fall at a Bowery 
hotel, iu New York. At Pittsburgh, his native city, inter- 
esting ceremonies were held in his honor; and a large 
concourse gathered to do homage to his memory. 



OLD FOLKS AT HOME. 

'Way down npon de Swannee Eibber, 

Far, far away, — 
Dare's whar my heart is turning ebber, — 

Dare's whar de old folks stay. 
All up aud down de whole creation, 

Sadlj' I roam ; 
Still longing for de old plantation, 
Aud for de old folks at home. 
All de world am sad and dreary, 

Eb'rywhere I roam ; 
Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, 
Far from de old folks at home! 

All round de little farm I wandered. 

When I was j-oung ; 
Den many happy days I sf|uandercd. 

Many de songs I sung. 
When I was playing with my brudder, 

Happy was I ; 
Oh, take me to my kind old mudder ! 

Dare let me live and die! 

All de world am sad and dreary, etc. 

One little hut among de rushes, — 

One dat I love, — 
Still sadly to ray memory rnshes, 

No matter where I rove. 
When will I see de bees a-humming, 

All round de comb ? 
When will I hear de banjo tumming 

Down in my good old home ? 

All do world am sad and dreary, etc. 



(lloatcs Kinucii. 



Kinney was horn on Crooked Lake, near Penn Tan, 
Yates County, N. Y., iu 1826. He went West while a boy, 
taught school, edited newspapers, and finally practised 
law. Besides writing for the magazines, he has publish- 
ed "Kecuka: an American Legend, and other Poems" 
(ICO pages, 1854). He made his mark as a poet by his 
"Rain on the Roof;" but has given evidence of original 
power in other productions. 



FROM THE "MOTHER OF GLOKV." 

Celebrity by some great accident, 
Some single opportunity, is like 
Aladdin's palace iu the wizard tale. 
Vanished wheu eiivv steals the charm awav. 



COATES KIXXEr.—MBS. CRAIK {DIXAH MAItIA MVLOCK). 



811 



liiit Tlioii^lit np-pyramids itself to fame 
By Imsbaiidry of opportunities, 
(iraile after grade coustructing to that height, 
Which, seen above the fur horizon, seems 
To peak among the stars. Go imimiiiify 
Tliy iiaiiio within that arcliitectnial pile 
Which others' intellect has Imildeil ; none — 
For all the hieroglyjjlis of glory — none 
Save but the builder's name, shall sound along 
The everlasting ages. Heart and brain 
Of thine must resolutely yoke themselves 
To slow-paced years of toil, el.se all the trumps 
Of hero-heraldry that ever twanged. 
Gathered in one mad blare above the graves. 
Shall not avail to resurrect thy name 
To the salvation of remembrance then, 
AVhen once the lettei-s of it have slunk back 
Into the alphabet from otV tliy t(uub. [crumbles 
Ay. thou must think, think! Slarble frets and 
Hack into uudistingni.shable dust 
At last, and epitaphs grooved into brass 
'Yield piecemeal to tlic hungry elenieuts ; 
Hut truths that drop plumb to the depths of time 
Anchor the uame forever : — thou must tliink 
Such truths, and speak, or write, or act theui forth — 
Thyself must do this — or the centuries 
Shall take thee, as the maelstrom gulps a wreck, 
To the dread bottom of oblivion. — Think I 
A bilmlous memory sponging np the thoughts 
Of dead men, is not thought; it holds no sway. 
Where genius is : not freighted argosies. 
Hut thunder-throated guns of battle-ships 
Command the high seas. Destiny is not 
About thee, but within : thyself must mnko 
Tliyself : the agonizing throes of Thought. 
These bring forth glory, bring forth destiny. 



RAIX OX THE ROOF. 

When the humid shadows hover 

Over all the starry spheres, 
And the melancholy darkness 

Gently weeps in rainy tears. 
What a joy to press the jiillow 

Of a cottage-ehambcr bed, 
And to listen to the patter 

Of the soft rain overhead ! 

Every tinkle on the shingles 
Has an echo in the heart; 

And a thousand dreamy fancies 
Into busy being start ; 



And a thousand recollections 

Weave their bright hues into woof, 

As I listen to the patter 
Of the raiu upon the roof. 

Now in fancy comes my mother 

As she used to, years agone. 
To survey her darling dreamers. 

Ere she left thenj till the dawn ; 
Oh ! I see her bending o'er me. 

As I list to this refrain, 
Which is played ujjon the shingles 

liy the patter of the rain. 

Then my little seraph sister. 

With her wings and waving hair, 
And her bright-eyed cherub brother — 

A serene, angelic pair! — 
Glide around my wakeful pillow, 

With their praise or mild reproof. 
As I li.stcn to the murniur 

Of the soft rail! on the roof. 

And another comes to thrill mo 

With her eyes' delicious blue ; 
And forget I, gazing on her, 

That her heart was all untrue : 
I remember but to love her 

With a rapture kin to pain, 
And my heart's fjuiek pulses vibrato 

To the patter of the rain. 

There is naught in Art's braviiras 

That can work with such a spell 
In the spirit's pure, deep fountains. 

Whence the holy passions well. 
As that melody of Nature, 

That subdued, subduing strain 
Which is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the raiu. 



iHi'G. Cvaili [Diual) Illavia iUulock). 

.Miss Mulock (1826- ) became Mrs. Craik iu ISft"), 

after she had gained considerable literary distinction un- 
der her maiden name. She h.as written a series of admi- 
ral)le novels, and her short lyrical pieces arc remarkable 
for a union of tenderness and force, beauty and feeling. 
She was born at Sloke-upon-Trcnt, Stad'ordsliire, and her 
first novel, "The Ogilvlcs," appeared iu l.S4'.l; "John 
Ilalifiix," the most populnr of her llctions, in 1H.57. She 
is also the author of "Studies from Life" (1800) and 
"Sermons out of Church" (1875). 



812 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISH ASD AMEUICAN POETRY. 



TO A WINTER WIND. 

Loiul wind, strong wind,sweepiugo'ertlie monutains, 

Fresh wind, free wind, bluwinj; from the .se.T, 
Pour forth thy vials like streams from airy fonntains, 
Draughts of life to me ! 

Clear wind, cold wind, like a Northern R'iant, 

Stars brightly threading thy cloud-driven hair, 
Thrilling tlio blank night with a voice defiant, 
Lo I 1 meet thee there ! 

Wild wind, l>old wind, like a strong-armed angel, 
Clasp mo round — kiss me with thy kksses divine. 
Breathe in my dull heart thy secret sweet evangel — 
Mine, and only mine! 

Fierce wind, mad wind, howling through the nations, 
Kuew'st thou how leapeth that heart as thou go- 
est by, [tieuce. 

Ah ! thou wouldst pause awhile in a sudden pa- 
Like a human sigh. 

Sharp wind, keen wind, cutting as word arrows, 

Empty Ihy quiverful! pass on! what is't. to thee 
Though in some mortal eyes life's whole bright cir- 
cle narrows 

To one misery ? 

Loud wind, strong wind, stay thou in the moun- 
tains ! 
Fresh wind, free wind, trouble not the sea! 
Or lay thy deathly hand upon my heart's warm 
fountains, 

That I hear not thee ! 



TOO LATE. 

Could ye come' back to me, Douglas, Douglas, 

In the old likeness that I knew, 
I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Never a scornful word should grieve ye, 
I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do : 

Sweet as your smile on me shone over, 
Douglas, Dougl.as, tender and true. 

Oh ! to call b.ack the days that are not ! 

My eyes were blinded, your words were few ; 
Do yon know the truth now up in heaven, 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ? 



I never was worthy of you, Douglas ; 

Not lialf worthy the like of you ; 
Now all men beside seem to me like shadows — 

I love you, Douglas, tender and true. 

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, 
Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew, 

As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 



PHILIP, MY KING. 

" \\'ho be.irs upou bis baby brow tbe roimd and top of sov- 
eiei_:^nty." 

Look at me with thy largo brown eyes, 

Philip, my King ! 
For round thee the purple shadow lies 
Of babyhood's regal dignities. 
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand, 

With love's invisible sceptre laden ; 
1 am thine Esther, to command, 

Till thou shalt tiiul thy queen-handmaideu, 
Philip, my King ! 

Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing, 

Philip, my King ! 
When those beautiful lips are suing. 
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing. 
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there 

Sittest all glorified ! — Rule kindly. 
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair. 

For we that love, ah ! we love so bliudly, 
Philip, my King. 

I gaze from thy sweet month nji to thy brow, 

Philip, my King ; 
Ay. there lies the sjiirit, all sleeping now. 
That may rise like a giant, and nnike men bow 
As to one God-throned amidst his jieers. 

My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer. 
Let me behold thee in coming years! 
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 
Philip, my King ! 

A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, 

Philip, ray King, 
Thou too must tread, as we tread, a way 
Thorny, and bitter, and e(dd, and gray : 
Rebels within thee, and foes without 

Will sn.atch at thy crown. Bnt go on, glorious, 
Blarlyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout, 

As thou sittest at the feet of God victorious, 
"Philip, the King!" 



WALTEI: MirclIELL. 



81:? 



lUaltcr iUittI)cll. 



AMERICAN. 

Mitchell was born at Nantucket, Mass., Jannaiy "Jid, 
1826. Uc was graduated at Harvard College in the class 
of 1840 ; entered the ministry of the Protestant Episcopal 
Church in 1S5S; was settled at Stamford, Conn., in the 
same year; and in 1(*S0 was Hector of Trinity Church, 
Rutland, Vt. He is tlie author of " Bryan Maurice," a 
novel, published by Lippincott & Co., Pliiladel|iliia ; also 
f a poem delivered before Die Phi Beta Kappa Society 
1 Harvard, in 187.5. His "Tacking Ship " is remarkable 
lor the nautical accuracy of the description. It is as 
true to life as any part of the " Sliipwreck" of Fal- 
coner, while it surpasses that once famous poem in 
graphic power and freedom of style. 



TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE. 

The weather Icccli of the top-sail shiver.s, 

The bowlines straiu and the lee-shronds slacken, 
The braces are taut, the lithe boom <|nivcr.s. 

And the waves with the coming squall -cloud 
blacken. 

II. 

Open one point on the weather bow- 
ls the light-hon.so tall on Fire Island head ; 

There's a, shade of doubt on the caiitain's brow, 
And the pilot watches the heaving lead. 



I stand at the wheel, and with eager eyo 
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze, 

Till the muttered order of "Fill AND IIY !" 
Is suddenly changed to "Full fok stavs!" 



Tho ship bends lower beforn the breeze, 

As her broadside fair to the blast she lays; 

And she swifter springs to the rising seas. 
As the pilot calls, "Stand iiy vdh stays!" 



It is silence all, as each in his jjlace. 

With the gathered coils in his hardened bands, 
I!y tack and bowline, by sheet and bnice. 

Waiting the watchword impatient stands. 



And the light on Fire Island head ilraws ni'ar, 
.\s, trnniiiet-winged, the pilot's shunt 

From his post <in the bowsprit's hcil I hear. 
With the welcome call of " Kicady I AdoUt!" 



No time to spare! it is touch and go, [down!" 
And the captain growls, " Ddwn iiklm ! Haud 

As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw. 
While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's 
frown. 

VIII. 

High o'er tho kniglit-hcads Hies the spray. 
As wo meet the shock of the i)hinging sea; 

And my shoulder stilT to the wheel I lay. 

As I answer, "Ay, ay, Sir! U-a-a-u-d a-lee!" 



With the swerving leap of a startled steed 
Tho ship tiics fast in tho eye of tho wind, 

Tlu! dangt'rous shoals on tho lee recede, 

And the headland white wc have left behind. 



Tlie top-sails llntter, the Jibs collapse, 

And billy and tug at the groaning cleats; 

The spanker slats, and tho m.ain-sail flaps. 

And thunders the order, "Tacks and .sheets!'' 



".Mid the rattle of blocks and tlie traniji of the crew, 
Hissi's the rain of the rushing siiuall ; 

The sails are aback from clew to clew. 

And now is the moment for " Main-saii., haii, I'' 



And tho heavy yards like a baby's toy 
Hy fifty strong arms an; swiftly swung; 

She holds her Avay, and I look with .joy 

For tho lirst white spray o'er the bulwarks Hung. 



"Lkt no AND hail!'' 'Tis the last coniinand. 
And the head-sails fill to the blast once nicue ; 

Astern ami to leeward lies the land. 

With its breakers white on tin' shingly shore. 



What matters the reef, or tho rain, or tho squall f 
I steady the helm for the open sea; 

The lirst mate clamors, " Hki.ay Tiir.itE, all!" 
And the captain's breath oiico muru couios free. 



And .so off shore let tho good ship fly ; 

Little care I how the gnsts may blow, 
In my fo'castle bunk in a Jacket dry, — 

Eight bells have struck, ami mv watch is below. 



814 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



lUilliam fjaincs Cntlc 



Lytle (183&-1863) was a native of Cincinnati, O. After 
a scholastic education, he studied law in the office of his 
uncle, E. S. Haines. On the bi-eaking out of the Mexi- 
can War he caught tlie military spirit, and served as 
captain with distinction. In 1861 he became colonel of 
the 10th Ohio Volunteers, and took part in the battle 
of Rich Mountain. He led a brigade at Carnifox Ferry, 
where he was wounded. He next commanded the 17th 
Brigade under Mitchell, and was again wounded at Per- 
ryville, where he was made prisoner. In 1803 he was ap- 
pointed Brigadier-general of Volunteers, and served un- 
der Roseerans, until killed at Chiekamauga, Sept., 1863. 



ANTONY TO CLEOPATRA. 

" I am dyini;, Egypt, dying !"— Su.vii6PEAr.E. 

I am dying, Egypt, (lying ! 

Ebbs the crim.son life-tiile fast; 
Aud the dark, Plutonian shadow,? 

Gather on the evening blast. 
Let thine arm, O Queen, support me, 

Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear ; 
Listen to the great heart-secrets, 

Tbon, and thou alone, must hear. 

Though my scarred and veteran legions 

Bear their eagles high uo more, 
Though my wrecked and scattered galleys 

Strew dark Actinm's fatal shore; 
Though no glittering guards surround me, 

Prompt to do their master's will, — 
I must perish like a Roman, — 

Die the great Triumvir still. 

Let not Ca'sar's servile minions 

Mock the lion thus laid low ; 
'Twas no foeman's hand that felled him, 

'Twas his own that struck the blow : — 
His who, pillowed on thy bosom. 

Turned aside from glory's ray — 
His who, drunk with thy caresses, 

Madly threw a world away. 

Should the base plebeian rabble. 

Dare assail my fame at Rome, 
Where the noble spouse, Octavia, 

Weeps within her widowed home, — 
Seek her ; say the gods bear witness, — 

Altars, augurs, circling wings, — 
That her blood, with mine commingled. 

Yet shall mount the throne of kings. 



And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian, 

Glorious sorceress of the Nile, 
Light my path through Stygian darkness 

With the splendor of thy smile. 
Give to Cresar thrones and kingdoms, 

Let his brow the laurel twine ; 
I can scorn all meaner triumphs, 

Triumphing in lovo like thine. 

I am dying, Egypt, dying! 

Hark ! the insulting foeman's cry ; 
They are coming — quick, my falchion ! 

Let me front them ere I die. 
Ah ! uo more amid the battle 

Shall my soul exulting swell ; 
Isis and Osiris guard thee — 

Cleopatra ! Rome ! farewell ! 



£nci) Carrom. 



Miss Larcom, who made a name by her simple ballad 
of "Hannah binding Shoes,"was born at Beverly Farms, 
Mass., in 18li6. She has edited various publications, has 
done some good work for the magazines, is the author 
of a volume of poems, and the compiler of "Breathings 
of the Better Life." At one time she was a factory op- 
erative at Lowell. 



HANNAH BINDING SHOES. 

Poor lone H.aunah, 
Sitting at the window binding shoes. 

Faded, wrinkled. 

Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse. 

Bright-eyed beauty once was she. 

When the bloom was ou the tree ; 

Si>ring and winter, 

Hannah's at the window binding shoes. 

Not a neighbor 
Passing nod or answer will refuse 

To her whisper, 
" Is there from the fishers any news ?" 
Oh, her heart's adrift with one 
Ou an endless voyage gone ! 
Night and nu)rning, 
Hannah's at the window binding shoes. 

Fair young Hannah, 
Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly woos ; 

Hale and clever, 
For a williug heart and hand he sues. 



LVCT LARCOM.—KOBEIIT BARRY COFFIN. 



81.1 



Miiy-Jiiy bkics are all aglow, 
And the waves arc laughing so! 
Tur luT wcildiiig 
llamiali leaves lier wimlow ami her shuos. 

May i.s passing ; 
Mill tlio a|i|ile-l)(nif;lis a pigeon coos. 

Hannah shudders, 
Tor the mild south-wester mischief brews. 
Konud the rocks of Marblchcad, 
Outward bound, a schooucr sped ; 
Silent, lonesome, 
Hannah's al the window binding shoes. 

'Tis November; 
Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews. 

From Newfoundland 
Not a sail returning will she lose, 
Whispering hoarsely: "Fishermon, 
Have yon, have you heard of Ben ?" 
Old with watching, 
Hannah's at the window binding shoes. 

Twenty winters 
Hleach and tear the ragged shore she views. 

Twenty seasons ! 
Never one has bronght her any new.s. 
Still her dim eyes silently 
Chase the white sails o'er the sea: 
Hopeless, faithful, 
Hannah's at the window binding shoes. 



nobcvt Carnj Coffin. 

AMERICAN. 

Collin was born at Hudson, New York, in ISiC. His 
gicat-graiulfatlier was one of the original tliirleen pro- 
prietois of the island of Nantucket. Robert received a 
good classical education ; and, after some experience as a 
clerk and a bookseller, formed a literary connection with 
Morris & Willis of the Home Juunial (18.58). In 18(i2 be 
accepted a position in the N. Y. Custom-house. Sev- 
eral volumes in projse from bis pen, and one in poetry 
(1873), have appeared under the name of Barry Gray. 



SHirs AT «i:a. 

I have ships that went to sea, 
More than fifty years ago ; 

None have yet come home to me, 
Hut are sailing to and fi-o. 

I have seen them in my sleep, 

riunging through the shoreless deep, 



With tattered sails and battered hulls, 
Wliile around them screamed the gulls, 
Flying low, tlying low. 

I have wondered why they stayed 

Friun me, sailing round the world ; 
And I've said, "I'm half afraid 

That their sails will ne'er be furled." 
Great the treasures tliat they hold, 
.Silks, and plumes, and bars of gold ; 
While the spices that they bear 
Fill with fragrance all the air, 
As they sail, as they sail. 

Ah ! each sailor in the port 

Knows that I have ships at sea, 
Of the winds and waves tbo sport, 

And the sailors pity me. 
Oft they come and wilh me walk. 
Cheering mo with hopeful talk, 
Till I put my fe.ars aside. 
And, contented, watch the tide 
Rise and fall, rise and fall. 

I li.ivc wailed on tlio piers. 

Gazing for them down the bay, 
D.ays and nights for many years, 
Till I turned heart-sick away. 
But the pilots, when they laud, 
.Slop and take me by tlie band. 
Saying, "You will live to .see 
Your proud vessels come from sea. 
One and all, one and all.'' 

So I never quite despair. 

Nor let hope or courage fail ; 
And sonic day, when skies are fair, 

Up the bay my ships will sail. 
I shall buy then all I need, — 
I'rints to look at, books to read. 
Horses, wines, and works of art, — 
Everything. except a heart — 
That is lost, that is lost. 

Once when 1 was pure and young, 

Kicher, too, than I am now, 
Kre a cloud was o'er me Hung, 

Or a wrinkle creased my brow. 
There was one whoso heart w.is mine ; 
But she's something now divine. 
And though come my ships from .sea. 
They can bring no heart to mo 
Ever more, ever more. 



816 



CYCLOPAEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Cjovatio Nelson }j)owcr£ 



Of English and German descent, tlie Rev. Dr. Powers 
was born in Amenia, N. Y., April Snth, 1820. He was 
graduated at Union College In 1850, and was ordained in 
Trinity Cluirch in 1855. He was Kector of the Episco- 
pal Church in Davenport, Iowa, several years ; of St. 
John's Church, Cliicago, in 1808; but in 1875 became Rec- 
tor of Christ Church, Bridgeport, Conn. His books are ; 
"Through the Year," a collection of discourses (18T5); 
" Poems, Early and Late" (Chicago, 1870). He was an 
intimate friend of Bryant and Bayard Taylor; and has 
been a contributor to the leading periodicals of America, 
as well as to VArt, the French art review. His poetry 
has the charm of an enthusiasm genuine and spontane- 
ous, and wc feel in it the throbs of an emotion always 
true and pure. 



FROM "MEMORIAL DAY." 

Out of tliine azure depths, O snn benign, 
Shower tliy golden kisses on the May ! 

Drink, fertile fields, kind Nature's mystic wine. 

Till every herb throb with a life divine; — 
Let not a single dew-drop go astray. 

Brood, moistened airs, with warm and fragrant wing. 
On all the vales; and haste, with glow-ing feet, 
Y'e soft-lipped Hours, to make the landscape sweet 

Till earth shall burst to flowers — a perfect Spring ! 
O vernal season ! give your richest blooms — 
Rare ra<liancc woven iu celestial looms, 
The subtlest meanings of each tint and tone 
That Beauty keeps about her peerless throne : 

Our hearts ache with iiusyllabled applause. 
We are uuworthy, — hut for those wlio lie 

In graves made holy by their life-blood shed, — 

The hero-youth who took onr perilled can.se, 
And thought it sweet and beautiful to die, 

That Freedom's fields by us be harvested, — 
We crave the choicest emblems to impart, — 
The sense of that which blossoms iu the heart ! 

Jf if # Jf Tf # 

The nation lives: after AVar's bloody showers 
The air is sweet wilh Freedom's stainless flowers. 
Let praise ascend and gratulations grand ! 
The graves of martyrs consecrate the laud. 



A ROSE-BUD. 

It was merely the bud of a blood-red rose 

That I found 'tween the lids of my book to-day : 

What of it ? Nothing to you, I suppose — 
Sweet ashes a brcatli would scatter away ! 



Yet here I am holding the dead, faded thing. 

As the sun drops out of the August sky, 
And dew-drnnken blossoms their odors fling 
On the twilight air — do you ask me why? 

The years are gathered in this little tomb, — 

(Strange that a grave in my band I .should hold!) 
Springs that showered their ki.sses of bloom, 

And summers that revelled in fruits of gold. 
No breath of the meadows nor orange bough 

Sheds to my spirit an odor so rare : 
Y'ou see not — how can yon ? — what I see now — 

That marvellous face — Are the angels so fair ? 

Slie gave me this bud and a single leaf, — 

Geranium — it has crumbled away; — 
What a gloi-y touched life then, but how grief 

Drives to tasks that sprinkle the head with gray I 
Half doubting I number the seasons since flown ; 

Like a star she just trembled on womanhood's eve : 
To what in the garden of God has she grown ? 

Naught more fair than she was can my fancy con- 
ceive. 

For the roses of morning, and music, and light, 

The motions of birds, and the freshness of June, 
The glimmer of lilies, and childhood's delight, 

In her exquisite nature were blended in tune. 
Its sweetness yet lingers like perfume that clings 

To the air when the splendor of blo.ssoms has fled. 
More tender than touch of invisible wings, 

The spell of her presence around me seems shed. 

And now while this faded bud in my palm 

Grows dim in the darkness, and still is dear, 
All over my sorrow is sprinkled a balm 

From the depth of a heavenly atmo.sphere. 
A hand long vanished I seem to hold ; 

The years their glory of dreams restore : 
I .see a face that can never grow old, 

And life looks large on the other shore. 



iHortimcr Collins. 

Born at Plymouth, England, 1837, Collins died C1876) 
in liis forty-ninth year, the victim of excessive literary 
labor. He was the author of fourteen moderately suc- 
cessful novels; and, in poetry, of "Idyls and Rhymes" 
(18.55), "Summer Songs" (1800), "Inn of Strange Meet- 
ings" (1871), "The British Birds" (1873). He was a fre- 
quent contributor to Punch and other prosperous peri- 
odicals. " I wholly agree," he writes, " in the great Siiy- 
ing, Laborare est orare: I add, Lnbumre est vivcre." Again 



MORTIMEn COLLIXS. 



817 



lie wrilcs: "I should grow very weary of life if I did not 
fi'cl that I had God for friend." His marriage was nn 
exceptionally happy one. He not only wrote poetry, 
but made life a poem. Says one of his friends: "He 
rejoiecd in diffusing gladness; was intensely gentle and 
tender, and iieculiarly sensitive to kindness." By intui- 
tion he seemed to have a thorough faith in God and a 
future life. His writings indieate a highly poetical tem- 
perament, and he ))reserved his intellectual vigor and 
kindiv nature to the last. 



FIRST 01' APRIL, 1876. 

Now, if to lie an .April-l'ool 

Is to delight in the song of tlie tliru.sh, 
To long for the swallow in air's blue hollow, 

Anil the nightingale's riotous mii^iic-gnsb, 
And to p.Tint ii vision of cities Elysfiln 

Out away in the snn.set-llnsh — 
Then I gra.sp my llagon anil swear thereby, 
We are April-fools, my Love and I. 

Ami if to be an April-fool 

Is to feel contempt for iron and gold, 
For the shallow fame at which most men aim— 

And to turn from worldlings cruel and cold 
To God in His splendor, loving and tender. 

And to bask in His presence manifold- 
Then by all tlic stars in His infinite sky, 
Wo are April-fnols. my Love and I. 



IN VIEW OF DEATH. 

No: I shall pa.ss into tlio Morning L;ind 
As now from slei'p into the life of morn ; 
Livo the new life of the new worM, luisliiMii 

Of the swift brain, the executing hand ; 

Sco the dense darkness suddenly withdrawn. 
As when Orion's sightless eyes discerned the dawn. 

I .shall behold it : I shall sco the ntter 

(ilory of sunrise heretofore unseen, 

Freshening the woodland ways with brighter 
green. 
And calling into life all wings th:it llutter, 

All throats of music and all eyes of light, 

And driving o'er the verge the intoli'rable night. 

(I virgin world I O niarvellnns far days! 

No more with dreams of grief doth love grow 

bitter, 
Nor trouble dim the lustre wont to glitter 
In happy eyes. Decay alone decays : 
52 



A moment — death's dull sleep is o'er ; and wo 
Drink the immortal morning air Eiirind. 



THE P0.SIT1VISTS. 

Life and the universe show spontaneity : 
Down with ridiculous mitions of Deity, 

Churches aud creeds are all lost in the mists; 

Truth must be sought with (he I'ositivists. 

Wise are their teachers beyond :ill comparison, 
Couite, Huxley, Tyndall, Mill, Jlorli y, and Harrison : 
Who will adventure to enter the lists 
With such a squadron of Positivistst 

Social arrangements arc awful mi.searriages ; 
Cause of all eriuu> is our system of marriages. 

Poets with sonnets and lovers with trysts 

Kiudlo the iro of the Positivists. 

Husbands and wives should be all ono commnnily, 
E.xqnisite freedom with absolute unity. 

Wedding-rings worse are than manacled wrists. 
Such is the creed of the i'ositivists. 

There was an apo in the days that arc earlier; 

Centuries passed, and his hair became curlier: 
Centuries nu)ro gave a thumb to his wrist — 
Then he was Max, — and a Positivist. 

If yon are jiious (mild foru) of insanity). 
Bow down anil worship the ma.ss of humanity. 
Other religions are buried in mists: 
"We're our own gods!'' sav the Positivists. 



COLLINS'S LAST VERSES. 

I have been sitting alone 

All day while the clouds went by, 

While moved the strength of the seas, 
While a wind with a will of his own, 

A Poet out of the sky. 

Smote the green harp of the trees. 

Alone, yet not alone, 

For I felt, as the gay wind whirled. 

As the cloudy sky grew clear. 
The touch of our Father half-known. 

Who dwells at the heart of the world, 

Yel who is always here. 



818 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Hhs. Crtljcl £i)nn Beers. 

AMERICAN. 

Etlieliiula Elliott (1837-1879) was born and edtiented 
in Goshen, Oi'ange County, N. J. She began to write for 
the weekly and monthly periodicals under the pseudo- 
nyme of Ethel Lynn, which she retained after her mar- 
riage. A volume of poems from her pen appeared short- 
ly before her death. Her poem of "The Picket-guard," 
which first appeared in Harper's Weekly, November, 1801, 
was afterward claimed, erroneously it would seem, for 
Major Lamar Fontaine of Texas. It also appeared in 
"The War Poetry of the South," edited lay William Gil- 
more Simms. In a private letter Mrs. Beers wrote : "The 
poor ' Picket ' has had so many ' authentic ' claimants and 
willing sponsors, that I sometimes question myself wheth- 
er I did really write it that cool September morning af- 
ter reading the stereotyped announcement, 'All quiet,' 
etc., to which was added in small type, ' A jjicket shot !' " 



THE PICKET-GUARD. 

" All quiet along tlio Potomac," they say, 

•'Except now aud then a stray picket 
Is shot, as he walks ou his beat, to and fro, 

By a liflemau hid in the thicket. 
'Tis nothing — a private or two, now and then, 

Will not count in the news of the battle ; 
Not an officer lost — only one of tlie men, 

Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle." 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night. 

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; 
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn nmon, 

Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. 
A treniulons sigh, as the gentle night-wind 

Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping ; 
While stars )ip above, with their glittering eyes, 

Keep guard — for the army is sleeping. 

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread. 

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, 
Aud thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed 

Far away in the cot on the mountain. 
His mn.sket falls slack — liis face, dark and grim, 

Grows gentle with memories tender. 
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, — 

For their mother — may Heaven defend her ! 

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then. 
That night, when the love yet unspoken 

Leaped up to his lips — when low-murmured vows 
Were pledged to be ever unbroken. 

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, 
He dashes off tears that are welling. 



And gathers his gun closer up to its place, 
As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree — 

The footstep is lagging aud weary ; 
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light. 

Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 
Hark ! was it the night- wind that rustled the leaves? 

Was it moonlight so wondronsly flashing ? 
It looked like a rille — "Ah! Mary, good-bye !" 

And the life-blood is ebbing and iilashing. 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 
No sound save the rush of the river ; 

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead — 
The picket's off duty forever ! 



(Eiigar vllfvcb Couiving. 

A son of Sir John Bowring, himself a poet, hymn-writ- 
er, and translator, Edgar (bom in England about 1827) 
has made translations from Goethe and other German 
poets. 



WHAT SONGS ARE LIKE. 

After Goethe. 

Songs are like painted window-panes : 
In darkness wrapped, the Church remains, 
If from the market-place wo view it : 
Thus sees the ignoramus through it. 
No wonder that he deems it tame, — 
Aud all his life 'twill bo the same. 

But let us now inside repair. 

And greet the holy Chapel there ! 

At once the whole seems clear and bright. 

Each ornament is bathed in light, 

And fraught with meaning to the sight. 

God's children ! thus your fortune iirize, 

Be edified, aud feast yonr eyes. 



YOUTH AND AGE. 

From Goethe, .-Et. 77. 

When I was still a youthful wight. 
So full of enjoyment aud merry. 

The painters used to assert in spite. 

That my features were small — yes, very ; 

Yet then full many a beauteous child 

With true affection upon me smiled. 



j:i)(iai; alfiied jiouiuxg.—iiose terrt cooke. 



8iy 



Now as 11 giaybcard I sit. hero in statr, 
Uy Btrcet and by lano held in awo, sirs ; 

And may be seen, like obi Frederick tbo Great, 
On pipebowls, on clips, and ou sanccrs. 

Yet tbo beanteoiis luaideus, tbey keep alar ; 

O vision of youth! O gohleu star! 



llosc itcvrn cCookc. 

AMERICAN. 

Rose Terry was born in Hartford, Conn., Febrnary 
ITlli, 1827, and educated in that city at the Femiile Sem- 
inary. After licr niiirriaice she became a resident of Wiii- 
sted, Litehtiehl Comity, Conn. In the early days of the 
Atlaiilk ilimllibj she coiitiihuted to its passes many graph- 
ic and amusinj; sketches of rnral life in New England. In 
1861 she puhlished a volume of poems in Boston. She is 
one of the genuine warblers, whose songs arc not so much 
artificial products as they are the melodious expression 
of some heart felt thought or emotion. 



TRAILING ARBUTUS. 

Darlings of tbo forest! 

lilossdining alono 
AVlien Earth's grief is sorest 
For bcr jewels gone — 
Krc tbo last snow - drift melts, your tender buds 
liavo blown. 

Tinged with color faintly, 

Liko the luorniug sky, 

Or more pale and saintly, 

Wrapped in leaves ye lie, 

Even as ebildreu sleep in faith's simplicity. 

There tbo wild wood-robin 

Hymns yonr solitude. 
And tbo rain comes sobbing 
Through the building wood, 
Willie tbo low south wind sighs, but dare not bo 
more rude. 

Were your pure lips fashioned 

Out of air and ilew : 
Starlight uninipassioned. 
Dawn's most tender line — 
\m\ .scented by the woods that gathered sweets for 
yon f 

Faircsr and most lonely. 
From the world apart. 



Made for beauty only, 

Veiled from Nature's heart, 
With siicli nneonscious grace as makes tbo dream 
of Art ! 

Were not iiiort.il .sorrow 

An immortal shade, 
Then would I to-morrow 
Sneb a tlower bo made, 
And live in the dear woods where my lost cbildhooil 
played. 



INDOLENCE. 

Indolent! indolent! yes, I am indolent, 
So is tbo gr.ass growing tenderly, slowly ; 
So is the violet fragrant and lo\vI_\-, 

Drinking in quietness, peace, and content : 

So is tbo bird on the light branches swinging, 
Idly bi.s carol of gratitude singing, 

Only on living and loving intent. 

Iinbdeiil ! indolent! yes, I am indolent! 

So is the cloud overhanging the nioniitain ; 

So is the tremulous wave of a fountain. 
Uttering softly its silvery psalm. 

Nerve and sensation in quiet reposing, 

Silent as blossoms the uigbt dew is closing, 
But tbo full heart beating strongly and ciilni. 

Indolent! indolent! yes, I am indolent, 
If it be idle to gather my pleasure 
Out of creation's uneoveted treasure, 

Midnight and morning, by forest and sea. 
Wild with the tempest's snbliine exultation, 
Lonely in Autumn's forlorn lamentation. 

Hopeful and happy with Spring and tbo bee. 

Indolent! indolent! are yo not indolent? 

Thralls of the earth, and its n.^^ages weary ; 

Toiling like gnomes where the darkness is dreary, 
Toiling and sinning, to heap up your gold! 

Stilling the heavenward breath of devotion ; 

Crushing the freshness of every emotion ; 
Hearts liko tlio dead which are pulseless and cold I 

Indolent! iiubdcnt! art thou not indolent? 
Thou who art living unloving and lonely. 
Wrapped in a pall that will cover tlieo only. 

Shrouded in selfishness, piteous ghost! 

Sad eyes behold thee, and angels are weeping 
O'er thy forsaken and desolate sleeping; 

Art thou not indolent T — Art thou not lost f 



820 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BIUTISH AND AMERICAN POETIiY. 



3o\]n (iouinscnb ^!Iroulllri^gc. 



Ti-owbridfje was born in Ogdcn, N. Y., in 1827. He re- 
ceived a good common seliool education, but was largely 
self-taught — mastering tbe Latin, French, and German 
languages. Ho went to New York in 1846, applied him- 
self to literature, encountered gallantly some of the ex- 
periences of the unknown and impecunious author, re- 
moved to Boston in 18.50, wrote " Father Bright Hopes," 
a story for the young, then several novels whieli had a 
good sale : lie contributed largely to the leading mag- 
azines, published "The Emigrant's Story, and other 
Poems," in 1875; and "The Book of Gold, and other 
Poems," in 1877. He is also the author of" Guy Brown," 
a novelette in verse, published in "The Masque of the 
Poets" (Roberts Brothers, Boston, 1878); and of some 
half-dozen successful stories for the young. It is in his 
poetry that Trowbridge excels. " The Vagabonds" has 
been neatly illustrated by Darley. It is one of the happy 
hits that are not soon forgotten. 



BEYOND. . 

From her owu fair dominions, 
Long since, witli shorn pinions, 
My spirit ivas lianisbed : 
But above her still hover, iu vigils anil dreams, 
Ethereal visitants, voices, and gleams, 
That forever remind her 
Of something behind her 
Long vauLshed. 

Through the listening night, 
With mysterious flight. 

Pass those winged intimations: 
Like stars shot from heaven, their still voices fall 

to me ; 
Far and departing, they signal and call to me, 
Strangely beseeching mo. 
Chiding, yet teaching me 
Patience. 

Then at times, oh ! at times, 
To their luminous climes 

I pursue as a swallow ! 
To the river of Peace, and its solacing shades. 
To the haunts of my lost ones, iu heavenly glades, 
With strong aspirations 
Their pinion.s' vibrations 
I follow. 

O heart! be thon patient I 
Though here I am stationed 



A season in durance, 
The chain of the world I will cheerfully wear; 
For, spanning my sonl like a rainbow, I bear, 
With the yoke of my lowly 
Condition, a holy 
Assurance, — 

That never in vain 
Does the spirit maintain 
•Her eternal allegiance : 
Thongh suffering and yearning, like Infancy learning 
Its lesson, we linger ; then skyward returning, 
On plumes fully grown 
We depart to our owu 
Native regions! 



THE VAGABONDS. 

We are two travellers, Eoger and I. 

Roger's my dog — come here, you scamp ! 
Jump for the gentlemau — mind your eye! 

Over the table — look out for the lamp! 
The rogue is growing a little old; 

Five years we've tramped through wind and 
weather, 
And slept out-doors when nights were cold. 

And ate and drank and starved together. 

We've learned what comfort is, I tell yon — 

A bed ou the Hoor, a bit of rosin, 
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow ! 

The paw he holds up there's been frozen). 
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle 

(This out-door business is bad for strings), 
Tlieu a few nice buclcwheats hot from the griddle, 

And Roger and I set up for liings. 

No, thank ye, sir — I never drink ; 

Roger and I are exceedingly moral. 
Aren't we, Roger? — see liim wink! 

Well, something hot, then — we won't rjnarrel. 
He's thirsty, too — see liim nod his head : 

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk ! 
He understands every word that's said. 

And he knows good milk from water-aud-cbalk. 

The truth is, sir, now I refJect, 

I've been so sadly given to grog, 
I wonder I've not lost the respect 

(Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog. 
But he sticks by through thick and thin; 

And this old coat, with its empty pockets 



JOHX TOWNSEXD TllOWBniDGE.—JULIJX FAXE. 



821 



And rags that smell of tubacco and gin, 

He'll follow while ho has eyes iu his sockets. 

There isn't audtlicr creatnre living 

Wonid do it, and provi', tlirongh every disaster, 
Si) fond, so faillifnl, and so forgiving 
I To such a niiserahle, thankless master! 

No, sir — see him wag liis tail and grin ! 

By George ! it makes my old eyes water! 
I'hat is, there's something in this gin 

That chokes a fellow. But no matter. 

We'll have some nuisic if you're willing, 
I And Rdger (hem ! what a plague a cough is, sir!) 

Sh.iU march a little. .Start, you villain ! 

Stand straight ! 'Bout face ! Salute yonr ofticer ! 
Put up that |);iw ! Dress! Take yonr rifle! 
(.Some dogs have arms, you see I) Now hold your 
j Cap while the gentleman gives a tiille 
To aid a poor old patriot soldier. 

March ! Halt! Now show liow the rehe] shakes 

When he stands np to hear his sentence. 
Now fell ns how many drams it takes 

To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 
Five yel|)S — that's (ive ; he's mighty knowing. 

The night's before us, fill the glasses! 
t^iiick, sir! I'm ill— my brain is going! 

S<uno brandy — thank you — there! it passes! 

\\'\\y not reform f That's easily said ; 

But I've gone through snch wretched treatment, 
' Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 

.\iid scarce remembering what meat meant. 
That my poor stonnich's past reform ; 

And there are times when, mad with thinking, 
I'd sell out heaven for something warm 

To prop a horrible inward sinking. 

Is thi-re a way to forget to think f 

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, 
.\ dear girl's love — But I took to drink — 

The same old story ; you know how it ends. 
If vou could have seen these classic features — 

Vou needn't laugh, sir; they were not then 
Such a burning libel on God's creatures; 

I was one of your hand.some men I 

If ycui had seen her. so fair and young, 
Wliosi' lii-ad was happy on this breast. 

If you eonld have heard the songs I sung 

When the wine went round, you wouldn't have 
guessed 



That ever I, sir, should be straying 

From door to door with fiddle and dog, 

Ragged ami penniless, and playing 
To you to-night for a glass of grog. 

She's married since — a parson's wifi-; 

'Twas better for her that we should part- 
Better the soberest, prosiest life 

Thau a blasted home and a broken heart. 
I have seen her! Once. I was weak and spent; 

On the dusty road a carriage stopped, 
But lillle she dreamed, as on she went, 

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped! 

You've set me to talking, sir ; I'm sorry ; 

It makes me wild to think of the change! 
What do you care for a beggar's story f 

Is it amusing? You find it strange f 
I had a mother so jirond of me! 

'Twas well she died before — Do yon know 
If the happy spirits in heaven can see 

The ruin ami wretchedness hero below f 

Another glass, and strong, to deaden 

This pain, then Roger and I will start. 
I wonder has he such a lumpish, leadi'U, 

Aching thing in place of a heart? 
Ho is s;id sometimes, and would weep if lie conld. 

No doubt remendtering things that were — 
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, 

And himself a sober, respectable cnr. 

I'm better now : that glass w.as warming — 

You rascal, limber yonr lazy feet! 
We must be fiddling and performing 

For supper and bed, or starve in tho street. 
Not a very gay life to lead, you think f 

But soon we shall go where loilgings are free, 
And the sleepers neeil neither victuals nor drink — 

The sooner the better for Roger and me! 



iuliaii Jane. 

.Julian Chinlcs Henry Fane (1827-1870), a native of 
London, was "a poet, a musician, a linguist, a diploma- 
tist, un eloquent speaker, a wit, a nuuiic, a deliglitful 
talker." So says .Mr. John Dennis, a conlenipoi-ary man 
of letters. In conjunction with Ins friend Edward Robert 
Bnhver (afterward Lord Lytton). Fane pnlilislied "Taun- 
liiiuscr; or, the Battle of the Bards— a Foem" (18(il). 
He had previously published (IH.52) a volume of poems, 
a second edition of whieli, with aililitional notes, appear- 
ed in \xm. His Sonnets to liis Mother I .\<l Matreni) arc 
remarkable specimens of this form of composition, ul- 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



though framed after the Shakspearian model. A Life of 
Fane was i^uljlishcd (1871) by Lord L.yttoD,who says of 
the two sonnets, dated 1870 : " On the evening of the 13th 
of Mareli, 1870, his physical sufferinR was excessive. The 
following day was the birthday of his mother." She 
found what she " dared not, could not anticipate." There 
lay upon the table a letter with the two sonnets. " They 
are the last words ever written by Julian Fane, But 
this golden chain of votive verse * * * was not broken 
till life itself had left the liaiid that wrought it." 



AD MATREM. 



}!.\HCH 13, 18C2. 



Oft in the after-days, v\hen tbon and I 
Have fallen from the scope of Liinian view, 
When, both together, under the sweet sky 
We sleep beneath the daisies and the dew. 
Men will recall thy gracious presence bland, 
Conning the pictured sweetness of thy face ; 
Vi'M pore o'er paintings by thy plastic hand. 
And vaunt thy skill, and tell tby deeds of grace. 
Oh may they then,Vfho crown tbee with trne bays. 
Saying, " What love unto her sou she bore !" 
Make tliis addition to thy perfect praise, 
"Nor ever yet was mother worsliipped more!" 
So sh.all I live with thee, and thy dear fame 
Shall link my love unto thine honored name. 



AD MATREM. 

MARCH 13, ISCi. 

Music, and frankincense of llowcrs, belong 

To this sweet festival of all the year. 

Take, then, the latest blossom of my song, 

And to Love's canticle incline thine ear. 

What is it that Love cliants ? thy perfect praise. 

What is it that Love prays ? ■worthy to j)rove. 

What is it Love desires ? tby length of days. 

What is it that Love asks ? return of love. 

Ab, what requital can Love ask more dear 

Than by Love's priceless self to be repaid ? 

Tby liberal love, increasing year by year, 

Hath granted more than all my heart hath iirayed. 

And, prodigal as Nature, makes me pine 

To think how poor my love compared with thine ! 



AD MATREM. 

MARCH 13, 1870. 

When the vast heaven is dark with ominous clouds. 
That lower their gloomful faces to the earth ; 



When all things sweet and fair are cloaked in 

shrouds. 
And dire calamity and care have birth ; 
When furious tempests strip the woodland green. 
And from bare boughs the hapless songsters sing; 
When Winter stalks, a spectre, on the scene. 
And breathes a blight on every living thing; 
Then, when the spirit of man, by sickness tried, 
Half fears, half hopes, that Death be at his side, 
Outleaps the sun, and gives him life again. 
Mother, I clasped Death ; but, seeing thy face, 
Leaped from bis dark arms to thy dear embrace.' 



Panic Gabriel UoGsctti. 

Rossetti was born in London in 1828; the son of Mr. 
Gabriel Rossetti (178.3-18.54), Professor of Italian at King's 
College, and author of a Commentary on Daute. A poet, 
Rossetti is also an artist, and one of the originators of 
the so-called Pre-Raphaelite school of painting. He 
published in 1870 a volume of poems; also a work on 
the early Italian poets. Mr. Stedman, in liis" Victorian 
Poets," says of him : "He approaches Tennyson in sim- 
plicity, purity, and richness of tone. His verse is com- 
pact of teuderuess, emotional ecstasy, and poetic f re." 



LOST DAYS: SONNET. 

The lost days of my life until to-day. 
What were they, conkl I see them on the street 
Lie as they fell f Would they be ears of wheat 
Sown onco for food but trodden into clay ? 
Or golden coins squandered and still to pay ? 
Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet? 
Or such spilt water as in dreams nnist cheat 
The throats of men in Hell, who thirst alway ? 
I do not see them hero ; but after death 
God knows I know the faces I shall see. 
Each one a murdered self, with low last breath : 
" I am thyself, — what hast thou done to me ?" 
"And I — and I — thyself" (lo! each one saith), 
"And tbon thyself to all eternity!" 



FROM "THE PORTRAIT." 

This is her picture as she was : 
It seems a thing to wonder on, 

As though mine image in the glass 
Should tarry when myself am gone. 

I gaze until she seems to stir, — 

Until mine eyes almost aver 

It will be remarked that lliis souuet has bat thirteeu hues. 



DAXTE GABRIEL liOSSETTL— CLARENCE COOK. 



823 



That now, even now, tho sweet lips i»art 

To breathe tho words of tho sweet heart : 
And yet the earth is over her. 
Alas! even such tbo thin-drawn ray 

Tliat makes tho prison-depths iiioie riidi>,- 
Thc drip of water night and day 

Giving a tongue to solitude. 
Yet this, of all love's perfect prize 
Remains: save what in luouruful guise 

Takes counsel with my soul alone ; 

Savo what is secret and unknown, 
Uulow the earth, above tbo skies. 



(Ularciue tfook. 



A native of Dorchester, now a pnrt of Boston, Mass., 
Cook was born September 8th, IS'J-S. Hu was Ulted for 
Harvard College, wliicli be entered, and was duly gradu- 
ated. As a writer on art and kindred suljjccts, be lias 
won well-merited distinction. His residence is the city 
of New York. His poems are scattered- tlirougli the 
magazines, but are well worthy of being collected into 
a volume. His "Abrani and Zimri" is one of the most 
charming narrative poems in the language. 



ABKAM AND ZIMRI. 

.Vbrani and Zimri owned a licld together — 

A level fulil bid in a happy vale ; 

They ploughed it with one plough, and in tho 

spring 
Sowed, walking side by side, tlio fruitful seed. 
In Iiarvest, wlieii the glad earth smiles with grain, 
Kach carried to his home one-lialf the sheaves. 
And stored them with much labor in Iiis barns. 
Now Abram had a wife and seven sous, 
Unt Zimri dwelt atone within his hou.sc. 

One night, before the sheaves were gathered in. 
As Zimri lay upon his lonely bed 
.\nd eounteil in his miuil liis little gains, 
lie thought upon his brother Abrani's lot. 
And said, " I dwell alouo within my house, 
Itut Abram hath a wife and seven sons. 
.\nd yet wo sharo the harvest sheaves alike. 
Ml- surely needetli more for life than I; 
I will ari.se, and gird myself, and go 
Down to the field, and add to bis from mine." 

•So be arose, ami girded up bis loins. 
And went out softly to tho level field ; 
The moon shono out from dusky bars of cloiuls, 
Tho trees stood black against the cold blue sky. 
The branches waved and wbisixri'd in the wind. 



So Zimri, guided by tho shifting light. 
Went down the monntaiu path, and found th(^ fnld. 
Took from his store of sheaves a generous third. 
And bore them gladly to his brother's heap, 
.Vnd then went back to sleep and hajipy dreams. 

Xow, that .same night, as .\braui lay in bed. 
Thinking upon bis blissful .state in life. 
He thought upon his brollier Zimri's lot. 
And said, "Ho dwells within bis house alone. 
He goetli forth to toil with few to help. 
Ho goctli home at night to a cold house, 
.A,nd hath few other friends but me and mine" 
(For these two tilled the happy vale alone); 
"While I, whom Heaven bath very greatly blessed. 
Dwell happy with my wife and seven sons. 
Who aid mo in mj- toil and make it light. 
And yet wo share the harvest sheaves alike. 
This surely is not pleasing unto God ; 
I will arise and gird myself, and go 
Out to the field, and borrow from my store, 
And ad<l unto my brother Zimri's pile." 

So ho aro,so and girded up bis loins. 
And went down softly to the level field ; 
The moon shono out from silver bars of clouds. 
The trees stood black against tho starry sky, 
Tbo dark leaves waved and whispered in the breeze. 
So Abram, guided by the doubtful light, 
Passed down the mountain ]>ath and found the liehl. 
Took from his store of sheaves a generous third, 
And added them unto his brother's heap; 
Then be went back to sleep and happy dreams. 

So tbo next morning with the early snn 
The brothers rose, and went out to their toil ; 
.\nd when they came to .se(! tho heavy sheaves, 
Each wondered in bis heart to fiml his heap. 
Though he had given a third, was still the same. 

Now the next night went Zimri to the field, 
Took from bis store of sheaves .1 generous share 
And i)laced them on bis brother Abram's heap. 
And then lay down behind his pile to watch. 
The moon lookeil out from bars of silvery cloud, 
The cedars stood up black against the sky, 
Tho olive-branches whispered in tho wind : 
Then Abram camo down softly from his home. 
And, looking to the right ami left, went on. 
Took from his ample store a generous third, 
And laid it on his brother Zimri's pile. 
Then Zimri roso and caught him in his arms. 
And wept upon his neck, and kis.sed bis cheek. 
And -Vbrani saw the whole, and could not speak. 
Neither could Zimri. .So they walked along 
Hack to their homes, and thanked IbeirGod in prayer 
That he had bound them in such loving bands. 



824 



CTCLOPJEDIA Of BRITISH AND AMERICAN FOETRY. 



lUaltcr (J^ljornburg. 



Thornbiiry (1828-1876) was Ihe son of a London solic- 
itor, and by baptism his first name was George, wliieli 
he dropped. His poetical worlds were; "Lays and Le- 
gends of the New World," 1851 ; "Songs of Cavaliers and 
Roundheads," 1857; and " Historical and Legendary Bal- 
lads and Songs," 1S75. He was the author of some six 
or seven novels, and was for some years art-eritic to the 
Athmwum. As a tourist, he wrote "Experiences in the 
United States," also "Life in Turkey." He toiled on 
till within a few days of his death, which came suddenly ; 
the result of ovcr-brain-work. 



HOW SIR RICHARD DIED. 

Stately as bridegroom to a feast 
Sir Richard trod the scaffold stair, 

And, bowing to the crowd, untied 
The love-locks from bis sable hair ; 

Toole off his watch, "Give that to Ned, 

I've done with time," be jiroudly said. 

'Twas bitter cold — it made bim shake. 

Said one — " Ah ! see the villain's look !" 
Sir Richard, with a scorufiil frown, 

Cried, " Frost, not fear, my body shook !" 
Giving a gokl-piece to the slave. 
He laughed, "Now praise me, master knave!" 

They pointed, with a, sueering smile, 
Uuto a black box, long and grim ; 

But no white shroud, or badge of dcatli, 
Had power to draw a tear from bim ; 

"It needs no lock," be said in jest, 

" This chamber where to-night I rest." 

Theu crying out — "God save the King!" 
In spite of liiss and shout and frown ; 

He stripped his doublet, dropped bis chvik. 
And gave the beadsman's man a crown ; 

Theu " On for heaven !" lie proudly cried. 

And bowed his head — and so he died. 



THE OLD GRENADIER'S STORY. 

TOLD ON A BENCH OUTSIDE THE INVALIDES. 

'Twas the day beside the Pyramids, — 

It seems but au hour ago, 
That Kleber's Foot stood firm in squares, 

Returning blow for blow. 
The Mamelukes were tossing 

Their standards to the sky. 
When I heard a child's voice say, "My men, 

Teach me Ihe way to die!" 



'Twas a little drummer, with his side 

Torn terribly with shot; 
But still he feebly beat his drum. 

As though the wound were not. 
And wbeu the Mameluke's wild horse 

Burst with a scream and cry, 
He said, "O men of the Forty-third, 

Teach me the way to die! 

"My mother has got other .sons. 

With stouter hearts than mine, 
But none more ready blood for France 

To pour out free as win<'. 
Yet still life's sweet,'' the brave lad moaned, 

"Fair are this earth aud sky; 
Then, comrades of tlie Forty-third, 

Teach me the tvay to die!" 

I saw Salenche, of the granite heart, 

Wipiug bis burning eyes : 
It was by far more pitiful 

Than mere loud solis aud cries. 
One bit his cartridge till bis lip 

Grew black as Aviuter sky. 
But still the boy moaned, " Forty-third, 

Teach me the way to die !" 

Oh never saw I sight like that! 

The sergeant flung down flag. 
Even the titer bound his brow 

With a wet aud bloody rag; 
Theu looked at locks, aud fixed their steel, 

But never made rejily, 
Until be sobbed oiit once again, 

" Teach me the ivay to die .'" 

Then, with a shout that flew to God, 

They strode into the fray ; 
I saw their red plumes joiu and wave, 

But slowly melt away. 
The last who went — a wounded man — 

Bade the ]>oor boy good-bye, 
And said, " ^Ve men of the Forty-third 

Teach you the way to die !" 

I never saw so sad a, look 

As the poor youngster cast. 
When th(! hot smoke of cannon 

In cloud and whirlwind passed. 
Earth shook, and Heaven answered: 

I watched his eagle-eye. 
As he faintly moaned, " The Forty-third 

Teach me the way to die !" 



WALTER THOnXBVRT. — WILLIAM Al.LIXGUAM. 



825 



Then, with a musket for a crutch, 

Mo linipiil unto the figbt ; 
I. witli :i bullet in uiy hip, 

lliul neither strength nor might. 
Itut, proudly boating on liis iliuni, 

A fevor in his oye, 
I lioard liini moan, " Tlie Foity-third 

Taiiijht mc the uu\j to did" 

Tlioy found him on tlie moiTOw, 

Stretched on a heap of dead ; 
His liand was in tho grenadier's 

AVho at his bidding bled. 
Tlioy linng a medal round his neck, 

And closed his dauntless eye ; 
On the stone they cut, "Tho Forty-third 

Tauijht him the mnj to die!" 

'Tis forty years from then till now — 

The grave gapes at my feet — 
Yet when I tliiiik of .such a boy, 

I feel my old heart beat. 
And from my .sloop 1 sometimes wake, 

Iloaring a feeble cry, 
And a voice that says, "Xow, Forty-third, 

Teach me the teaij to die!" 



lUilliam vllliiigljam. 

MliuLrliani (ISiS- ) is u native of Ballysliannon, 

' 1 Illy of Donegal, Ireland. Removing to Englinul, ho 
iiuuincd an appointment in the Customs. His publica- 
tions are; "Poems," l.SoO; "Day and Night Songs," 
1851; "Laurence Bloomtield in Ireland" (a poem in 
twelve eliapteis), 1S04 ; and "Fifty Modern Poems," 
18C5. For several years he was editor of Fraser's Maga- 
zine, but retired from the editorship in 1879. 



SOXG. 
O Spirit of tho Summer-time! 

Bring back the roses to the dells; 
The swallow from her distant clime. 

The boney-bco from drowsy cells. 

liring back tho friendship of the snn ; 

The gilded evenings, calm and late. 
When merry children homeward run. 

And peeping stars bid lovers wait. 

Itring back tho singing; and the scent 
Of nu'.idow-lands at dewy prime; — 

Oil bring again my heart's content, 
TliiMi .'Spirit of the .Sunmier-lime ! 



THE TOUCHSTONE. 

A man there came, whence none ccmld tell, 
liearing a Touchstone in his hand. 
And tested all things in the land 

liy its unerring spell. 

A thon.saiid transformations rose 

From fair to fonl, from foul to fair; 
Tho golden crown he did not spare, 



Of hcirlooni jewels, prized so niuili, 

Were many changed to chips aud clods ; 
And even statues of the gods 

Crumbled beneath its touch. 

Then angrily the people cried, 

"Tho loss outweighs the profit far; 
Our goods suffice us as they are : 

Wo will not have them tried." 

And, since they could not so avail 
To check his unrelenting quest, 
They seized him, saying, "Let him test 

How real is our jail!" 

Hut though they .slew him willi the sword, 
And in a fire his Touchstone burned, 
Its doings could not bo o'erturued, 

Its undoings restored. 

And when, to stop all future harm. 
They strewed its ashes on tho breeze, 
They little guessed each grain of these 

Conveyed tho perfect charm. 



AUTUMNAL SONNET. 

Now .\ntumn's fire burns slowly along tho woods, 

And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, 

And night by night tho monitory bliust 

Wails in the key-hole, telling how it passed 

O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, 

Or grim, wide wave; ami now tho power is felt 

Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods 

Than any joy indulgent summer dealt. 

Dear friends, together in tho glimmering evo, 

Pensive and glad, with tones that recognize 

Tho soft invisible dew in each one's eyes. 

It may bo, somewhat thus we shall have leave 

To walk with memory, when distant lies 

Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve. 



826 



CYCLOF^DIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



^cralb fttasscii. 



Massey was born in Hertfordshire, England, in 1828. 
Of liumble origin, he fought his way bravely up to dis- 
tinction in the face of severe difflculties. He has pub- 
lished several volumes both in prose and verse. In 1875- 
'76 ho lectured in the United States on the subject of 
Spiritualism. 

LITTLE WILLIE. 

Poor little AVillie, 

With his many pretty -wiles ; 
Worlds 'of wisdom iu bis look, 

And quaint, quiet smiles; 
Hair of amber touched with 

Gold of Heaven so brave ; 
All lying darkly hid 

In a ■n'orkliouso grave. 

You remember little Willie, 

Fair and funny fellow! lie 
Spraug like a lily 

From the dirt of poverty. 
. Poor little Willie ! 

Not a friend was uigh 
Wheu from the cold world 

He crouched down to die. 
In the day we wandered foodless, 

Little Willie cried for hread; 
In the night wo wandered homeless, 

Little Willie cried for hcil. 
Parted at the workhouse door, 

Not a word we said ; 
AU ! so tired was poor Willie ! 

And so sweetly sleep the dead ! 

'Twas in the dead of winter 

We laid him in the earth ; 
The world brought in the now year 

On a tide of mirth. 
But for lost little Willie 

Not a tear we crave ; 
Cold and hunger cannot wake him 

In bis workhouse grave. 

We thought liira beautiful, 

Felt it hard to part ; 
We loved him dutiful : 

Down, down, poor heart ! 
The storms they may beat, 

The winter winds may rave ; 
Little Willie feels not 

In his wiirkhonse grave. 



No room for little Willie ; 

In the world ho had uo part ; 
On him stared the Gorgon eye 

Through which looks no heart. 
" Come to me," said Heaven ; 

And if Heaven will save, 
Little matters though the door 

Be a workhouse grave. 



©corgc illcrcbitlj. 

An English novelist and poet, born about 1828, Mere- 
dith has published "Poems" (1851); "Poems and Bal- 
lads" (18fi2) ; " Beauchamp's Career" (1875); "Poems 
of the English Roadside," and several other works — ex- 
hibiting his marked ability as a writer both in poetry 
and prose. Among his best novels are "Evan Harring- 
ton" (ISei) and "Rhoda Fleming" (1805). 



LOVE WITHIN THE LOVER'S BREAST. 

Love within the lover's breast 
Burns like Hesper In the West, 
O'er tbo ashes of the sun, 
Till the day and night are done ; 
Then wheu Dawn drives up the car — 
Lo ! it is the moruiug-star. 

Love ! thy love iionrs down on mine 

As the sunlight on the vine. 

As the snow-rill on the vale. 

As the salt breeze on the sail ; 

As the song unto the bird 

On my lips thy name is heard. 

As a dew-drop on the rose 

In thy heart my passion glows; 

As a skylark to the sky 

Up into thy breast I fly ; 

As a sea-shell of the sea 

Ever shall I sing of thee. 



AT THE GATE. 

Outside the open gate a spirit stood. 

One called : " Come in !" Then be : " Ah, if I could ! 

For tliere within 'tis light and glorious. 

But here all cold and darkness dwell with us." 

" Then," said the other, " come — the gate is wide !" 

But be : " I wait two angels who must guide. 

I cannot come unto Thee without these; 

Repentance first, and Faith Thy face that sees. 



GEORGE MEREDITH.— .ILBEUT LAIGIITOX. 



827 



1 wut'p and call : they do not hear my voice ; 
I never sball witbiu tlio gate rejoice." 

"O heart unwise!'' the voice did answer him, 
''I reign o'er all the hosts of 8era)ihini. 
Are not these angels also in my liand f 
If they como not to thee, 'tis my eonimnnd. 
The darkness chills Ihee, tnmiilt vexes thee; 
Are angels more than I f Como in to mo." 

Then in the dark and restlessness and woo 
Tliat spirit rose and through the gate did go. 
Trembling because no augel walked before. 
Yet by the voice drawn onward evermore. 
So came ho weeping where the glory shone. 
And fell down crying, " Lord, I come alone !" 

"And it was thee I called," tho voice replied; 
"Bo welcome." Then Love rose, a mighty tide 
That swept all else away. Speech found no place, 
But silence, rapt, gazed up nnto that face; 
X(ir saw two angels from the radiance glide, 
And take their place forever at his side. 



Albert Caigljtou. 



A native of Portsmouth, N. H., Lalghton was born in 
1829. He was for some time employed as the teller of a 
bank in his native town. In 1$.V.I lie published a volume 
of "Poems," of whieb the specimens we give arc tlie best 
commendation. Another edition of bis poems appeared 
in 1878. lie is a cousin of Mrs. Celia Tha.Ntcr, to w liom 
he dedicates his last volume. 



rXDER THE LEAVES. 

Oft have I walked these woodland paths, 
Without tho blessed foreknowing 

That nnderueath tho withered leaves 
The fairest buds were growing. 

To-day tho south-wind sweeps away 
Tho types of Autumn's splendor, 

And shows the sweet arbutus llowers, — 
Spring's children, pure and tender. 

O prophet flowers! — wiili lips of bloom, 

Outvying in your beauty 
The pearly tints of ocean shell.-!, — 

Vu teach me faith nud duty ! 

Walk life's dark ways, ye seem to say, 
With Love's divine foreknowing, 

That where man sees but withered leaves, 
God sees the sweet flowers growing. 



TO MY SOUL. 

Guest frinn a holier world. 
Oh, tell mo where the peaceful valleys lie! 
Dove in tlie ark of life, when thou shalt lly, 

Where will thy wings be furled f 

Where is thy native uestf 
Where tho greou pastures that tho blossdd roam f 
Iui[)atient dweller in thy clay-built home, 

Where is thy heavenly rest ? 

On some immortal shore, 
Some realm away from earth and time, I know, — 
A laud of bloom where living waters flow, 

And grief conies nevermore. 

Faith turns my eyes above ; 
Day fills with floods of light the boundless skies; 
Night watches calmly with her starry eyes 

All tremulous with love. 

And, as entranced I gaze. 
Sweet music floats to me from distant lyres ; 
I see a temple round whose golden spires 

Unearthly glory plays. 

Beyond those azure deeps 
I fix thy home, — a mansion kept for theo 
Within the Father's house, wliose noiseless key 

Kiiiil Death, tho warder, keejis ! 



THE DEAD. 

I cannot tell you if the dead. 
That loved us fondly when on earth. 
Walk by our side, sit at our hearth, 

By ties of old aft'eetion led ; 

Or, looking earnestly within, 
Know all our joys, hear all our sighs. 
And watch us with their holy eyes 

Whene'er wo tread the paths of sin ; 

Or if with mystic lore and sign, 
They speak to us, or press our hand, 
And strive to make us understand 

Tho nearness of their forms divine: 

But this I know, — in many dreams 
They come to us from realms afar, 
And leave the golden gates ajar, 

Through which immortal glory streams. 



828 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



^i\\xx\ «rimroi). 

AMERICAN, 

Born in Charleston, S. C, in 18i9, Tirarod died in Co- 
lumbia, S. C, in ISO". In his brief career he gave tokens 
of rare poetical powers, which, if life had been prolonged, 
and opportunities had been more favorable, would un- 
questionably have placed him in the front rank of con- 
temporary poets. An eloquent and touching memoir of 
hira by Paul H. Haync, himself a true poet, was publish- 
ed in 1X73, as an accompaniment to a collection of Tim- 
rod's poems. See the Hues by his father, page 420. 



HARK TO THE SHOUTING WIND. 

Hark to tlie shouting Wind ! 

Hark to the flying Rain ! 
AntI I care not though I never .see 

A bright blue sky again. 

Tliere are thoughts in my breast to-day 
That are not for hnuian speech : 

Cut I hear tlieni in the driving storm, 
And the roar upon the beach. 

And oil to bo with that ship 

That I w.atcli through the blinding brine! 

Wind ! for thy sweep of land and sea ! 
O Sea! for a voice like thine! 

Shout on, thou pitiless Wind, 

To the frightened and flying Eaiu ! 

1 care not though I never see 
A calm blue sky agaiu. 



ODE. 



Sung ou tlie occasion of decorating the graves of the Con- 
federate dead nt Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S. C, 18G7. 

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, 
Sleep, martyrs of a fallen canse ; 

Though yet no marble column craves 
The pilgrim here to pause. 

In seeds of laurel in the earth 

The blossom of your fame is blown, 

And somewhere, waiting for its birth, 
The shaft is in the stone! 

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 

Which keep in trust your storied tombs, 

Behold ! your sisters bring their tears, 
And these memorial blooms. 



Small tributes! but your shades will smilo 
More proudly on these wreaths to-day, 

Thau when some cannon-moulded pile 
Shall overlook this bay. 

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! 

There is no holier spot of ground 
Than where defeated valor lies, 

By mourning beauty crowned! 



A COMMON THOUGHT. 

Somewhere on this earthly planet, 
In the dust of flowers to be. 

In the dew-drop, in the sunshine. 
Sleeps a solemn day for me. 

At this wakeful Inuir of midnight 

I behold it dawn in mist. 
And I hear a sound of sobbing 

Tbrongh the darkness — hist ! oh, hist ! 

In a dim and musky chamber, 

I am breathing life away ; 
Some one draws a curtain softly. 

And I watch the broadening day. 

As it purples in the zenith, 
As it brightens on the lawn, 

There's a hush of death about me. 
And a whisper, "He is gone!" 



FROM "A SOUTHERN SPRING." 

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air 
AVhich dwells with all things fair; 
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, 
Is with us ouce again. 

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns 
Its fragrant lamps, and tnrus 
Into a royal court with green festoons 
The b.anks of dark lagoims. 

In the deep heart of every forest tree 
The blood is all aglee. 

And there's a look about the leafless bowers 
As if they dreamed of flowers. 

Yet still on every side we trace the hand 
Of Winter in the land, 



BEXRY riMUnD.—LlZ/.lE DOTEX. 



839 



Save where the niu|ile re<l<Iciis on the hiwii, 
Flushed l>y the season's duwu ; 

Or where, like those strange serahlanccs we fiuil 

That age to childhood bind, 

The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, 

The brown of Autumn corn. 

As yet the turf is dark, although you know 
That, not a span below, 

A thousand germs are groping through the glooui, 
And soon will burst their tomb. 

Already here and there, on frailest stems, 
Appear some azure gems. 
Small as might deck, upon a gala-day, 
Tlio forehead of a fay. 

In g.irdeus you may note amid the dearth 

The crocus breaking earth; 

And near the snowdrops tender white and green, 

The violet in its screen. 

lint many gleams and shadows needs must pass 
Along tlie budding gra.ss, 

And weeks go by before the enamored South 
Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 

Still, there's a scn.se of blossoms yet unborn 
In the sweet airs of nuirn ; 
One almost hxdcs to see the very street 
Grow i)nrple at his feet. 

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, 
And bring.s, you know not why, 
A feeling as when eager crowds await 
Before a palace gate 

Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce would 

start, 
If from a beech's heart, 

A bine-eyed Dryad, stepiiing forth, should say, 
" liehold me ! I am May !" 



sonni:ts. 

I. 
Poet! if on a lasting fame be bent 
Thy unperturbing hopes, thou wilt not roam 
Too far from thine own happy heart and home; 
Cling to the lowly earth, anil lie content! 
So shall thy name be dear to mauy a heart ; 



So shall tho uohlcst truths by thee bo taught ; 
The (lower and fruit of wholesome human thought 
Bless tho sweet labors of thy gentle art. 
Tho brightest stars are nearest to the earth, 
And wo m.ay tr.ack tho mighty sun above. 
Even by the shadow of a slender flower. 
Always, O bard, humility is power! 
And thou luay'st draw friuu matters of the hearth 
Truths wide as nations, and as deep as love. 



I scarcely grieve, O Nature ! at tho lot 

That pent my life within a city's bounds. 

And shut me from thy sweetest sights .and sounds. 

Perhaps I had not learned, if some lone cot 

Had unrsed a dreamy childhood, what the mart 

Taught mo .amid its turmoil ; so my youth 

Had missed full many a stern but wholesome trutli. 

Here, too, O Nature! in this haunt of Art. 

Thy power is on me, and I own thy thrall. 

There is no unimpressive spot on earth! 

The beauty of tho stars is over all. 

And Day and Darkness visit every hearth. 

Cloiuls do not scorn us : yonder factory's smoke 

Looked like a golden mist when morning broke. 



£i55ie Dotcii. 

AMERICAN. 

Miss Dotcn was born in Plymouth, Mass., about the 
year 1821). She received a good e;irly ediiculion, but was 
mostly self-tauglit. Slie is publicly known as an " in- 
spirutional speaker," and licr poems are nearly all im- 
provisations, produced with little or no intellectual la- 
bor. She lias put forth two volumes of poems, which 
have attracted a good deal of attention in England as 
well us in her native country. Her residence for sev- 
eral vcars has been in Boston. 



"GONE IS GONE, AND DEAD IS DEAD." 

**0n retnrning to the uin, he finnid there n wanderiiigr ntin- 
strcl — .1 wuninn — sinsiiijr, nnd accompjiiiyin;^ licr voice willi Itic 
limbic iif a harp. The burden of the eonj; was, *Gouc is gone, 
and dead Is dead.' " — Jean Pxet. Ricutek. 

"(Jone is gone, aiul dead is dead!" 
Words to hopeless sorrow wed — 
Words from deepest angtiish wrung. 
Which a lonely wanderer sung, 
While her harp prolonged tho strain, 
Like a spirit's cry of pain 
When all hopo with life is fled: 
" Gone is gone, and dead is dead." 



830 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISS AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



lldiinifiil singer ! liearts unkuowu 
Thrill responsive to that tone ; 
By a common ■weal and woe, 
Kindred sorrows all ninst know. 
Lijis all trenmlons with pain 
Oft repeat that sad refrain 
When the fatal shaft is sped — 
" Gone is gone, and dead is dead." 

Pain and death are everywhere — 
In the earth, and sea, and air ; 
And the sunshine's golden glance, 
And the heaven's serene expanse. 
With a silence c.ilni and high, 
Seem to mock that mourufnl cry 
Wrung from hearts hy hope unfed — 
" Gone is gone, and dead is deiul." 

O ye sorrowing ones, arise ; 
Wipe the tear-drops from your eyes ; 
Lift yonr faces to the light ; 
Eead Death's mystery aright. 
Life unfolds from life within, 
And with death does life hegin. 
Of the soul cannot bo said, 
"Gone is gone, and dead is dead." 

As the stars, which, one by one, 
Lighted at the central suu. 
Swci>t across ethereal space. 
Each to ifs predestined i)hace. 
So the soul's Promethean tire. 
Kindled uever to expire. 
On its course immortal sped, — 
Is not gone, and is not dead! 

By a Power to thought unknown. 
Love shall ever seek its own. 
Sundered not by time or space. 
With no distant dwelling-place. 
Soul shall answer unto soul. 
As the needle to the pole : 
Leaving grief's lament unsaid, 
"Gone is gone, and dead is de.ad." 

Evermore Love's quickening breath 
Calls the living soul from death ; 
And the resurrection's power 
Comes to every dying hour. 
Wheu the soul, with vision cle.ar. 
Learns that Heaven is alw.ays near. 
Never more shall it be said, 
" Gone is gone, and dead is de.id." 



(Dill) Cjuinplji'EB iUtlUastcr. 

AMERICAN. 

Born at Clyde, N. Y., 1829, McMaster became a lawyer 
antl then a judge, resident at Bath, N. Y. In the few 
poems from his pen lie has given evidence of a purely 
original vein. 



CARMEN BELLICOSUM. 

In their ragged regimeut.als 
Stood the old Continentals, 

Yielding not, 
AVhen the Grenadiers were Innging, 
Aud like hail fell the plunging 
Cannon-shot ; 
When the files 
Of the isles. 
From the smoky night encampment bore the banner 
of the rampant 

Unicorn, 
Aud grummer, grnmmer, grumraer rolled the roll of 
the drummer 

Through the morn ! 

But with eyes to the front all. 
And with guns horizontal. 

Stood our sires ; 
And the balls whistled deadly. 
And in streams flashing redly 
Blazed the fires ; 
As the roar 
On the shore 
Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green sod- 
ded acres 

Of the plain ; 
Aud louder, louder, louder cracked the black gun- 
powder. 

Cracking amaiu ! 

Now like smiths at their forges 
Worked the red Saiut George's 

Cannoniers, 
And the " villanous saltpetre " 
Kaug a fierce discordant metre 
Eound their ears. 
As the swift 
Storm-drift, 
With hot sweeping anger came the Horse-guards' 
clangor 

On our flanks ; 
Theu higher, higher, higher burned the old-fash- 
ioned fire 

Through the ranks! 



J 



arr Humphrey mcmaster.—fitz-jjmes o'bhiex. 



831 



Tbcn the ol<l-fashi()iieil Coloiu'l 
Galloped throupili tlio wliito infi'iiuil 

I'lnvdor-cloiul ; 
His briiad-snord was swiii<;ing, 
And his biazou throat was ringing, 
Trnnipet-lond ; 
Then the bhio 
Bnllcts flew, 
And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the 
Icadeu 

Rifle-brcatli, 
And rounder, rounder, roiiiider roared the iron six- 
ponnder, 

Hurling deatli. 



BEAXT TO THE INDIANS. 

The fDlIowing is nn extract from a Centennial Poem, deliv- 
ered AU!;ust S'Jth, ISTf, in memory of the B.itllc of the Che- 
mung. The scene of the bjitlle, whicii took place in 1T79, wa3 
the beaatifiil, virgin v.illey ofChemnn;r, not far from Newtown, 
N. T., the English name of a small Indian village, and near 
Eluiira. 

Yc braves of the Ancient League — the people's de- 
fenders ! 

Here, in the gates of the South, the white foe comes, 

Dariug his doom, yet marching with banners and 
splendors, 

With empty roar of cannon and rattle of drums. 

These are the hungry caters of land — the greedy 
Devourers of forest and lalio and meadow and 

swamp ; 
Gorged with the soil tliey have robbed from the 

helpless and needy, 
Tlio tribes that trembled before their martial pomp. 

These are the rich, who covet the humble goods of 

the poor: 
The wise, who with their cunning the simple cn- 
t snare ; 

' The strong, who trample the weak as weeds on the 
moor; 
The great, who gradge with the small the earth to 
share. 

Hilt yon are the valiant braves of Ho-dcn-a-san-nee ; 
Tlie trilies of tlie East were weaklings, witli hearts 

of the deer ; 
Uiiconquered in war you are, and ever shall be, 
For your limbs are mighty— your hearts are void 

of fear. 



Coutiiiue to listeu ! These white men are liars who 

say 
That red men are faithless to treaty, and heed not 

their pledge ; 
That they love but to ravage and burn, to torture 

and slay, [edge! 

And to ruLu the towns with torch, and the hatchet's 

The Spirit above gave his red cliildren these lauds. 
The deer on the hills, the beaver and fowls in the 

ponds ; 
Tlio bow and the hatchet and knife ho placed in 

your hands. 
And bound your tribes together in mighty bonds. 

Who are these farm-house curs that foolishly rant 
At you, the untamable cubs of the mountain-cat? 
Who is this lawyer' that seeks on the war-path for 
Hnint, [eral's hat ? 

And stmts with a new -bought sword and a gen- 
Why do these choppers of wood, these ox-driving 

toilers, 
Lnst for the ancient homes of Ho-rlen-a-sau-nee T 
Why from their barn-yards come these rustic de- 
spoilers f [bef 
Shall the sweet wilderness like their vile farms e'er 

Can the warrior become a farmer's hired clown ? 

Shall ho hoe like the squaw, or toss up grass on a 
fork ? 

Will the panther churn milk in the pen of the tread- 
mill hound ? 

Or the bear wear an apron and do a scullion's work ? 

Continue to listen ! Ye are not fashioned for slaves.' 
And that these blue -eyed robbers at once shall 

know : 
W'ant they your lands ? — they shall not even have 

graves. 
Until their bodies are buried by winter's snow ! 



Jit^.ilamcs (D'Cricii. 

O'Brien (lS2l»-lSfi'J), the son of a liarrister, was born in 
Ireland, and educated nt Trinity College, Dublin. While 
quite young he went to London, nnd wrote for Dickens's 
J/oiinr/iiilii Worilx. In 1S53 he cinit;ratcd to .\nierica, and 
Boon became a valued contributor to the Icadini; period- 
irals. Many of his poems appeared in Hnrpcr's Magazine 

' This is n reference to OenernI Snllivnn, who commanded 
tho American army, nnmbering lire thonsaud meo. 



832 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



and Harper's Weekly between 1853 and 1860. When news 
of the death of Kane reached New York, O'Brien was 
asked to write a poem on the subject for the next num- 
ber oi Harper' s Weekly. It is a brilliant proof of his i;en- 
ius that he could produce lo order such a poem as he did. 
Rude in places, and showing a lack of the labor lima, it is 
yet a remarkable production. 

When the Civil War broke out, he enlisted in the New 
York Seventh Regiment, and marched with his company 
to the capital. In January, 1863, he got an appointment 
on the staff of Gen. Lander, and showed great bravery in 
several skirmishes. The following month, while head- 
ing a cavalry charge, he was shot in the shoulder. The 
wound was not at first thought dangerous, but from sur- 
gical maltreatment it became so. On the 4th of April 
he had to submit to an operation, of which he wrote: 
"All my shoulder-bone and a portion of ray upper arm 
Iiave been taken away. I nearly died. My breath ceased, 
heart ceased to beat, pulse stopped. * * * Thei-o is a 
chance of my getting out of it ; that's all. In case I 
don't, good-bye, old fellow, with all my love!" Two 
days after this was written, be died. 



ELISHA KENT KANE. 

DIED KEni:U.\RV IC, 1857. 

Aloft, upon an old basaltic crag, 

Whicli, scalped by keen winds tbat defend the 

Pole, 
Gazes with dead face ou the seas that roll 
Around the secret of the mystic zone, 
A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag 

Flutters alone. 
And underneath, upon the lifeless front 

Of that drear elitf, a simple name is traced ; 
Fit type of him who, famishing .and gaunt, 
But with a rocky purpose in his soul, 
Breasted the gathering snows, 
Clung to the drifting Hoes, 
By want beleaguered, and by winter chased. 
Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste. 

Not many months ago we greeted him, 

Crowned with the icy houors of the North. 
Across the laud his hard-wou fame went forth, 
And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb. 
His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim. 
Burst from its decorous quiet as he came. 
Hot Southern lips, with eloquence aflame. 
Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim, 
Proffered its horny hand. The large-lnnged West, 

From ont its giant breast 
Yelled its frank welcome. And from main to main, 
Jubilant to the sky, 
Thundered the mighty cry, 
Honor to Kask. 



In vain — in vain beneath his feet we flnug 
The reddening roses ! All in vain we poured 
The goldeu wine, and round the shining board 
Sent the toa.st circling, till the rafters rung 
With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast ! 
Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased 
Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes. 
Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies, 

Fiided aud faded. And the brave young heart 
Th.at the relentless Arctic winds had robbed 
Of all its vital heat, in that long quest 
For the lost Captain, now within his bre.ast 

More aud more faintly throbbed. 
His was the victory ; but as his grasp 
Closed ou the laurel crowu with eager clasp. 

Death lauuched a whistling dart ; 
And ere the thunders of applause were done 
His bright eyes closed forever on the sun ! 
Too late — too late the splendid prize he wou 
lu the Olympic race of Science and of Art ! 

Like to some shattered berg that, pale and lone, 
Drifts from tlie white North to a Tropic zone. 
And in the burniug day 
Wastes peak by jieak away. 
Till on some rosy even 
It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he 
Tranquilly floatetl to a Southern sea. 
And melted into Heayeu ! 

He needs no tears, who lived a noble life! 

We will not weep for him who died so well ; 
But we will gather round the hearth, and tell 

The story of his strife. 

Such homage suits him well ; 
Better than funeral pomp or passing hell ! 

What tale of peril and self-sacrifice ! 
Prisoned amid the fastnesses of ice. 

With Hunger howling o'er the wastes of sn(i\\ ! 
Night lengthening into mouths ; the raveuons floe j 
Crunching the massive ships, as the white-hear 
Crunches his prey. The insufScicnt share 

Of loathsome food ; 
The lethargy of famine ; the despair 

Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued ; 

Toil done with skiuny arms, and faces hued 
Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind 
Glimmered the fading embers of a mind! 
That awful hour, when through the prostrate band 
Delirium stalked, laying his burniug hand 

Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew. 

The whispers of rebellion, faint and few 



riTZ-JJMES O'BllIEX.— CHARLES O. HALPIXE.—FLORUS li. T'LIMPTOX. 



833 



I At first, but deepeuing over till tbcy grow 
Into black tliongbts of miirdor : sncli tlio tliroiig 
Of liurrid's rdiiiul tlio Hero. Higb the soii^ 
Sboulil be tbat bynius tlio uoblo part lie playi-d I 
linking liinisclf — yet iniiiistcriiig aiil 

To all around liini. Hy a mighty will 

Living (letiant of tlio wants that kill. 
Becanso bis death wonld seal bi.s coimadcs' fate ; 

Cheering witli cea.seless and inventive skill 
Thoso Polar winters, dark and desolate. 
Equal to every trial — every fate 

Ho stands, until spring, tardy with relief, 
I'nloeks tlio icy gate, 
And the pale prisoinTs thread the world once more, 
To the steep clilVs of (ireenland's pastoral shore, 
Hearing their dying chief! 

Time was when he should gain his spnis of gold 
From royal hands, who wooed the knightly state; 

The knell of old formalities is tolled, 

And the world's knights aio now self-consecrate. 

Xo grander episode doth chivalry bold 
In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, 
Than that lung vigil of niiceasing pain, 

Faithfully kept, through hunger and throiigli cold, 
IJV the good Christian kiiii;lit, Elish.v Kaxi: 1 



(TliailcG ([^l•al)a1n Cialpiuc. 

Ilalpiiie (ISitf-lSOO) wa.< a nulive of Iielrtiid. Emi- 
grating to America, he connected liinisclf with the Press, 
unci won distinction. Coder the assumed name of Miles 
O'Reilly he wrote some of the most efl'ectivc of the hu- 
morons poems that were produced during the Civil War. 
A major in the army of the Union, lie wrote for the cause 
almost ns well aa he fought. 



JANETTE'S HAIR. 

" Oh, loosen the snood tbat you wear, Janettc, 
Let me tangle a hand in your hair — my pet;" 
For the world to mo had no daintier sight [white. 
Than your brown hair veiling your shoulder 

It was brown with a golden gloss, Janctte, 
It was tiller than silk of the tlos.s — my pet; 
"Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist, 
°Twas .-v thing to bo braided, and jewelled, aud 
kissed — 
Tw.as the loveliest bair in the world — my pet. 

.My arm was the arm of a clown, .Janctte, 
It was sinewy, bristled, and brown — my pet; 
03 



Hut warmly and softly it loved to caress 
Your round white neck and your wealth of tress, 
Your beautiful plenty of hair — uiy pet. 

Your eyes bad a swiuiniing glory, Jauette, 
Kevealing tho old, dear story — my pet ; 
They were gray with that cbasteiied tinge of the sky 
When the trout leaps quickest to snap the lly, 
And they matchiil with your golden hair — my jiet. 

Your lips — but I have no words, .Janetto — 
They were fresh as the twitter of birds — my pet. 
When the spring is young, and roses are wet, 
With tho dew-drops in each red bosom set, 

Aud they suited your gold brown bair — my pet. 

Oh, you tangled my life in yonr h.air, Janctte, 
'Twas a silkeu and golden snare — my pot ; 
But, so gentle the bondage, my sonl did implore 
The ri^ht to continue your slave evermore, 

Willi my lingers enmeshed in your hair — my pet. 

Thus ever I dream what you were, Janctte, 
With yonr lips and your eyes and your hair — my pet ; 
111 the darkness of desolate years I moan, 
.\nil my tears fall bitterly over the stone 
Tliat covers your gohleii hair — my pet. 



/[orus BcariiGlcn |Jliiii}jtoii. 

AMERICAN, 
Plimpton was born in 18:30, in Palmyra, Portngc Coun- 
ty, O. He was educated princiiially at Allegliaiiy Col- 
lege, Mcadville, Pa., and in 18.51 connected himself edi- 
torially with a newspaper at Wancn, Trumbull County. 
In 18.57 lie removed to Pittsburgh, Pa., and edited the 
Daily Dctjyatch. 

TELL HER. 

O river Beautiful ! the breezy hills 

That slope their green declivities to thee, 

III purple reaches hide my Life from me : — 

Go, then, beyond the thunder of the mills. 

And wheels that chum thy waters into foam, 

And mnrmnring softly to the darling's ear, 

And mnrmnring sweetly when my love shall hear, 

Tell how I nii.ss her presence in our home. 

Say tbat it is as lonely as my heart ; 

The rooms deserted ; all her pet birds mute ; 

The sweet geranium odorless ; the flute. 

Its stops untouched, while wondrous gems of art 

Lie lustreless as di.amonds in a mine. 

To kindle in her smile and in her radiance shine. 



834 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



(!ll)ristiua CBcorgina Eossctti. 

Miss Kossetti, a sister of Dante Gabriel Rossctti, was 
born iu London in 1830. Her collected poems were re- 
published in Boston by Roberts Brothers in 1875. She 
has written several books for children. 



CONSIDER. 
Consider 
The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief: 

We are as they ; 

Like them we fade away, 
As doth a leaf. 

Consider 

The sparrows of the air of small account ; 

Our God doth view 
Whether they fall or mount : 

He guards us too. 

Consider 

The lilies that do neither spin nor toil, 

Yet are most fair : 

What profits all this care, 
And all this coil ? 

Consider 

The birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks ; 

God gives them food : — 
Much more our Father seeks 
To do us good. 



BEAUTY IS VAIN. 

While roses are so red, 

While lilies are so white. 
Shall a woman exalt her face 

Because it gives delight ? 
She's not so sweet as a rose, 

A lily is straighter than she, 
And if slie were as red or white 

She'd be but one of three. 

Whether she flush in summer. 

Or in its winter grow pale. 
Whether she flaunt her beauty 

Or hide it away in a veil, — 
Be she red or white, 

And stand she erect or bowed, 
Time will win the race he runs with her. 

And hide her away in a shroud. 



iJaincs (!3ou)brcn (£lark. 



A native of Oswego County, N. Y., Clark was born iu 
1830. His residence (1880) was iu Minneapolis, Minn. 
A musical composer and singer, as well as a natural 
poet, he has given popular entertainments with great 
success in most of the Western cities. 



LEONA. 



Leona, the hour draws nigh, 

The hour we've waited so long, 
For the angel to open a floor through the sky, 
That my spirit may break from its prison and try 
Its voice in an iulinite song. 

Just now, as the slumbers of night 

Came o'er me with peace-giving breath. 
The curtain half lifted revealed to my sight 
Those windows which look on the kingdom of light, 
That borders the river of death. 

And a vision fell solemn and sweet. 

Bringing gleams of a morning-lit land; 
I saw the white shore which the pale waters beat. 
And I heard the low lull as they bioke at their feet 
Who walked on the beautiful strand. 

And I wondered why spirits could cling 

To their clay with a struggle and sigh, 
When life's jiurple autumn is better than spring. 
And the soul flies away like a sparrow, to sing 
In a climate where leaves never die. 

Leona, come close to my bed. 

And lay your dear hand on my brow. 
The same touch that thrilled me in days that are fled. 
And raised the lost roses of youth from the dead. 

Can brighten the brief moments now. 

We have loved from the cold world apart. 

And your trust was too generous and true 
For their hate to o'erthrow ; when the slauderer's 

dart 
Was rankling deep in my desolate heart, 
I was dearer than ever to you. 

I thank the Great Father for this, 

That our love is not lavished iu vain ; 
Each germ in the future will blossom to bliss, 
And the forms that we love, and the lips that we kiss, 
Never shrink at the shadow of pain. 



JAMES GOnOBEY CLAIiK.— ALEXANDER SMITH. 



835 



By tlie light of this faith am I taught 

That iiiy labm- is only hcgiiu ; [fought 

111 tho strength of this lioiio have I struggled and 
With the legions of wrong, till my armor has caught 
Tho gleam of Kternity's sun. 

Lcona, look fiutli and lieli(>I<l 

From headland, from hill-side, and deep, 
The day-king surrenders his banners of gold ; 
The twilight advances through woodland and wold, 
And tho dews are beginning to weep. 

Tho moon's silver hair lies uncnrled, 

Down the broad-breasted mountains away ; 
Kro sunset's red glories again shall bo furled 
Oil the walls of the west, o'er the plains of the world, 
I shall rise in a limitless day. 

<t! come n;>t in tears to mj- tomb, 

Kor iilant with frail llowers the sod ; 
There is rest among roses too sweet for its gloom. 
And life where the lilies eternally bloom 



Yet deeply those memories burn 

Which bind me to you and to earth. 
And I sometimes have thought that my being would 

yearn. 
In tho bowers of its beautiful home, to return 
And visit tho home of its birth. 

'Twould even bo ple.isant to stay. 

And walk by your side to the last ; 
lint the land-breeze of Heaven is beginning to play — 
Life's shadows are mating Kternity's day, 
.\iid its tumult is hushed in the past. 

I ,eona, good-bye : should tho grief 
That is gathering now, ever bo 
Too dark fur your faith, you will long for relief, 
And remember, the journey, though lonesome, is 
brief, 
Over lowland and river to nic. 



vllciauLicr SinitI). 



A native of Kilmarnock, Scotland (1830-18CT), Smitli 
put forth in 1S.MS a volume of poems, of which the prin- 
cipal was entitled "A Life Drama." Two more volumes 
of his poetry appeared ; one in 1857, the other in IWl. 
In one of Miss Milford's letters we read : "Mr. Kingsley 
says that -Alfred Tennyson says that Smith's poems show 
fancy, but not imagination ; and on my repeating this 



to Mrs. Browning, she said it was exactly her impres- 
sion." Smith's " Life," written by P. P. Alexander, ap- 
pears ill an edition of his " Last Leaves " (1808). 



A DAY IN SPRING. 

FnoM "A Life Dhama." 

The lark is singing in the blinding sky. 
Hedges are white with May. The bridegroom sea 
Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride. 
And, in the fulness of his marriage joy. 
Ho decorates her tawny brow with shells, 
Retires a space, to see how fair she looks. 
Then proud, runs up to kiss her. All is fair — 
All glad, from grass to sun ! 



A DAY IN SUMMER. 

From "A Life Diiama." 

Each leaf upon tho trees doth shako with joy. 
With joy tho white clouds navigate the blue. 
And on his painted wings, the bulterlly, 
Most splendid nia.sker in this carnival. 
Floats through the air in joy! Hetter fof man, 
Were he and N.ituro more familiar friends! 



IIEI; LAST WORDS. 

Tho callow yoiiug were liuddling in the nests, 
The marigold was burning in the marsh. 
Like a tiling dipped in sunset when he came. 

My blood went up to meet him on my face, 
Glad as a child that hears its father's step, 
And runs to meet him at tho open porch. 

I gave him all my being, like a flower 
That llings its perfume on a vagrant breeze; 
A breeze that wanders on, and heeds it not. 

His scorn is lying on my heart like snow, 
Xly eyes are weary, and I fain would sleep ; 
The quietest sleep i.s underneath the ground. 

Are ye around me, friends? I cannot see, 

I cannot hoar the voices that I love, 

I lift my hands to you from <iut tho night. 

Methonght I felt a tear upon my cheek; 
Weep not, my mother! It is time to rest, 
And I am very weary ; so, good-night ! 



836 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



(Hccil Jraiircs ^IcJtanlicr. 

Mrs. Alexander, born abont 1S30, is the wife of William 
Alexander, D.D., Bishop of Derry, etc. She is the author 
of " Moral Songs, Hymns for Children," and " Poems on 
Old Testament Subjeets." Sliehas edited the"C'luldren's 
Garland" and the "Sunday Boole of Poetry" (ISBoj. 



THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 

By NeWs lonely mountain, 

On tbis sitle Jordan's wave, 
In a vale in the land of Moab, 

There lies a lonely grave. 
And no man knows that sepnlelire, 

Auel no man saw it e'er, 
For the angels of God uptnrued the sod, 

And laid the dead man there. 

That was the grandest funeral 

That ever passed on earth; 
But no man heard the trampling 

Or saw the train go forth, — 
Noiselessly as the daylight 

Comes back when night is done, 
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 

Grows into tlie great snn, — 

Noiselessly as the spring-time 

Her crown of verdure weaves, 
And all the trees on all the hills 

Open their thousand leaves : 
So without sound of music, 

Or voice of them that wept, 
Silently down from the mountain's crown 

The great jirocessiou swept. 

Perchance the bald old eagle 

On gi'ay Beth-peor's height. 
Out of his lonely eyrie. 

Looked on tlie wondrous sight: 
Perchance the lion stalking 

Still shuns that hallowed spot; 
For beast and bird have seen and heard 

That which man knoweth not. 

But when the warrior dieth. 

His comrades in tlie war. 
With arms reversed and muffled drum. 

Follow his funeral car : 
They show the banners taken. 

They tell his battles won, 
And after him lead his masterlees steed, 

While peals the minute-gun. 



Amid the noblest of the land 

We lay the sago to rest. 
And give the baril an honored place, 

With costly marble dressed. 
In the great minster transept 

Where lights like glories fall, 
And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings 

Along the emblazoned wall. 

This was the truest warrior 

That ever buckled sword, 
This the most gifted poet 

That ever breathed a word; 
Aud never earth's philosopher 

Traced with his golden pen, \ 

On the deathless page, truths half so sage 

As he wrote down for men. 

Aud had he not high honor — 

The hill-side for a pall, 
To lie in state while angels wait 

With stars for tapers tall. 
And the dark rock-pines, like tos.sing plumes. 

Over his bier to wave. 
And God's own hand iu that lonely land, 

To lay him iu the grave? 

In that strange grave without a name, 

Whence his uucoffined clay 
Shall break again, O wondrous thought ! 

Before the Judgment-day. 
And stand with glory wrapped around 

On the hills he uover trod. 
And speak of the strife that won our life, 

With the Incarnate Sou of God. 

O lonely grave in Jloab's land! 

O dark Beth-peor's hill ! 
Speak to these curious hearts of ours. 

And teach them to be still. 
God hath his uiysteries of grace. 

Ways that we cannot tell; 
He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep 

Of him he loved so well. 



illargavct 3nnKin |Jrcstou. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Preston, a daughter of Dr. George Junkin, is a 
native of Lexington, Va. She has been a frequent con- 
tributor to the magazines, and is the author of three 
volumes of poems wliich have been well received, and 
give evidence of high poetical gifts. Her "Cartoons" 



MARGARKT JCXKIX I'SESIOX. 



837 



(piiblisUecl in Boston, 1876) went to n scconO edition a 
montli after its appenrauce, and :i lliiid lias since been 
pat forth. Slie was for years tlic literary critic of tlic 
Baltimore Southern Riicw, and a diligent contributor to 
several Southern journals. Her sister was tlio wife of 
Stonewall Jackson (Tlionias Jonathan Jackson) of mil- 
itary renown, and XIi-s. Preston has written a poem, 
worthy of the subject, on his death. Tlie " Dedication" 
in her "Old Sougs and New," publislicd in Philadelphia 
(1870), is a favorable example of her style. 



DEDICATIOX. 

I);iy-<lnty done, — I've iilled forth to get 

An hour's light im.stiuie in the shady lanes, 
Ami here and there have plucked with careless 
pains 
These way.side waifs, — sweetl)ricr and violet, 
And such like simple things that seemed indeed 
Flowers, — though, perhaps, I knew not tlower 
from weed. 

What shall I do with them? — They find no place 
In stately va.ses where magnolias give 
Out sweets in which their faintne.ss could not live : 

Yet tied with grasses, posy- wise, for grace, 

I have uo heart to cast them qnito away, [day. 
Thongli their brief bloom should not outlive the 

Upon the open i)agcs of your book, 

I lay tlieni down : — And if within your cyo 
A little tender mist I may descry, 
Or a sweet sunshine llicker in your look, — 
Right happy will I be, though all declare 
No eye but love's could find a \ inlet there. 



THE TYRANNY OF MOOD. 

1. MORSINT,. 

It is enough : I feel, this golden morn. 
As if a royal appanage were mine. 
Through Nature's queenly warrant of divine 
Investiture. What princess, palace born, 
Hath right of rapture more, wheu skies adorn 
Themselves so grandly ; when the, mountains shine 
Traiisligiired ; when the air exalts like wine; 
When pearly jiurples steep the yellowing corn ? 
So satislied with all the goodlincss 
Of God's good world, — uiy being to its brim 
Surcharged with utter thankfulness no less 
Than bli.ss of beauty, passionately glad [dim, — 
Through rush of tears that leaves the landscape 
• Who dares," I cry, '• in such a world be sad f 



I press my cheek against the window-pane. 
And gaze abroad into the blank, black space 
AVlierc earth and sky no moro have any i>lace, 
Wii)cd from existence by the expunging rain ; 
And as I hear the worried winds complain, 
A darkness darker than the murk whose trace 
Invades the curtained room is on my face. 
Beneath which life and life's best ends seem vain. 
My swelling aspirations viewless sink 
As yon clond-blotted hills: hopes that shone bright 
As planets yester-eve, like them to-night 
Are gulfed, the impenetrablo mists before : 
"O weary world,'' I cry, "how daro I think 
Thou hast for nie one gleam of gladness more ?"' 



SAINT CECILIA. 

Haven't you seen her? — and don't you know 

Why I dote on the darling sof 

Let nie picture her as she stands 

There with the music-hook in her hands. 

Looking as ravishing, rapt, and bright 

As a baby Saint Cecilia might, 

Lisping her bird-notes, — that's Belle White. 

Watch as she rai.ses her eyes to yon, 
Half-irnshed violets dipped in dew. 
Brimming with timorous, coy surprise, — 
(Doves have jn.st such glistening eyes:) 
But, let a dozen of years have flight. 
Will there bo then such harmless light 
Warming these luminous eyes, — Belle White 1 

Lo(dv at the pretty, feminine grace. 
Even now, on the small, young face : 
Such a con.scionsness as she speaks. 
Flushing the ivory of her cheeks, — 
Such a maidenly, arch delight 
That she carries mo captive quite. 
Snared with her daisy chain, — BcUo White. 

Many an anibiished smile lies hid 

I'lider that iniioci'iit, downc;ist lid : 

Arrows will tly, with silvery tips. 

Out from the bow of those arching lips 

Parting so guilelessly, as she stands 

Tlu'id with tho music-book in her hands, 

Chanting her bird-notes soft and light, 

Even as .Saint C'ecili.^ might, 

Dove with the folded wings, — Belle White! 



838 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRT. 



3ol)n (Estcu Coolic. 

AMERICAN, 

Cooke, a brother to Pliilip Pendleton Cooke, was born 
in Winehester, Va., in 1830. His family removed to Ricli- 
mond in 1839, and, after a good education, he studied law 
in the otBce of his father, and was admitted to the Bar. 
Literature has, however, claimed much of his attention. 
He has published several popular novels, among which 
are "The Virgiuia Bohemians" and "Her Majesty the 
Queen." 



MAY. 

Has the old glory passed 

From tender May — 
That never the ecboiug blast 
Of bugle-horns merry, and fast 
Dying away like the past, 

Welcomes tbe day ? 

Has the old Bcanty gone 

From golden May — 
That uot any more at dawn 
Over the flowery lawn, 
Or knolls of the forest withdrawn, 

Maids are at play? 

Is the old freshness dead 

Of the fairy May ?— 
Ah ! the sad tear-drops unshed ! 
Ah ! the young maidens unwed ! 
Golden locks — cheeks rosy red ! 

Ah ! where are they ? 



Crbiia Pcan |3roctor. 

AMERICAN. ' 

Miss Proctor was born in the interesting old town 
of Henniker, N. H., on the Contooeook River. On com- 
pleting her school education, she made Brooklyn, N. Y., 
her home. She published a volume of poems, national 
and miscellaneous, in 1807. It fixed her rank among the 
foremost of American feminine poets. After its publica- 
tion she made an extensive European tonr, visiting, with 
a party of friends, all tlie countries except Portugal, 
ascending the Nile, inspecting the noted attractions of 
Syria, and travelling in Russia over routes rarely fre- 
quented. This portion of her trip she has described in 
"A Russian Journey," published in 1873, and full of rare 
and entertaining information. Miss Proctor has been 
a frequent contributor to magazines and newspapers. 
Some of her poems seem to combine a masculine vigor 
and spirit with feminine purity and grace. As remarka- 
ble for personal attractions as for her graces of character, 
she is described by one of her friends as " a true poet in 
deeds as well as in words." 



FROM "THE RETURN OF THE DEAD." 

Low hung the moon, the wind •was still. 
As slow I climbed the midnight hill, 
And passed the ruined garden o'er, 
And gained the harred and silent door. 
Sad welcomed by the lingering rose 
That, startled, shed its waning snows. 

The bolt flew hack with sudden clang, 
I entered, livall and rafter rang, 
>Dowu dropped the moon, and clear and high 
September's wind went wailing by ; 
"Alas!" I sighed, "the love and glow 
That lit this mansion long ago!" 

And groping up the threshold stair, 
And past the chambers cold and bare, 
I sought the room where, glad of yore. 
We sat the blazing fire before. 
And heard the tales a father told, 
Till glow was gone and evening old. 

Where were those ro.sy children three? 
The boy beneath the moaning sea ; 
Sweet Margaret, dowu where violets hide, 
Slejrf, tranquil by that father's side. 
And I, alone, a pilgrim still, 
AVas left to climb the midnight hill. 

M.y hand was on the latch, when, lo! 
'Twas lifted from within! I know 
I was not wild, and could I dream? 
Within, I saw the wood-fire gleam. 
And smiling, waiting, beckoning there. 
My father in his ancient chair! 

the long rapture, perfect rest. 

As close he clasped me to his breast ! 
Put back the braids the wind had blown, 
Said I had like my mother grown, 
And bade me tell him, frank as she, 
All the long years had brought to me. 

Then, by his side, his hand in mine, 

1 tasted joy serene, divine. 

And saw my griefs unfolding fair 
As flowers, in June's enchanted air. 
So warm his words, so soft his sighs. 
Such tender lovelight in his eyes ! 

"O Death!" I cried, "if these be thine, 
For me the asphodels entwine. 



IiDXA DEAN PROCTOR.— EDWARD AUGUSTUS JEXKS. 



839 



Fold me within thy perfect calm ; 
Leave on my lips tlio bliss of balm, 
And let mo slumber, pillowed low, 
Willi Margaret, where the violets blow."' 

And still wo talked. 0"er cloudy bars 
Orion bore his pomp of stars ; 
Within, the wood-lire fainter glowed, 
Weird on the wall the shadows showed, 
Till, in the east, a pallor born, 
Told midnight nieUiug into morn. 

'Tis trne, his rest this many a year 
Has made the vilhigo chnreli-yard dear ; 
'Tis true, liis stone is graven fair, 
'•Hero lies, remote from mortal care." 
1 cannot tell how this may bo, 
Bnt well I know he talked with me. 



TAKE HEART. 

All d;iy the stoiiny wind lias blown 
From otV the dark and rainy sea; 

No bird has past the window flown. 

The only song h.is been the nioaii 
Tlio wind made in tlie willow-tree. 

This is the summer's burial-time ; 

She died when dropped tlie earliest leaves; 
And, c(dd upon her rosy prime. 
Fell down the autumn's frosty rime, — 

Yet I am not as one that grieves, — 

I'or well I know o'er sunny seas 

The bluebird waits for April skies; 
And at the roots of forest trees 
The Slay-flowers sleep in fragrant ease, 
And violets hide their azure eyes. 

O thon, by winds of grief o'erblown 

Beside some golden summer's bier, — 
Take heart ! Tliy birds are only flown. 
Thy blossoms sleeping, tearful sown. 
To greet thee in the immortal year! 



HEAVEN, O LORD, I CANNOT LOSE. 

Now summer finds Iicr perfect prime ! 

Sweet blows the wind from western calms; 
On every bower red roses climb; 

The meadows sleep in mingled balms. 



Nor stream, nor bank the way-side by, 
Hut lilies float and daisies throng. 

Nor space of blue and sunny sky 
That is not cleft with soaring song. 

flowery morns, O tuneful eves. 
Fly swift ! my soul ye cannot fill ! 

Bring the ripe fruit, the garnered sheaves, 

The drifting snows on jilain and hill. 
Alike, to me, fall frosts and dews ; 
But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose! 

Warm hands to-day are clasped in mine ; 

Fond hearts my mirth or mouruiug share; 
And, over hope's horizon liue. 

The future dawns, serenely fair. 
Yet still, though fervent vow denies, 

I know the rapture will not stay ; 
Some wind of grief or doubt Avill rise, 

And turn my rosy sky to gray. 

1 shall awake, in rainy morn, 

To liud my hearth left lone and drear; 
Thus half in sadness, half in scorn, 

1 let my life burn on as clear. 
Though friends grow cold or fond love wooes ; 
But Heaven, O Lord, I cauuot lose! 

In golden hours the angel Peace 

Comes down and broods mo with her wings : 
I gaiu from sorrow sweet release ; 

I mate me with divinest things ; 
When shapes of guilt and gloom arise, 

And far the radiant angel flees,— 
Jly song is lost in monrnful sighs, 

My wine of trinmpb left bnt lees. 
Ill vain for me her pinions shine, 

And pure, celestial days begin ; 
Earth's passiou-llowers I still must twine, 

Nor braid one beauteous lily iu. 
Ah ! is it good or ill I choose T 
But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose ! 



(!:Liu)iivi) -luDiustus 3cuks. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of Newport, N. H., .Jcnks wns born Oct. 30th, 
l.SIJO. He was educated at the Thctford, Vt., Academy ; 
learned to set type before he w.is seventeen, and, after 
some experience as a publisher of newspapers, was called 
In 1H7I to the management of the Ro|iubllcan Press As- 
sociation of Concord, N. H. Before tlul he liad been en- 
iragcd in various enterprises nt the West, and was at one 
time a resident of Vicksburj, Miss. An nnialcur in verse, 
he is not unfrcqucntly the true artist. 



840 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



GOING AND COMING. 

Going — the great roiiiul Sun, 

Dragging the captive Day 
Over behind the frowning hill, 

Over beyond the bay — 
Dying! 
Coming — the dusky Night, 

Silently stealing in, 
Gloomily draping the soft, warm couch 

Where the golden-haired Day had been 
Lying. 

Going — the bright, blithe Spring: 

Blossoms ! how fast ye fall, 
Shootiug out of your starry sky 

luto the dai'kness all 
Blindly ! 
Coming — the mellow days; 

Crimson and yellow leaves ; 
Languishing purple and amber fruits 

Kissing the bearded sheaves 
Kindly ! 

Going — our early friends ; 

Voices we loved are dumb ; 
Footsteps grow dim in the morning dew ; 

Fainter the echoes come 
Ringing ! 
Coming to join our march — 

Shoulder to shoulder pressed ; 
Gray-haired veterans strike their tents 

For the far-off purple West — 
Singing! 

Going — this old, old life ; 

Beautiful world! farewell! 
Forest and meadow ! river and hill ! 

Ring ye a loving knell 
O'er us ! 
Coming — a nobler life ; 

Coming — a better land ; 
Coming — the long, long, nightless day. 

Coming — the grand, grand 
Chorus ! 



Scan iJiiqcloiii. 



Miss Ingelow, a native of Ipswich, England, born .about 
1830, put foi'th a volume of poems in 1803, which ran 
tlirougli fourteen editions in five years, and was repub- 
lished in Boston, Mass. She has written several novels, 
stories for children, etc., and contributed largely to va- 



rious periodical works. In the course of eighteen years 
her American publishers paid her in copyright upward 
of fifteen thousand dollars. 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COA.ST OF 
COLNSHIRE. (157L) 

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower. 
The ringers rang by two, by three ; 

'■Pull, if yo never pulled before; 

Good riugers, pull your best," quoth he. 

" Pliiy uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells ! 

Play all your ch.anges, all your swells. 
Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'" 

Men say it was a stolen tyde — 

The Lord that sent it. He knows all ; 

Bnt in myne ears doth still abide 
The message that the bells let fall : 

And there was naught of strange, beside 

The flight of mews and peewits pied 

Bj- millions crouched on the old sea-wall. 

I sat .and spun within the doore, 

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes ; 

The level sun, like ruddy ore, 
Lay sinking in the b.arren skies ; 

And dark against day's golden death 

She moved where Lindis waudereth, — 

My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling. 
Ere the early dews were falling, 
Farre away I heard her song. 
"Cusha! Cusha !" all along ; 
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Floweth, floweth, 
From the meads where nieliek groweth 
Faintly came her milking song — 

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, 



Leave your meadow-grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowsliiis, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow. 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Jetty, ri.se and follow. 
From the clovers lift j'our head ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 



LIN- 



JEAX INGE LOW. 



841 



If it be long — ay, long ago, — 

When I begiinie to tliiiik liovvo long, 

Againo I hear tlio Liudis flow, 

Swift ns an arrowc, sharp and strong ; 

And all the aire, it sccnieth nieo 

Bin full of llouting bolls (saytli sliec), 

That ring tho tune of Enderby. 

Alle fresh tlio level pastnro lay, 
And not a Nhadowe mote bo scene, 

Save where full fyve good miles away 
TIio stei'ple fowercil fnnn out tlio greene ; 

And lo ! tlio great boll farre and wide 

Was heard in all tho conntry side 

Tliat Saturday at even-tide. 

Tho swaiiiiords where their sedges aro 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath, 

Tlio sheplierdo lads I heard afarre, 
And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 

Till floating o'er the grassy sea 

Came dowiio tliat kyndly message free, 

Tho " Brides of Mavis Kiiderby." 

Then some looked iippe into tho sky. 
And all along where Liiidis Hows 

To where the goodly vessels lie, 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 

They say<le, "And why slioiild this tiling be i 

What danger lowers by laud or sea f 

They ring the tune of Enderby ! 

" For ivil news from Mablothorpc, 

Of pyrato galleys warping downe ; 
I'or sliii>pes ashore beyond the scorpe. 

They have not spared to wake the towue : 
But while tho west bin red to sec, 
Anil storms bo none, and pyrates tlee. 
Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby f" 

I looked without, and lo! my sonno 

C'amo riding down with might and main ; 

Ho raised :v sliout as he drew on, 
Till all the welkin rang again : 

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!' 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 

"The old sea-wall (ho crycd) is downe, 
The rising tide comes on apace. 

And boats adrift in yondir towue 
Go sailing nppo the market-place." 

He shook as one that looks on death : 



'•God save yon, mother!" straight he sayth ; 
"Where is my wife, Elizabeth f 

"Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away, 
With her two bairns I marked her long ; 

And ere yon bells beganne to play 
Afar I heard her iiiilking-song." 

Ho looked across the grassy lea. 

To right, to left, " Ho, Enderby !" 

They rang " The Brides of Enderby !" 

With that ho cried and beat his breast. 

For, lo! along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre reared his crest, 

And nppo tho Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with tliiiiideroHs noLses loud ; 
Shaped like a, curling snow-white cloud, 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis, backward pressed. 

Shook all her trembling hankes amaine, 
Tlien inadly at the eygre's breast 

Flung nppo her weltering walls again. 
Then baukcs came downe with ruin and ront^ 
Then beateu foam flew round about — 
Then all the mightj' floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, 
The heart had hardly time to beat, 

Before a shallow seething wave 
Sobbed in the gra.sses at ourc feet: 

The foot had hardly time to tlee 

Before it brake against the knee, 

And all tho world was in the sea. 

I'pon the roofe we sat that night: 
The noise of bells went sweeping by ; 

I marked the lofty beacon light 

Stream from the church tower, red and high — 

.V lurid mark and dread to see ; 

And awesome bells they were to nice. 

That in tho dark rang " Enderby." 

They rang tho sailor lads to gnido 

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowod j 

And I — my sonno was Jit my side. 
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; 

And yet ho moaned beneath his breath, 

"Oh come in life, or come in death! 

Oh lost ! my love, Elizabeth." 

And ilidst thou visit liiiii no more? 

Thou didst, tlioii didst, my daughter deare ; 



842 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Tbe waters laid thee at his doore, 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear, 
Thy pretty bairns iu fast embrace, 
The lilted suu shone on thy face, 
Dowue drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strewed wrecks about tbe grass, 
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! 

To nianye more than myne and mee : 

But each will mourn his own (she sayth). 

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 

I shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore, 
"Cusha! Cnsha! Cusha!" calling, 
Ere the early dews be falling ; 
I shall never hear her song, 
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along 
Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth ; 
From the meads where nielick groweth. 
When the water, winding down. 
Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 

Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 

Shiver, quiver ; 
Stand beside the sobbing river. 
Sobbing, tlirobbing, iu its falling 
To the sandy, lonesome sliore ; 
I shall never hear her calling, 
"Leave your meadow-grasses mellow. 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come njipe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot ; 
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come nppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; 

Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 
From your clovers lift the head ; 
Come nppe Jetty, follow, follow. 
Jetty, to the milkiug-shed !" 



Cabii lllilbc. 



Poems under the pen-name of "Speranza" appeared 
in the DidiVm. Nution in its palmy days. They proved to 
be by Lady Wilde, author of " Ugo Bassi," a tale in verse 
(18.57), and other works. A collection of her poems and 
translations was published in Dublin (1804) by James 



Duff}'. Most of the poems have a political bearing, and 
are alive with patriotic fire. A native of Ireland, she 
was born about 1830. Her present residence, we believe, 
is London, whither she removed some years ago for the 
better education of her sons. 



THE VOICE OF THE POOR. 

Was ever sorrow like to our sorrow? 

O God above ! 
Will our night never change into a morrow 

Of joy and love ? 
A deadly gloom is on us waking, sleeping. 

Like the darkness at noontide 
That fell upon the pallid mother, weeping 

By the Crucified. 

Before us die our brothers, of starvation ; 

Around are cries of famine and despair! 
Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salvation — 

Where — oh ! where ? 
\i the angels ever hearken, downward bending, 

They are weeping, we are sure, 
At the litanies of human groans ascending 

From the crushed hearts of the poor. 

When the human rests in love upon the human, 

All grief is light ; 
But who bends one kind glance to illumine 

Our life-long night ? 
The air around is ringing with their laughter — 

God lias only made the rich to smile ; 
But we — in our rags, and w ant, and woe — we fol- 
low after, 

W^eeping the while. 

And the laughter seems but uttered to deride ns: 

When, oh ! when 
Will fall the frozen barriers that divide us 

From other men ? 
Will ignorance foi-ever thus enslave us, 

Will misery forever lay us low ? 
All are eager with their insults ; but to save us 

None, none we know. 

We never knew a childhood's mirth and gladness. 

Nor the proud heai't of youth free and brave; 
Oh, a death-like dream of wretchedness and sadness 

Is life's weary journey to the grave. 
Day by day we lower sink and lower, 

Till the God-like soul within 
Falls crushed beneath the fearful demon power 

Of poverty and sin. 



L.IDT WILDE.— HELEy FISKE JACKSOX. 



843 



So we toil on, on with fuver buruiiig 

III Ill-art aud brain ; 
So wo toil on, ou tbiougli bitter scorning, 

Want, woe, and pain. 
We (laro not raise our eyes to tlie blue boaven, 

Or the toil nnist cease — 
We dare not breatbe tbo fresh air God has given 

One hour in peace. 

We ninst toil thongll the light of life is burning, 

Ob, bow dim ! 
We must toil, on our sick-bed feebly turning 

Our eyes to lliin 
Who alono can hear the palo lip faintly saying. 

With scarce moved breath, 
While the paler hands, uplifted, aid the praying: 

" Lord, grant us Vealh .'" 



fjclcn Jiske i?acl\5on. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Jackson, daughter of Professor N. W. FIskc, was 
born ill Ainheist, Mass., in 1831. Slic was mairied to 
Major Hunt, U. S. A., — who was killed in 1863 while ux- 
pcrimcnting with a submarine battery,— and by a subse- 
quent mairiaitc became Mrs. Jackson. Ilcr residence 
was at Newport, R. I. She has piiblislied " Verses by 
H. H." (1871), and a collection of foreign sketches, en- 
titled "Bits of Travel" (18?2). Her poetry unites medi- 
tative dcptli with rare sweetness of expression. To the 
question, "Is she not our best female poet?" Emerson 
replied, " Why uot omit tlie word /cmafc /" 



Tin: WAV TO SING. 

The birds must know. Who wisely sings 

Will sing as they. 
The common air has generous wings : 

Songs make their way. 

No messenger to run before. 

Devising plan ; 
No iiiiiition of tho place, or hour. 

To any man ; 
No wailing till some sound betrays 

A listening ear ; 
No dilVercut voice, no new delays. 

If stops draw near. 

" What bird is that ? The song is good." 

And eager eyes 
Go peering through the dusky wood 

In glad surprise. 



Then, late at night, when by his lire 

The traveller sits, 
Watching tho tiamo grow brighter, higher, 

Tho sweet song flits. 
By snatches, through his weary brain. 

To help him rest : 
When next ho goes that road again. 

An empty nest 
On leafless bough will make him sigh : 

"Ah mo! last spring, 
,hisl here I heard, in jtassing by. 

That rare bird sing." 

But while ho sighs, romembering 

IIow sweet tho song. 
The littlo bird, on tireless wing. 

Is borne along 
In other air; and other men. 

With weary feet. 
On other roads, tho simple strain 

.Vro finding sweet. 

The birds must know. Who wisely sings 

Will sing as they. 
Tlie common air has generous wings : 

Songs make their way. 



MA KG II. 

Beneath the sheltering walls the tliin snow clings; 

Dead winter's skeleton, left bleaching, white, 

Disjointed, crumbling, on the friendly fields. 

The inky pools surrender tardily 

At noon, to patient herds, a frosty drink 

From jagged rims of ice ; a subtle red 

Of life is kindling every twig and stalk 

Of lowly meadow growtlis; the willows weep. 

Their stems in furry white ; the pines grow gray 

A little, in tho biting wind ; mid-day 

Brings tiny buiTowcd creatures, peeping out 

Alert for sun. Ah, March ! We know thou art 

Kind-hearted, spito of ngly looks and threats. 

And, out of sight, art nursing April's violets! 



THOUGHT. 

O messenger, art lliou the king, or I? 

Tliou d.illiest outside the jialace gate 

Till on thine idle armor lie tho late 

And heavy dews ; tho morn's bright, scornful eye 



844 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AUEBICAN FOETBY. 



Reminds thee ; then iu subtle mockery 
Tlioii smilest at the wiudow where I wait, 
Who bade thee ride for life. Iu empty state 
Jly days go ou, while false hours prophesy 
Tliy quick return ; at last, iu sad despair, 
I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air, 
When lo ! thou staud'st before me glad aud fleet, 
And lay'st uudreamed-of treasures at my feet. 
Ah, messenger ! thy royal blood to buy, 
I am too poor. Tliou art tbe king, not I. 



OCTOBER. 

O suns and skies and clouds of June, 

And flowers of June together, 
Ye cannot rival for one hour 

October's bright blue weather ; 

When loud the bumblebee makes haste. 

Belated, thriftless vagrant, 
And goldeu-rod is dying fast, 

And lanes with grapes are fragrant ; 

When gentians roll their fringes tiglit. 
To save them for the morning, 

And chestuuts fall from satin burrs 
Without a sound of warning ; 

When on the ground red apples lie 

Iu piles, lilie jewels shining, 
Aud redder .still ou old stone walls 

Are leaves of woodbine twining ; 

When all the lovely way-side things 
Tlioir white-wiuged seeds are sowing. 

And in the fields, still green aud fair. 
Late after-maths are growing; 

When springs run low, and ou the brooks, 

Iu idle golden freighting, 
Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush 

Of woods, for winter waiting; 

When comrades seek sweet country haunts. 

By twos aud twos together, 
And count like misers, hour by hour, 

October's bright blue weather. 

O suns aud skies and flowers of June, 
Count all your boasts together. 

Love loveth best of all the year 
October's bright blue weather. 



Cljavlcs Stuart Cabcrleji. 

Comic poet, liynm writer, and translator, Calvcrlcy 
(boru 1831) has publLiilied under the initials "C. S. C," 
iu London, "Verses and Translations," " Translations 
into English and Latin," and "Fly Leaves" (1873), re- 
published in New York. As a writer of vers de sociele, 
be differs both from Praed and Holmes, and there is a 
decidedly original vein in his productions. 



LINES SUGGESTED BY THE FOURTEENTH OF 
FEBRUARY. 

Ere the morn the East has crimsoned. 

When the stars are twinkling there, 
(As they did iu Watts's Hymns,' and 

Made him wonder what they were :) 
When the forest nymphs are beading 

Fern and flower with silvery dew, — 
My infallible proceeding 

Is to wake, and think of you. 

When the hunter's ringing bugle 

Sounds farewell to field and copse. 
And I sit before my frugal 

Meal of gravy-soup aud chops : 
When (as Gray remarks) " the moping 

Owl doth to the moon complain," 
And the hour suggests eloping — 

Fly my thoughts to you again. 

Jlay my dreams be grautod ever? 

Must I aye euduro affliction 
Rarely realized, if ever, 

Iu our wildest works of fiction? 
Madly Romeo loved his Juliet; 

C'opperlleld began to i>iue 
When he hadn't been to school yet — 

But their lo_ves were cold to mine. 

Give me hope, the least, the dimmest, 

Ere I drain the poisoned cnp: 
Tell me I may tell the chemist 

Not to make that arsenic uj) ! 
Else the he.art must cease to throb iu 

This my breast ; and when, iu tones 
Hushed, men ask, " Who killed Cock Robin ?" 

They'll be told, " Miss Clara J s." 



' An .illusion probably to Miss Jane Tayloi-'s (not Watts's) lit- 
tle poem for cUiklreu, 

"Twinkle, twinkle, little stiir. 
How I wonder what you are !" 



ISABELLA (CIIAIG) KSOX.— EDWARD liOBEllT BVLWER-LYTTOX. 



9V-, 



Isabella (Craig) Knor. 

Mrs. Kiiox lir^t iiciiuiroj distinction in literature ns 
Miss Crais, in 1S59, by gaining the £50 prize offered by 
tlie Crystal Palace Company for the best ode on the cen- 
tenary cclebnition of the birth of Burns. She was born 
in ISJl.in Edinburgh, and published a rolunie of poems 
in 1856. 

THE BRIDES OF QUAIR. 

A stillness crept about tlio honse, 

At cvenlall, iu iioontiilo glare ; 
Upon the silent lulls looked forth 

Tho maiiy-wiuJowcd lionse of Quair. 

Tlio peacock ou the terrace screamed ; 

Browsed on the lawn tho timid hare ; 
The great trees grew i' the avenue, 

Calm by the sheltered house of Quair. 

Tho pool was still ; around its brim 

Tho alders sickened all tho air ; 
There came no nniruinr from the streams, 

Though nigh flowed Leitheu, Tweed, and Quair. 

Tho days hold ou their wonted pace, 
And men to court and camp repair, 

Their part to fill of good or ill. 

While women keep the house of Quair. 

And one is clad in widow's weeds, 

And one is maiden-like aud fair, 
And day by day they seek the paths 

Aljoiit tho lonely fields of Quair. 

To see the trout leap in the streams, 

Tho summer clouds reflected there, 
Tho maiden loves in maiden dreams 

To hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair. 

Within, in pall-black velvet clad. 

Sits ."itately iu her oaken chair — 
.V stately dame of ancient n.ime — 

The mother of tho house of Quair. 

Her daughter 'broidcrs by her side. 

With heavy, drooping golden hair, 
.\iid listens to her frequent plaint — 

"111 faro tho brides that como to Quair. 

"For more than one hath lived in pine. 
And more than one hath died of care, 

.\nd more than one hath sorely siuned, 
Left loucly in the house' of Quair. 



"Alas! and ere thy father died, 

I had not in his heart a share ; 
And now — may God forefend her ill — 

Thy brother brings his bride to Quair!" 

She came: they kissed her in the hall. 
They kissed her on the winding stair; 

They led her to her chamber high — 
The fairest in the house of Quair. 

" Tis fair," she said, on looking forth ; 

"But what although 'twere bleak and baref" 
She looked the love she did not speak. 

And bloke the ancieni curse of Quair. 

"Where'er lie dwells, where'er he goes, 
His dangers aud his toils I share." 

What need be said, she was not one 
Of the ill-lated brides of Quair! 



(PbuHu-Li Robert Dnlu'cr.Ctittoii. 

Under the name of '• Owen Meredith," Lord Lytton 
the younger, born in 1S31, has published several volumes 
of verse, among them a rhymed romance (18G0), entitled 
" Lucille." He is the only son of the first Lord Lytton, 
better known as Bnlwer, the novelist, and inherits much 
of liis father's talent. For about twenty years he was 
engaged in diplomatic service, and in ISTO was appoint- 
ed Viceroy of India; a post from which he withdrew in 
ISSO. He li.is written fluently and well, though there is 
a lack of concentration and caic manifest in scvcrnl of 
his poems. Republished in Boston, tliey have passed 
through several editions. 



LEOLlNK. 

Ill the molten-golden moonlight. 

Ill the deep grass warm and dry, 
We watched the fire-fly rise and swim 

In floating sparkles by. 
All night the hearts of nigliting.iles, 

Song-steeping slumberous leaves. 
Flowed to ns in the sh.adow there 

Below the cottage caves. 

We sang our songs together 

Till tho st.trs shook in tho skies. 
We spoke — we spoke of common thiugs, 

Yet the tears were in our eyes. 
And my hand — I know it trembled 

To each light, warm touch of thine; 
But wo were friends, and only friends, 

My sweet friend, Lcoliuc ! 



846 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



How large the ■white moon looked, dear! 

Thore has not ever been, 
Since those old nights, the same great light 

In the moons which I have seen. 
I often ■wonder when I think, 

If you have thought so too. 
And the moonlight has grown dimmer, dear, 

Tliiiu it used to be to you. 

And sometimes, when the warm west ■wind 

Comes faint across the sea. 
It seems that you have breathed on it. 

So sweet it comes to me. 
And sometimes, ■when the long light wanes 

lu one deep crimson liue, 
I muse, "And does she watch it too. 

Far off, sweet Leoline ?" 

And often, leaning all day long 

My head upon my hands. 
My heart aches for the vanished time 

In the far fair foreign lauds ; 
Thinking sadly — "Is she happy? 

Has she tears for those old hours ? 
And the cottage iu the starlight ? 

And the songs among the flowers ?" 

One night we sat below the porch. 

And ont iu that warm air 
A fire-fly, like a dying star, 

Fell tangled in her hair ; 
But I kissed him lightly oif again. 

And he glittered np the vine, 
And died into the darkness 

For the love of Leoline ! 

Between two songs of Petrarch 

I've a purple rose-leaf pressed. 
More sweet than common rose-leaves, 

For it once lay in her breast. 
When she gave me that, her eyes were wet ; 

The rose was full of dew. 
The ro.s6 is withered long ago ! 

The page is blistered, too. 

There's a blue flower in my garden, 

The bee loves more than all ; 
The bee .and I, we love it both. 

Though it is frail and small. 
She loved it, too — long, long ago ; 

Her love was less than mine. 
Still we were friends, but only frieuds. 

My lost love, Leoline ! 



dbrilige icffcrson (Hutlcr. 



Cutler (1831-1870) was a native of HoUiston, Mass., and 
a graduate of Harvard (1853). In 1863 a volume of his 
poems was published in Boston. They were mostly on 
themes suggested by the war, and had the true Tyrtrean 
ring. He seems to have been unjiflected by the influence 
of Tennyson and Browning, and the school which they 
initiated. His style resembles more that of Macaulay, 
of whom, however, he ■n'as by no means an imitator. 



A POEM FOE THE HOUR. (1861.) 

From " Liberty and Law." 

O Law, fair form of Liberty ! God's light is on thy 
brow, [thou : 

O Liberty, the soul of Law ! God's very self art 

One the clear river's sparkling flood that clothes the 
bank with green. 

And one the line of stubborn rock that holds the 
waters iu ; 

Friends whom we cannot think apart, seeming each 
other's foe ; — 

Twin flowers upon a single stalk with equal grace 
that grow ; — 

O fair ideas ! we write your names across our ban- 
ner's fold ; 

For you the sluggard's braiu is fire, for you the cow- 
ard bold. 

O d.aughter of the bleeding Past! O hope the 
Prophets saw ! 

God give us Law in Liberty, and Liberty in Law. 

Full many a heart is aching with mingled joy and 

pain 
For those ■nho go so proudly forth and may not 

come again. 
And many a heart is aching for those it leaves 

behind, 
As a thousand tender histories throng in upou the 

mind. 
The old men bless the young men,. and praise their 

bearing high ; 
The women in the door-ways stand to wave them 

bravely by ; 
One threw her arms about her boy, .and said, " Good- 
bye, my sou ; 
God help thee do the valiant deeds thy father would 

have done !" 
One hold up to a bearded m.an a little child to kiss. 
And said, " I shall not be aloue, for thy dear love 

and this." 



J 



ELBKIDGE JEFFERSON CUTLER. 



847 



And oiK>, a rose-ljiul in Ucr baud, Icaucd at a sol- 

diii's side ; — 
• Thy country weds theo iirst," she said ; " be I tby 

second bride !" 

O motbers '. when annuid your hearths yo couut 

your cherish<'d ones, 
And miss from the enelianted ring the tlowor of all 

your sons ; 
') wives! when o'er the cradled child ye bend at 

evcuing's fall, 
And voices which the heart can hear across the 

distance call ; 
O maids! when in the sleepless nights ye ope the 

little case. 
And look till yo can look no more upon the proud 

young face ; — 
Not only pray the Lord of life, wbo measures mor- 
tal breatli. 
To bring the absent back unscathed out of the lire 

of death, — 
Oh! pray with that divine content which God's 

best favor draws, 
Tliat, whosoever lives or dies, be save His holy cause! 

So out of shop and farm-liousc, from shore and in- 
land glen. 

Thick as the bees in clover- time are swarming 
armed men ; 

Along the dusty roads in haste the eager columus 
come. 

With dash of sword aud musket's gleam, the hnglo 
and the drum. 

Ho! comrades, see the starry flag, broad-waving at 
our head ! 

IIo! comrades, mark the tender light on the dear 
emblems spread ! 

Our fathers' blood has hallowed it ; 'tis part of 
their renown ; 

And palsied bo the caititT-hand would pluck its glo- 
ries down I 

lliirruh! hurrah I it is our homo where'er tby col- 
ors fly : 

We win with thee the victory, or iu thy shadow die. 

O women ! drive tho rattling loom, and gather in 
the hay ; 

I'or all the youth worth love ami trnih are mar- 
shalled for the fray : 

Southward the hosts are hurrying witli banners wide 
unfurled, 

Trom where the stately Hudson floats tho wealth 
of half tho world ; 



From where amid his clustered isles Lake Huron's 

waters gleam ; 
From where tho Mississippi pours an unpolluted 

stream ; 
From where Kentucky's fields of corn bend in the 

Simthern air; 
From broad Ohio's luscious vines; from Jersey's 

orchards fair ; 
From where between his fertile slopes Nebraska's 

rivers run ; 
From Pennsylvania's iron hills; from woody Ore- 
gon; 
Aud Massachusetts led the van, as in tho days of 

yore. 
And gave lier reddest blood to cleanse the stones 

of Baltimore. 

O mothers, sisters, daughters ! spare the tears yo 

fain would shed : 
Who seem to die iu such a cause, ye cannot call 

them dead ; 
Tliey live upon the lips of men, in picture, bust, 

and song ; 
Aud nature folds them iu her heart and keeps (hem 

safe from wrong. 
Oh! length of days is not .a boon the bravo man 

prayeth for; 
There are a thousand evils wor.so than death or any 

war, — 
Oppression with his iron strength, fed on the souls 

of men ; 
Aud license with the hungry brood flial haunt bis 

ghastly den. 
But like bright stars ye fill the eye, — adoring hearts 

ye draw, 
O sacred grace of Liberty! O majesty of Law! 

Hurrah! the drnms are beating; the life is calling 

shrill ; 
Ten fhons.and starry banners flame on town, and 

bay, and hill ; 
The thunders of the rising war drown Labor's peace- 
ful hum ; 
Thank fJod that we have lived to seo the saffron 
' morning come ! 

The morning of the battle -call, to every soldier 

dear, — 
O joy ! the cry is " Forward !'' O joy ! the foe is 

ne.ar ! 
For all the crafty men of peace have failed to purge 

the land ; 
Hurrah! tho ranks of battle close; God takes his 

cau.so in band ! 



848 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



lHattljias Uarr. 



Barr, born in Edinburgh in 1831, was tlie son of a 
German watoli-malcer. Removing to London, be pub- 
lished a volume of " Poems" in 1865, and the following 
year issued the "Child's Garland," whieli was •well re- 
ceived. A revised and enlarged edition of his "Poems" 
appeared in 1870. His songs and rhj'mcs for the young 
have earned him the title of " The Children's Poet- 
laureate." 

GOD'S FLOWERS. 

Look lip, sweet wife, tliroiigli Lappy tears, 
And seo our tiny biuls ablow. 
With yearning souls that strive to show, 

Aud burst the tender gveeii of years. 

So sweet they hang upon life's stem, 
Their beauty stills our very breath, 
As, thinkiug of the spoiler. Death, 

We beud in silence over tbem, — 

Aud shed our dew of iiraise and prayer 
On hearts that turn toward the sun. 
And watch the leaflets, one by cue. 

That scent for lis the common air. 

Ami she, our latest blossom given, 

That scarce hath lost the dimple-touch 
Of God's own fingers, and, as such, 

Still pulses to the throb of heaven ; 

Aud blind with brightness of his face, 
Lies dreaming in a nest of love, 
With cars that catch the sounds that move 

Aud swell around the Throne of Grace ! — 

Ah! how for her our hearts will peer 

And look, with faith, through swiuiniing eyes, 
For balmy winds and summer skies. 

And tremble wheu a cloud is near. 

Dear flowers of God ! how much we owe 
To what you give us, all uusought — 
The grandeur and the glory caught 

From hills where truth and wisdom grow. < 

1S6C. 



ONLY A BABY SMALL. 

Only a baby small, 

Dropped from the skies ; 
Only a laughing face, 

Two sunny eyes ; 



Only two cherry lips, 
One chubby nose ; 

Only two little hands, 
Tell little toes. 

Only a goldeu head, 

Curly and soft ; 
Only a tougue that wags 

Loudly and oft ; 
Only a little brain. 

Empty of thought; 
Only a little heart, 

Troubled with naught. 

Only a tender flower 

Scut us to rear ; 
Only a life to love. 

While we are here ; 
Only a baby small, 

Never at rest ; 
Small, but how dear to us, 

God knoweth best. 



Paul Ijaniilton fiaijue. 



Hayne was born in Charleston, S. C, in 1831. He pub- 
lished volumes of poems as early us 1855 and 1857 ; aud 
in 1859 appeared his " Avolio : a Legend of the Island of 
Cos, with otlier Poems, Lyrical, Misecllaueous, and Dra- 
matic." He has since been a frequent contributor to the 
leading magazines. Ho is the author of an excellent me- 
moir of Henry Tinuod, one of the most gifted of Ameri- 
can poets ; and Hayne himself writes as if he too had 
been " in Arcadia born." 



FROM THE WOODS. 

Why should I, with a mournful, morbid spleen, 
Lament that here, in this haU'-dcsert scene, 

My lot is placed ? 
At least the poet-winds are bold and loud, — 
At least the sunset glorifies the cloud. 

And forests old aud proud 
Rustle their verdurous banners o'er the waste. 

Percluiuce 'tis best that I, whose Fate's eclipse 
Seems final, — I, whose sluggish life-wave slips 

Languid away, — 
Slionld here, within these lowly walks, apart 
From the fierce throbbings of the populous mart. 

Commune with mine own heart. 
While Wisdom blooms from buried Hope's decay. 



PAUL BAMILTON SATXE.— ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEX. 



849 



Nature, tboiigh wild her furiiis, sustains mo still ; 
The founts are musical, — the barren hill 

Glows with strange lights ; 
Through solemn pine-groves the small rivulets 

fleet, 
Sparkling, as if a Naiad's silvery feet. 
In quick and coy retreat. 
Glanced through the star-gleams on calm siuunicr 
nights ; 

And the great sky, the royal heaven above, 
Daikeus with storms or melts in hues of love; 

While far remote, 
Just where the sunlight smites the woods with 

lire. 
Wakens the multitudinous sylvan choir; 
Their innocent love's desire 
Poihrod in a rill of song from each liarinonious throat. 

My walls arc erunibliiig, but iuininrtal looks 
Smile on mo hero from faces of raro Ijooks : 

Shakspeari! consoles 
>Iy heart with true philosophies; a balm 
Of spiritual dews from humbler song or psalm 
Fills me with tender calm. 
Or through hushed heavens of soul Milton's deep 
thunder rolls! 

And more than all, o'er shattered wrecks of Fate, 
The relics of a happier time and state, 

My nobler life 
Shines on nnqucnchod ! O deathless lovo that lies 
In the clear miduight of those passionate eyes! 

Joy wanoth ! Fortune Hies! 
What then f Thou still art here, sonl of my soul, 

my Wife! 



LYRIC OF ACTION. 

Tis the part of a coward to brood 
O'er the past that is withered ami dead : 

What though the heart's roses are ashes and dnst f 
What though the heart's music bo tied f 
Still shine the grand heavens o'erhead. 

Whence the voice of an angel thrills clear on the 
soul, 

" Gird about thee thine armor, press on to the goal !" 

If the faidts or the crimes of thy youth 
Are a burden too heavy to bear. 

What hope can rcbloom on the desolate waste 
Of a jealous and craven despair f 
Down, down with the fetters of fear! 
54 



In the strength of thy valor and manhood arise, 
Willi the faith that illumes and the will that defies. 

"Too Idle!'' through God's inlinito Avoild, 

From His throne to life's nethermost fires — 
" Too late!" is a phantom that flies at the dawn 
Of the sonl that repents and aspires. 
If pure thou hast made thy desires, 
Tlioie'ri no height the strong wings of immortals 

may gain 
Which in striving to reach thou shalt strive for in 
vain. 

Then up to the contest with fate, 

Unbound by the past, which is dead! 

What though the heart's roses are ashes and dust? 
What though the heart's music bo fled f 
Still shine the fair heavens o'erhead; 

.\iid sublime as the angel who rules in the sun 

Ikanis the promise of peace when the conflict is won ! 



SONNET. 

Day follows day; years perish; still mine eyes 

.\rc opened on the self-same round of space ; 

Yon fadeless forests in their Titan grace. 

And the largo splendors of those opulent skies. 

I watch, unwearied, the miraculous dyes 

Of dawn or sunset ; the soft houghs which laco 

Rcinnd some coy Dryad in a lonely place, 

Tiirilled with low whispering and strange sylvan 

sighs : 
Weary f The poet's mind is fresh as dew. 
And oft refilled as fountains of the light. 
His clear child's soul finds something sweet and new 
Even in a weed's heart, the carved leaves of corn. 
The spear-like grass, the silverj' rime of morn, 
A cloud rose-cilged, .and fleeting stars at night! 



(Uliuilu'tl) 2\itrr, :^llc„. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Allen, a native of Strong, Franklin County, Me., 
was l)oin October ittli. ISSd, and married in \^W to Paul 
Akcrs, the sculptor, wlio died in ISCI. Slie subsequently 
became the wife of Mr. E. M. Allen, of New York. Her 
early poems appeared under the tiom dr plume of Flor- 
ence Percy. .\n edition of her works was published in 
Boston in 1H67. Her popular poem of "Rock Mo to 
Sleep" has had many claimants, niio.sc persistency can 
bo explained only by the theory of kleptomania. There 



850 



CrCLOFJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAyr POETRY. 



is a peculiar ciiai'tn in nearly all her lyrical productions ; 
they are as remarkable for tenderness and pathos as for 
their artistic construction. Her residence is Greenville, 
N.J. 



ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 

Backwaril, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, 
Make me a child again, just for to-uight; 
Mother, come back from the echoless shore ; 
Take me again to your heart as of yore ; 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; 
Over my slumbers your loviug watch keep — 
Eoek me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep. 

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years! 
I am so weary of toil and of tears — 
Toil without recompense — tears all in vain — 
Take them and give mo my cliiklhood again ! 
I have grown weary of dust and decay — 
Weavj' of flinging my soul-wealth away; 
Weary of sowing for others to reap — 
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep. 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you. 
Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
Blossomed and faded, our faces between ; 
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain 
Long I to-night for your presence again. 
Come from the silence, so long and so deep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep. 

Over my beart, in the days that are flown. 
No love like mother-love ever has shone; 
No other worship abides and endures — 
Faitbful, unselfish, and patient like yours ; 
None like a mother can charm away pain 
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. 
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep. 

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold. 
Fall on your shoulders again, as of old ; 
Let it drop over my forehead to-night, 
Shading my faint eyes away from tlie ligbt ; 
For with its snnny-edged shadows once more 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; 
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — 
Rock mo to sleep, mother — rock mo to sleep. 

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long 
Since I last listened your lullaby song ; 



Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, 
With your light lashes just sweeping my face, 
Never hereafter to wake or to weep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother^rock me to sleep. 



TILL DEATH. 

Make me no vows of con.stancy, dear friend — 

To love me, though I die, thy whole life loug. 
And love no other till thy days shall end — 
Nay — it were rash and wrong. 

If thou canst love another, be it so ; 

I would not reach out of my quiet grave 
To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go — 
Love should not be a slave. 

My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene 

In clearer light than gilds these earthly morns, 
Above the jealousies and envies keen 

Which sow this life with thorns. 

Thon wouldst not feel my shadowy caress. 

If, after death, my soul should linger here ; 
Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness, 
Love's presence warm and near. 

It wonld not make me sleep more peacefully 
That thou wert wasting all thy life in woe 
For my i)oor sake; what love thou hast for me, 
Bestow it ere I go. 

Carve not upon a stoue when I am dead 

The praises which remorseful mourners give 
To womeu's graves — a tardy recompense — 
But si)eak them while I live. 

Heap not the heavy marble on ray head. 

To shut away the sunshine aud the dew ; 
Let small blooms grow there, and the grasses wave. 
And rain-drops filter through. 

Thnn wilt meet many fairer and more gay 

Than I — but, trust me, thou canst never find 
One who will love and serve thee, night and day. 
With a more single mind. 

Forget me when I die ; the violets 

Above my rest will blo.ssom just as blue. 
Nor miss thy tears ; ev'n Nature's self forgets ; 
But while I live be true. 



EDWIX Ally OLD. 



1^51 



Bom in London in isiii, ArnoUl was educated at Ox- 
ford, and in 1852 olitiiined the Ncwdigtttc prize for a 
poem on BelsUazzai's feast. A inolieient in Sanscrit 
and Arabic, he is u member of the Order of the Star of 
India. He has written "Griselda,"a drama; "Poems, 
Narrative and Lyrical;'' "Education in India;" "The 
Poets of Greece" (ISO'J), besides several translations and 
contributions to the ma|j;nzines. His loni;est poem, "The 
Light of .lUia" (ISSO), is founded on the history of 
Prince Gautama, wlio became the Buddha of Oriental 
worship, and who llourislied about 'A"> ii.c. In regard 
to the doctrine of " Nirvana." Arnold has "a firm con- 
viction that a third of mankind would never have been 
brought to believe in blank abstraction, or in notiilng- 
ncss as the issue and crown of Being." Still, he leaves 
the question obscure, for he says : 

" If any leach Xirvaaa is to cease, 

•Say nnto such they lie. 
If any teach Nirvana is to live. 

Say unto f nch they err ; not knowing this. 
Nor what liglit shines beyond their broken lamps. 

Nor lifeless, timeless bliss." 

The original American publishers of this noble epic are 
Roberts Brothers, Boston, who share their prollts with 
the author. It passed through nineteen cdllions in less 
than a year. Arnold became connected with the edi- 
torial staff of the Daily rdrymph, London, In 18G1. In 
1879 he travelled in Egypt, and in 18* withdrew from 
his eouucctlon with the Press. 



AFTEK DEATH IX AKABIA." 

Ho who (lieil at Az.tii scnils 
This to comfort all his friends. 

Faithful friends! It lies, I know. 
Pale anil white and cold a.s snow : 
And ye say, " .Vlxlnllairs dead 1" 
Weeping at the feet and head. 
I eau see your falling tears, 
I can hear your sighs and prayers ; 
Yet I siiule, and whisper this: — 
"1 am not tlio thing yon kiss; 
Ce.i.so your tears, and let it lie ; 
It >ra» mine, it is not I." 



' This remarkable poem lias been nficn rccilcrt at fancrals in 
America. An Arabic poet cif the twcldh century ecems lo have 
suniicBicd it In lines which have licen thus trnnslaled: 

" When I am robed in tlic hnbilimentx of the Riavo, mv fiierds 
will weep for nic. Say to ihini lh;it iliU ln>tii»ible corpse is 
not I. li IS my hnfly, l.m | |,„ |„„-it i1wi-M In it. I am now 
n life that is inextliit:aii>habl('. Tliu rcmninN ihcy conlcmplate 
have been my temporary nb.Mlo. niv clolhlns; fnr a day. I Inn a 
bird: the c^irpsc was my cn^"-. I have nnf..lded my wings and 
lied my jirmon. I am Ihe pearl; it wa» llie hliell, now of no 
value. • • My voyage is leriniinitod 1 leave von in exile Let 
the »hell perish wilh Ihe illusii>ii» nfearlh. i)M not say of the 
dead, this is death, for it is in reality the veritable life." 

\Vc are Imleblcd to the anihor for a corrected copy of the 
poem. Into which had crept sevcrnl errors. The word Azan re- 
fers to the hour of Moslem prayer. 



Sweet friends! what tlio women lave, 

For its last bed of the grave, 

Is a lint which I am quitting, 

Is a garment no inoro lilting, 

Is a cage, from -which at last. 

Like a hank, my .soul lialli passed. 

Lovo the inmate, not the room — 

The wearer, not the garb— the phiine 

Of the falcon, not the hars 

Which kept him from tlii' splendid stars. 

Loving friends! I5e wise, and dry 
Straightway every weeping eye; 
What yo lift upon the bier 
Is not worth a wistful tear, 
'Tis an empty sea-shell — ono 
Out of which the pearl has gone; 
The shell is broken — it lies there; 
The pearl, the all, the soul, is here. 
Tis an earthen jar, whoso lid 
Allah sealed, tho while it hid 
That treasure of his treasury, 
X mind that. loved him: let it lie! 
Let tho shard be earth's once more, 
Since the gold shines in His store ! 

.\llah glorious ! Allah good ! 
Now thy world is understood ; 
Now tho long, long wonder ends! 
Yet ye weep, my erring friends. 
While the man whom yo call dead, 
In unspoken bli.ss, instead, 
Lives and loves yon ; lost, 'tis true, 
liy such liglit as shines for you ; 
Hilt in the light ye cannot see 
Of unfullillcd felicity— 
III enlarging par.adise, 
Lives a life that never dies. 

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell; 
Where I am, ye too shall dwell, 
I am gone before your face, 
A moment's time, a little space; 
When ye come where I have stepped, 
Ye will wonder why ye wept; 
Ye will know, by wise love taught, 
Tliat hero is all, and there is naught. 
Weep awhile, if yo arc faiu — 
.Siiiishini! SI ill iiiiist follow rain; 
Only not at death— for death, 
Now I know, is that lii-st breath 
Which onr souls tlraw when we enter 
Life, which is of all life centre. 



852 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTISB AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Be ye certain all seems love, 

Vievred from Allah's throne above ; 

Be ye stout of heart, and come 

Bravely onward to youT home! 

La AlJali ilia AUah ! yea! 

Thou Love divine! Thou Love alway! 

He that died at Azau gave 

This to those who made his grave. 



A MA FUTURE. 

Where waitest thou, 
Lady I am to love ? Thou comest not, 
Tlion liiiowcst of my sad and lonely lot — 

I looked for thee ere now. 

It is the May, 
And each sweet sister soul hath found its brother; 
Only we two seek fondly each the other, 

And seeking, still delay. 

Where art thou, sweet ? 
I long for thee as thirsty lips for streams; 
O gentle promised angel of my dreams, 

Why do we never meet ? 

Tliou art as I — 
Thy soul doth wait for mine, as mine for thee: 
We cannot live apart — must meeting he 

Never before we die? 

Dear sonl, not so! 
For time doth keep for us some happjf years, 
And God hath portioned us our smiles and tears, 

Thou kuowest, and I know. 

Yes, we shall meet ; 
And therefore let our searching be the stronger ; 
Dark ways of life shall not divide us longer, 

Nor doubt, nor dauger, sweet. 

Therefore I bear 
This winter-tide as bravely as I may, 
Patiently waiting for the bright spring day 

Tliat Cometh with thee, dear. 

'Tis the May light 
That crimsons all the quiet college gloom ; 
May it shine softly in thy sleeping-room — 

And so, dear wife, good-uight ! 



jJamcs K. Coinbarlr. 



Born January 15tli, 1833, in Burlington, N. T., Lom- 
bard moved to Springfield, Mass., with his parents. It 
had been the home of his ancestors since 1(!48, and there 
he was educated. He studied for tlie ministry, and was 
settled over a congregation in Fairfield, Conn. 



'NOT AS THOUGH I HAD ALREADY AT- 
TAINED." 

Not, my soul, what thou hast done. 

But what thou art doing; 
Not the course which thou hast run. 

But which thou'rt pursuing; 
Not the prize already won, 

But that thon art wooing. 

'Thy progression, not thy rest, — 
Striving, not attaining, — 
Is the measure and the test 

Of thy hope remaining; 
Not in gain thou'rt half so blessed 
As in conscious gaining. 

If thou to the Past wilt go, 

Of Experience learning. 
Faults and follies it can show, — 

Wisdom dearly earning ; 
But the path once trodden, know, 

Hath no more returning. 

Lot not thy good hope depart, 

Sit not down bewailing; 
Rouse thy strength anew, brave heart! 

'Neath despair's assailing : 
Tliis will give thee fairer start, — 

Knowledge of thy failing. 

Y'et shall every rampant wrong 

In the dust be lying, — 
Soon tliy foes, though proud and strong. 

In defeat be flying ; 
Then shall a triumphant song 

Take the place of sighing. 



lUilliam lUallace t^avncji. 



Harney was born in 1833 at Bloomington, Ind., where 
his fatlier was professor of miithematics in tlie Universi- 
ty. His parents moved to Kentucky wlien William was 



I 



WILLIAM n'ALLAVE IIAKSICY.— LEWIS MORRIS. 



853 



yet a child, aud lie entered Louisville College. At tlic 
close of his edueational coiu'se he taii^it school for 
awhile, then studied law, Ijut in 1X59 became connected 
as editor with the /yot/tVnV/*' Daily Drinocrat^ since which 
his labors have left him but brief opportunities for the 
cultivation of poetry. 



.IIM.MVS WOOING. 

Tlio wind came blowing out of tho West, 

And Jimmy mowed Iho hiiy ; 
Tlio wind eamo blowing ont of tho West : 
It stirreil the green leaves ont of their rest, 
Aud rocked tho hlnehird np in his nest, 

As Jimmy nnjwed the hay. 

Tho swallows skininied along the ground. 

And Jimmy mowed tlie Ii.ay ; 
The swallows skimmed along the gmnnd. 
And rustling leaves made .a pleasant sound, 
Like children babbling all aronnd — 

As Jimmy mowed the luiy. 

Milly came with her bucket by, 

And Jimmy mowed tho hay; 
Milly came with her bucket by. 
With wee light foot, so trim and sly, 
And snuburnt check and laughing cyo — 

And Jiuiuiy mowed the hay. 

A rustic Ruth in linsey gown — 

And Jinuny mowed tho hay; 
A rustic Until in linsey gown. 
Ho watched her soft cheeks' changing brown, 
Aud tho long dark lash that trembled down, 

Whenever he looked that way. 

Oh I Jlilly's heart was good as gold. 

And Jimmy mowed the hay; 
Oh ! Milly 's heart was good as gold ; 
ISnt Jimmy thought her shy and cold, 
.\nd mor<! he thought than e'er he told, 

As Jinnny nioweil tho hay. 

The rain came pattering down amain. 

And Jimmy mowed tho hay ; 
The rain camo paltering down amain; 
Ami under tho thatch of the laden wain, 
Jimmy and Milly, a cunning twain. 

Sat sheltered by tho hay. 

Tho merry rain-drops hurried in 

I'mler the thatch of hay ; 
The merry rain-drops hurried in. 



And laughed aud prattled in a din, 
Over that which they saw within, 
Under the thatch of biiy. 

For Milly nestled to Jimmy's breast, 
Under the thatch of hay; 

For Milly nestled to Jimmy's breast. 

Like a wild bird Uuttering to its nest; 

And then I'll swear sbo looked her best 
Under tho thatch of hay. 

And when tho sun canio laughing out 

Over the ruined hay — 
And when tho sun came laughing out, 
Milly bad ceased to pet aud pout, 
.Vnd twittering birds began to shout, 

As if for a wedding-day. 



ttms iHonis. 

Morris, born at Carmarthen, South Wales, Jan. 33d, 
1833, graduated at Oxford with the highest classical 
honors in 1855; studied law, and practised at Lincoln's 
Inn till 1872. Ills "Songs of Two Worlds" appeared in 
tliree series in 1872, 1874, and 1875. His " Epic of Hades," 
which was not published in its completed form till 1878, 
has passed throunii ten editions in England, and been re- 
published by Roberts Brothers, Boston. In 1878 appear- 
ed "Gwen;" and in 1880 "The Ode of Life." Morris is 
the representative of an old Welsh family, and is a great- 
grandson of Lewis Morris (1703-1705), the Welsh anti- 
quary and poet. 



IT SHALL liK-WELL. 

If thou slialt be in heart a child. 
Forgiving, tender, meek, and mild. 
Though with light stains of earth deliled, 
O soul, it shall bo well. 

It shall bo well with thee indeed, 
Whatc'cr thy race, thy tongue, thy creed, 
Thou shalt not lose thy titling meed; 
It shall bo surely well. 

Not where, nor how, nor when wc know, 
Nor by what stages thou shalt grow ; 
Wo may but whisper faint and low, 
It shall be sundy well. 

It shall bo well with thee, oh, soul, 
Tliongli the heavens wither like a, scroll, 
Tbcmgh snn and moon forget to roll, — 
O soul, it shall be well. 



854 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEBICAN POETRY. 



DEAR LITTLE HAND. 

Dear little Iiaud tliat clasps my own, 

Eiiibrowued with toil auil seamed with strife 

Pink little tiugers not yet grown 
To the poor streiigtli of after-life, — 
Dear little Laud ! 

Dear little eyes wliich smile on mine. 
With the first iieep of morning light ; 

Now April-wet with tears, or fine 

With dews of pity, or laughing liright. 
Dear little eyes! 

Dear little voice, whoso broken speech 
All eloqiieut utterance can transcend ; 

Sweet childish wisdom strong to reach 
A holier deep than love or friend : 
Dear little voice ! 

Dear little life ! my caro to keep 
From every spot and stain of sin ; 

Sweet soul foredoomed, for joy or pain, 
To struggle and — ^whioh ? to fall or win? 
Dread mystical life ! 



THE TREASURE OF HOPE. 

O fair bird, singing in the woods, 

To the rising and the setting sun, 
Does ever any throb of pain 

Thrill through thee ere thy song be done : 
Because the summer fleets so fast ; 

Because the autumn fades so soon ; 
Because the deadly winter treads 

So closely on the steps of June ! 

O sweet maid, opening like a rose 

In Love's mysterious, honeyed air. 
Dost think sometimes the day will come 

When thou shalt be no longer fair : 
When Love will leave tliee and pass on 

To younger and to brighter eyes ; 
And thon shalt live unloved, alone, 

A dull life, only dowered with sighs? 

O brave youth, panting for the fight, 
To conquer wrong and win thee fame. 

Dost see thyself grown old and spent, 
And thine a still unhonoi'cd name : 

When all thy hopes Lave come to naught, 
And all thy fair schemes droop and pine ; 



And Wroug still lifts her hydra heads 

To fall to stronger arms than thine ? 

Nay ; song and love and lofty aims 

May never be where faith is not ; 
Strong souls within, the iiresent live ; 

The future veiled, — the past forgot : 
Grasping what is, with Lauds of steel, 

They bend what shall be, to their will 
And, blind alike to doubt and dread. 

The End, for which they are, fulfil. 



QriJimiULi Clarciuc Stcbimau. 



Born in Hartford, Conn., in 1.S33, Stedman was edu- 
cated at Tale College, but did not graduate. His moth- 
er, whose maiden name was Dodge, was first married to 
Mr. Stedman, of Hartford, but after his death became tliu 
wife of William B. Khnicy of the Xekark Advert m'i\&ub- 
sequently United States Alinister to Sardinia. Edmund 
inlieritcd his mother's poetical tastes. He lias publish- 
ed "Tlie Diamond Wedding: Poems Lyric and Idyllic" 
(1800); "The Blameless Prince, and other Poems" (1864); 
also a poem on Uawtliorne; and "The Victorian Poets" 
(1879), a series of careful critical sketches. Not wishing 
to trust wliolly to literature for a support, he became a 
member of the New York Stock Exchange, and was suc- 
cessful in his operations. The BriiWi Quarierhj Revww 
refers to him as " one of the most versatile, as well as one 
of tlie most refined and artistic of American poets." As 
a critic, too, he has won distinction. 



PROVENQAL LOVERS. 

AUC.\SSIN AND NICOLETTE. 

Within the garden of Beancaire 
He met her by a secret stair ; — ■ 
The night was ceuturies ago. 
Said Ancassiu, " My love, my pet, 
Tliese old confessors vex me so ! 
Thcjf threaten all the paius of hell 
Unless I give you up, ma belle ;" — 
Said Ancassiu to Nicolette. 

" Now, who .should there in Heaven be 
To fill your place, nia trfes-donce mie ? 
To reach that spot I little care.' 
Tliere all the droning priests are met ;- 
All the old cripples, too, are there 
That unto shrines and altars cling 
To filch the Peter-pence we bring ;" — 
Said Ancassiu to Nicolette. 



EDMUXD CLAREXCE STEDMAN. 



855 



" Tliero aro tlie l)aieft)Ot moiiUs niul fiiiii'8 
With gowns wrll tattcivd liy tlio briers, 
Tlio saints wlio lift t'lcir eyes and wliiiie : 
I liko tlii'ni not — a starveling set! 
WlioM care with folks liko those Id dine f 
Tlio oilier road 'twere just as well 
Tliat yon and I should take, ma belle I" 
Said Aiicassin to Nicolette. 

" To Purgatory I would go 
With iib'asant conirades whom wc know, 
Fair seholar-;. niinstiels, lusty Uniglits 
Whoso deeds the land will not forgot, 
Tlio captains of a. hundred fights, 
Tiiie men of valor and degree : 
We'll join that gallant company,'' — 
.Said Aiicassin to Xicolottc. 

" There, too, are jonsts and joyanco rare, 
And beantcons ladies debonair, 
The pretty dames, tlio merry brides 
Who with their wedded lords cocinettc. 
And have a friend or two besides, — 
And all in gold and trappings gay, 
With furs, and crests in vair and gray," — 
Said Aiicassin to Nicolette. 

"Sweet players on the cithern strings. 
Anil they who roam the world liko kings, 
Ale gathered there, so blitho and free! 
I'ardie! I'd join them now, my pet. 
If you wont also, ma doncu mio ! 
Tho joys of Heaven I'd forego 
To have you with nio there below," — 
Said Aucassin to Xieolette. 



HOW OLD DKOWX TOiJK lIAUl'liUS FKKHY. 

Jcdin Rrown in Kansas settled, liko a steadfast Yan- 
kee fanner, [of might; 
Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men 
There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border- 
strife grew warmer, [in tho night; 
Till tho Kangers llicd his dwelling, in his absence. 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatoniio Brown, 
Camo homeward in the moruing — to find his house 
burned down. 

Then he grasped his trusty rifle, and boldly fought 

for freedom ; [ing band ; 

Smote from bdiclcr imlu border the fierce, iiivail- 



And ho and his bravo boys vowed — so might Heav- 
en belli and speed 'em ! — 
Tluy would save those grand old prairies from 
the curse that blights tho land: 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Said, " Boys, the Lord will aid ns!''and he shoved 
his ramrod down. 

Anil the Lord did aid these men, and they labored 
day and even. 
Saving Kansas from its peril; and llicir very 
lives seemed charmed. 
Till the rufiians killed one son, in the blessc^d light 
of Heaven, — 
111 cold blood the fellows slow him, as he jour- 
neyed all unarmed. 

Then Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a 
teirible frown. ' 

Then llicy seized anotlier bravo boy, — not amid the 
heat of battle, 
But in peace, behind his iilonghshare, — and tlioy 
loaded him with chains, 
And with pikes, beforo their horses, even as they 
goad their cattle. 
Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew 
out his brains: 

Then Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Kaiscd his right hand up to Ileavon, calling Heav- 
en's veiigoanee down. 

And ho swore a fearful o.illi, by Iho nauio of the 
Alniighly, 
Hit would hunt this ravening evil I hat had scathed 
and torn him so ; 
\\f would seize it by the vitals; he would crush 
it day and night; ho [for blow. 

Would BO pursue its footsteps, so return it blow 
That Old Brown, 

Osawatoniio Brown, [town. 

Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in 

Tlieii his beard became more grizzled, and his wild 

blue eyo grew wilder, 

And more sharply curved his hawk's-nose, snufl'- 

ing battle from afar: 

And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas 

si rife waxecl milder, [dor War, 

Grew more sullen, till was over tho bloody Bor- 



856 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH A^'D AMERICAN POETRY. 



Anil Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Had gone crazy, as tbey reckoned by Lis fearful 
glare and frown. 

So Le left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes 
behind him, 
Slipped oft' into Virginia, where the statesmen all 
are born. 
Hired a farm by Harper's Ferry, and no one knew 
where to find him. 
Or whether he'd turned parson, or was jacketed 
and shorn ; 

For Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Mad as ho was, knew tests enough to wear » par- 
sou's gown. 

He bonght no ploughs and harrows, sjiades and shov- 
els, and such trifles; [train. 
But quietly to Lis rancho there came, by every 
Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well -be- 
loved Sharp's rifles; 
And eighteen other madmen joined their leader 
there again. 

Says Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
" Boys ! we've got an army large enough to march 
and take the town, — 

"Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the 
negroes, and then arm them ; 
Carry the County and the State, ay ! and all the 
potent South. 
On their own heads be the slaughter, if their vic- 
tims rise to harm them — 
These Virginians! who believed not, nor would 
heed the warning mouth !" 
Says Old Brown, 
Osiiwatomie Brown, 
"The world shall see a Republic, or ray name is not 
John Brown !" 

'Twas the sixteenth of October, on the evening of 
a Sunday : 
" This good work " — declared the Captain — " shall 
bo on a holy night!" — 
It was on a Sunday evening, and Captain Stephens, 
fifteen privates — black and white, 
Captaiu Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked 
the sentry down ; 



Took the guarded armory-bnilding, and the muskets 

and the cannon; 

Captured all the county majors and the colonels, 

one by one; [ran on, 

Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they 

And before tlie noon of Monday, I say, the deed 

was done, 

Mad Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and 
took the town. 

Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder 
made he ; 
It was all done in the midnight, like the Emper- 
or's coup (Viiliit, 
"Cut the wires! Stop the rail-cars! Hold the 
streets and bridges!" said he; 
Then declared the new Republic, with himself for 
guiding st.ar ; — 

This Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left 
the town. 

There was riding and railroading, and expressing 
here and thither ; 
And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters, and the 
Charlestown A^olunteers, 
And the Shepherdstowu and Winchester Militia 
hastened whither 
Old Brown was said to muster his ten thousand 
grenadiers. 

General Brown ! 
Osawatomie Brown ! ! 
Behind whose rampant banner all the North was 
pouring down. 

But at last, 'tis said, some prisoners escaped from 
'Old Brown's dnrance, [out. 

And the efi'ervcscent valor of the Chivalry broke 
When they learned that nineteen madmen had the 
marvellous assurance — 
Only nineteen — thus to seize the place and drive 
them straight about ; 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Found an army come to take him, encamped around 
the town. 

But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, 

was too risky; [ment Marines, 

So they hurried off to Richmond for the Govern- 



KDMVSD CLARENCE STEVMAW—lIAUIilET McEWEN KIMBALL. 



857 



Tore them from tbcir weepiug matrons, firoil their 
souls with Bourbon whiskey, 
Till flioy battered down Brown's castle with their 
ladders and machines ; 
And Old lirown, 
Osawatiiniie Brown, 
Keceived three bayonet stabs, and a cnt on liis bravo 
old crown. 

Tally-ho! the old Virginia gentry gather to the 
baying ! [ily away ; 

In they rnshed and killed the game, shooting Inst- 
And whene'er they slew a rebel, those who came too 
lato for slaying, [his clay; 

Not to lose a share of glory, fired their bullets iu 
And Old Brown, 
Csawatomie Biown, 
Saw bis sons fall dead beside him, and between them 
laid Uim down. 

Ilow the conquerors wore tlicir laurL-ls; how they 
hastened on the trial : 
How old Brown was placed, half dying, on the 
Charlcstown court-house lloor; 
How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all 
denial ; 
What the brave old madman told them — these aro 
known the country o'er. 
Hang Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown! — 
Said the judge — "and all such rebels!" with his 
most judicial frown. 

But, Virginians! don't do it! for I till yon that tlir 
llagon, 
Filled with blocid of olil Brown's offspring, was 
fust ponrcil l)y Sontherii hands: 
And each drop from Old Brown's life- veins, like the 
red gore of the dragon. 
May spring np a vengeful Fury, hissing through 
your slave-worn lauds! 
And Old Brown, 
Osawatomie Brown, 
Sfay trouble yon more tlian ever, when you've uailcd 
his coffin down. 
November, 1S59. 



f)arrict illc(Piiicn Kimball. 



Miss Kimball was born in Portsmouth, N. 11.. in IS.'U. 
Her studies, witli tlic exception of » few ycar.^ at school, 
were pursued at home. Her first little book of "Hymns" 



was published by E. P. Dutton & Co., New York, In 18C7, 
niul gave her at once a reputation; the second, "Swnl- 
low I'lights of Sonij," by the same publishers in 1874. 
The third and last, "The Blessed Company of all Faitli- 
ful People," appeared in ISTl), from the press of A. D. F. 
Randolph & Co. Miss Kimball's hymns are remnrUiible 
not only as devotional productions, but for their lucid 
poetical quality and artistic lUii^li. 



THE GUEST. 

" Behold, I staiu! at the door, and kuock : if any ni.Tn hear 
my voice, and open tlie door, 1 will come in to him, and will 
sup Willi him, and he wiih me." — Rev. iii. 20. 

Speechless Sorrow sat with me, 
I was sighing heavily ; 
Lamp and lire were out ; the rain 
Wildly beat the window-pane. 
In the dark wo heard a knock, 
And a hand was on tlio lock ; 
One ill waiting spake to me, 

.Saying sweetly, 
" I am come to sup with thee." 

All my room was dark and damp : 
"Sorrow," said I, " trim the lamp; 
Light the fire, and cheer thy face; 
Set the guest-chair in its place." 
And again I heard the knock: 
In the dark I found the lock : — 
"Enter! I have turned the key! — 

Enter, Stranger! 
Who art come to sup with me." 

Opening wide the door, ho came ; 
But I could not speak his name : 
In the guest-chair took his place ; 
But I could not see his face ! — 
When my cheerful firo was beaming. 
When my little lamp was gleaming, 
And the feast was spread for three — 

Lo ! my Master 
Was the Guest that supped with me! 



THE CRICKETS. 

Pipe, little minstrels of tli<' waning year, 

In gentle concert pipe ! 
Pipe the warm noons; the mellow harvest near; 

The apples dropping ripe ; 

The tempered sunshine and the softened shade ; 
The trill of loucly bird ; 



858 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BEITISB AND AMERICAN POKTRT. 



The sweet sad hush on Nature's glaflucss laid ; 
The sounds through sileuce heard ! 

Pipe teuderly the passing of tlie year ; 

Tlie Summer's brief reprieve ; 
The dry husk rustling round tlie yellow car ; 

The chill of morn anil eve! 

Pipe the imtronhled trouble of the year ; 

Pipe low the painless pain; 
Pipe your unceasing melaucholy cheer; 

The year is in the wane. 



LONGING FOR RAlN. 

Earth swoons, o'erwLelmed with weight of bloom; 

The scanty dews seem dropped iu vaiu ; 
Athirst she lies, while garish skies 

Burn with their brassy hints of rain. 

Morn after morn the flaming sun 

Smites the bare hills with fiery rod ; 
Night after night with blood-red light 



Oh for a cloudy curtain drawn 

To screen us from the scorching sky ! 

Oh for tlie rain to lay again 

The smothering dust-clouds passing by ! 

To wash the hedges, white with dust, 
Freshen the grass, and fill the pool ; 

While ill the breeze the odorous trees 
Drip softly, swaying dark and cool ! 



ALL'S WELL. 

The day is ended. Eio I sink to sleep 

5Iy weary spirit seeks repose in Thine : 
Father! forgive my trespasses, and keep 
This little life of mine. 

With loving kindness curtain Thou my bed ; 
And cool in rest my buiniug pilgrim-feet; 
Thy pardon be the pillow for my head, — 
So shall my sleep be sweet. 

At jieace witli all the world, dear Lord, and Thee, 
No fears my soul's unwavering faith can shake; 
All's well ! whichever side the grave for me 
Tlie morning light may break ! 



AMERICAN. 

Arnold (1834-1865) was a native of New York, and early 
in life applieJ himself to literary pursuits. His "Drift, 
and other Poems," edited by William Winter, appeared 
iu 1806. Dying at an early age, Arnold left evidences 
of a remarkable gift for lyrical expression. His literary 
career extended over a period of twelve years; "and in 
that time," says Winter, "he wrote, with equal fluency 
and versatility, stories, poems, eritieisnis — in short, cv- 
erj'thing for which there is a demand in the literary 
magazines and in New York journalism." 



IN THE DARK. 

His last poem ; written a few cla3'9 before his dealh. 

All moveless stand the ancient cedar-trees 

Along the drifted sand-hills where they grow ; 

And from the dark west comes a wandering breeze. 
And \\'aves them to and fro. 

A murky dai-kness lies along the sand. 

Where bright the sunbeams of the niorniug shone. 

And the eye vaiuly seeks by sea and land 
Some light to rest upon. 

No large pale star its glimmering vigil keeps; 

An inky sea reflects an inky sky ; 
And the dark river, like a serpent, creeps 

To where its black piers lie. 

Strange salty odors through tlie darkness steal, 
And through the dark the ocean-thniiders roll : 

Thick darkness gathers, stitiiug, till I feel 
Its weight upon my soul. 

I stretch my bands out in the empty air ; 

I strain my eyes into tlie heavy night ; 
Blackness of darkness ! — Fatber, hear my prayer ! 

Grant me to see the light! 



cm BONO? 

A harmless fellow, wasting useless days, 
Am I: I love my comfort and my leisure: 

Let those who wish them toil for gold and praise; 
To me this summer-day brings more of iileasure. 

So, here upon the grass I lie at ease, 

While solemn voices from the Past are calling, 

Miugled with rustling whispers in the trees. 
And pleasant sounds of water idly falling. 



GEORGE JltXOLD.—niCIJ.lRD liEALK 



859 



Tliero «ns a time wlieii I hail biglier aims 
Than thus to lii' niiiong the flowers anil listen 

To lisiiiii;; liirils, or wati-h tho siiiiset's fhiiiies 
On the broad river's surface glow ami glisten. 

There was a time, perhaps, when I hail thonght 
To make a name, a home, a bright existeuee : 

But time has sliown ine tliat my dreams were 
naught 
Save a mirage th;it vanislnd with the distance. 

Well, it is gone : I eare uo longer uow 

For fame, for fortune, or for empty praises; 

Rather than wear a crowu npon my brow, 
I'll lie forever here among tho daisies. 

So yon, who wish for fame, good friend, pass by; 

With you I surely eauuot think to quarrel: 
Give me peace, rest, this bank whoroon I lie, 

And spare mo both tho labor and the laurel! 



A SUMMER LOXGIXG. 

I must away to wooded hills and vales. 

Where broad, slow streams flow cool and silently, 

And idle barges flap their listless sails. 

For mo tlie sununcr sunset glows and i)ales. 
And green liehls wait for me. 

I long for shadowy forests, where the birds 
Twitter and chirp at noon from every tree; 

I long for blossomed loaves and lowing herds; 

And nature's voices say, iu mystic words, 
"The green fields wait for thee." 

I dream of uplands where the primrose shines. 
And waves her yellow lamps above the lea; 

Of tangled copses swung with trailing vines; 

Of open vistas, skirted with tall pines. 
Where green fields wait for me. 

I think of long, sweet afternoons, when I 
May lie and lislen to the distant sea. 

Or hear the breezes in the reeds that sigh, 
L Or insect voices chirjiiMg shrill and dry. 
In fields that wait for me. 

The.se dreams of summer come to bid me find 

The forest's shade, the wild-bird's melody. 
While summer's rosy wreaths for me are twined, 
While summer's fragrance lingers on tho wind. 
And green fields wait for inc. 



Uicljavb Ucalf. 



Tlie life of Realf (1834-1878), that " most unhappy man 
ormcu,"hail in it the elements of tlic nio.-st direful trag- 
edy. A native of Uckfield, Sussex, Euglaml, liis first vol- 
ume of verses, "Guesses at tlie Beautiful," was publish- 
ed while he was yet a youth (18.VJ), in Brigliton, England, 
and won high praise from Thackeray and Lyllon. The 
poor lad was of humble parentage, his lather being a day- 
laborer iu the lields, and his sister a domestic servant. 
He came to the United States about the year 1855, and 
took a conspicuous part in the Kansas and other border 
troubles. He subsequently served in the brigade of Gen. 
John F. Miller in the Civil War, and became a colonel. 
For a time he was associated with John Brown, " Osa- 
walomie Biowu," in Kansas. lie was twice married, and 
became the father of twins by his second w ife ; but was 
made frantic by the persecutions of his first wife, from 
whom he had been separated since 1S?2. She followed 
him to Oakland, California, where, to escape the misery 
of her presence, he took laudanum and died. 

Realf gives tokens of intense, though unchastcncd pow- 
er, as a poet. Had he been as well educated as Shelley, 
he might have been his peer. Among his early patron- 
esses was Lady Byrou. In the "Life and Letters" of 
Frederick W. Robertson, the famous Brighton preacher, 
we find this reference to Realf: "One dsy," writes Mr. 
A.J.Ross, "as we were speaking together of the rich 
endowments of a youth in whom we were mutually in- 
terested, he (Robertson) said with emphasis, 'How un- 
happy he will be !' " With what a sad accuracy was the 
prophesy fulflled ! 



MY SLAIN. 

This sweet child which hath climbed npon my kiieo, 
This amber-haired, four-summered little maid. 

With her unconscious beauty troubleth nie. 
With her low prattle maketh mo afraid. 

Ah, darling! when you cling and nestle so 
Yon hurt me, though you do not see nie ci-y, 
Nor hear the weariness with which I sigh. 

For the dear babe I killed so long ago. 
I trcuiblo at th(^ touch of your caress; 

I am not worthy of your innocent faith ; 
I, who with. whetted knives of worldlincss, 

Dill put my own ehildheartedness to ilc.ith, 
liesido whose grave I pace for evermore, 
Like desolation on a shipwrecked shore. 

There is no little child within mo now. 

To sing back to the thrushes, to leap up 
When Juno winds kiss me, when an apple-bough 

Laughs into blossoms, or a buttercup 
Plays with the sunshino, or a violet 

Uances in the glad dew. Ahis ! abas ! 

The meaning of the daisies in the grass 
I have forgotten ; and if luy checks are wot, 



860 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



It is not with the blitlieness of the chilil, 
But with the bitter sorrow of sad years. 

Oil, luoauiiig life, with life irreconciled ; 
Oh, backward looking thought, O pain, O tears, 

For us there is not anj' silver sound 

Of rhythmic wonders springing from the giouiid. 

Woe worth the knowledge and the bookish lore 
Which makes men mummies, weighs out every 
grain 

Of that which was miraculous before, 

And sneers the heart down with the scoffiug brain ; 

Woe worth the peering, analytic days 
That dry the tender juices in the breast. 
And put the thunders of the Lord to test, 

So that no marvel must be, and no praise, 
Nor any God except Necessity. 

What can ye give my poor, starved life in lieu 
Of this dead cherub which I slew for ye ? 

Take back your doubtful wisdom, and renew 
My early foolish freshness of the dunce. 
Whose simple instincts guessed the heavens at 
ouce. 



SYMBOLISMS. 

All round us lie the awful sacrednesses 

Of babes and cradles, graves and hoary hairs ; 

Of girlish laughters and of manly cares ; 
Of moaning sighs and passionate caresses; 

Of infinite ascensions of the soul, 
And wild hyena-hungers of the flesh ; 

Of cottage virtues and the solemn roll 
Of populous cities' thunder, and the fresh. 

Warm faith of childhood, sweet as mignonette 
Amid Doubt's bitter herbage, and the dear 

IJe-glimpses of the early star which set 
Down the bine skies of our lost hemisphere, 

And all the conseci'ations and delights 

Woven in the texture of the days and nights. 

The daily mir.acle of Life goes on 

Within our chambers, at our household hearths, 

In sober duties and in jocund mirths ; 
In all the unquiet hopes aud fears that run 

Ont of onr hearts along the edges of 
The terrible abysses ; in the calms 

Of friend.sliip, in the ecstasies of love : 
In burial-dirges and in marriage-psalms ; 

In all the far weird voices that we hear ; 
In all the mystic visions we behold ; 

In our souls' summers when the days are clear; 
Aud in our winters when the nights are cold, 



And in the subtle secrets of onr breath. 
And that Annunciation named death. 

O Earth ! thou hast not any wind that blows 
Which is not music : every weed of thine 
Pressed rightly flows in aromatic wine ; 

And every humble hedge-row flower th.at grows, 
Aud every little brown bird that doth sing, 

Hath something greater than itself, and bears 
A living Wortl to every living thing. 

Albeit it hold the Message unawares. 

All shapes and sounds have something which is not 

Of them : a Spirit broods amid the grass ; 
Vague outlines of the Everlasting Thought 

Lie in the melting shadows as they pass; 
The touch of an Eternal Presence thrills 
The fringes of the sunsets and the hills. 

Forever, through the world's material forms. 

Heaven shoots its immaterial ; night aud day 

Apocalyptic intimations stray 
Across the rifts of matter ; viewless arms 

Lean lovingly toward us from the air ; 
There is a breathing marvel in the sea; 

The sapphire foreheads of the mountains wear 
A light within light which ensymbols the 

Unutterable Beauty and Perfection 
That, with immeasurable strivings, strives 

Through bodied form and sensuous indirection 
To hint unto our dull and haideued lives 

(Poor lives, that cannot see nor hear aright !) 

The bodiless glories which are out of sight. 

Sometimes (we know not how, nor why, nor whence) 
The twitter of the swallows 'iieath the eaves, 
Tlie shimmer of the light among the leaves. 

Will strike up through the thick roofs of our sense. 
And show ns things whicb seers and sages saw 

In the gray earth's green dawn : something doth stir 
Like organ-hymns within us, aud doth awe 

Onr pulses into listening, and confer 
Burdens of Being on us ; and we ache 

With weights of Revelation, and onr ears 
Hear voices from the Infinite that take 

The hushed soul captive, and the saddening years 
Seem built on pillared joys, and overhead 
Vast dove-like wings that arch the world are 
spread. 

He, by such raptnesses and intuitions, 
Doth pledge His utmost immortality 
Unto our mortal insufficiency. 

Fettered in grossness, that these sensual in-isons, 



lilCBARD SEJLF.—XJXCT PRIEST WAKEFIELD. 



861 



Agniust whoso bars wo beat so tired wings, 
Avail ii<)t fii ward otV tlie clear access 

Of His liigli lieralils and iiiter|iretiiigs ; 
Wherefore, albeit wo may not fnlly gness 

The meaning of the wonder, let us keep 
Clean channels for the instincts which respond 

To the Unutterable Sanctities that sweep 
Down the far reaches of the strange Heyond, 

■\Vliose mystery strikes the spirit into fever, 

And haunts, anil hurts, and blesses ns forever. 



^Taiuii IJricGt 111 a kc tic 1 1). 

AMERICAN 

Nancy Amelia Woodbury Priest (1834-1870), a native 
of Royalston, Mass., was married in 18C5 to Lieut. A. C. 
Wnkriiclil. Tier "Over the River" has liad a wide cir- 
culation, and is still one of the pieces that illustrate the 
doctrine uf the "survival of the liltest." In the Rev. A. 
P. Marvin's History of Wincheudou is this note; "Mrs. 
Wakelield, tho!ii;h born in the edge of Royalstou, be- 
longs to Wincheudou. Her family have resided here 
from the bcgiuuiug through live or six gcueiatious. Her 
father moved into Royalston a little while before her 
birth, and returned while she was quite younsr."' It 
illustrates the rare power of genius to tind two towns 
contending for the honor of having given birth to the 
aiillior of a poem of fortj'-eight lines. But Jlrs. Wake- 
Held did not fail to otTer other assurance thini this of 
the poetical gift she has displayed so felicitously. 



OVKU THE RIVEK. 

Over the river they beckon to nic, 

Loved ones who've cro.ssed to the other side ; 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 

IJnt their voices are drowned in the rushing tide. 
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 

And eyes, the reflection of Heaven's own blue: 
Ho crossed in tho twilight gray and cold. 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view; 
We saw not the angels who met him there, 

The gates of the city we could not see ; 
Over the river, over tho river, 

My brother stands waiting to welcome me. 

Over the river tho boatman palo 

CaiTied another, — the household pet ; 
Her brown curls waved in the gcntlo gale, — 

Darling Minnie! I see lier yet. 
She crossed on her bosom her dimph'il hanils. 

And fearlessly entered the phantom bark: 
We watched it glide from the silver sands. 

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. 



We know she is safe ou the farther side, 
Where all the ransomed and angels be ; 

Over the river, the mystic river, 

My childhood's idol is Availing for me. 

For none return from those quiet shores. 

Who cross with tho boatman cold and pale ; 
We hear tho dip of tho golden oars. 

We catch a gleam of the snowy sail. 
And lo ! they have passed from our yearning heart ; 

They cross the stream and are gone for aye ! 
We may not sunder the veil apart 

That hides from our vision the gates of day. 
We only know that their barks no more 

May sail with us over Life's stormy sea: 
Yet somewhere, I know, ou tho unseen shore, 

They watch and beckon and wait for me. 

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 

Is flu.shing river and hill and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold. 

And list for the sound of tho boatman's oar ; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail ; 

I shall hear the boat as it gains tlic strand, 
I shall pass from sight with tho boatman pale 

To tho Ijetter shore of the spirit land. 
I shall know the loved who have gone before; 

And joyfully sweet will tho meeting be. 
When over the river, the peaceful river, 

Tho Angel of Death shall carry me. 



FKOM "HEAYEN." 

The city's shining towers we ni;iy not sco 

With our dim earthly vision ; 
For Death, tho silent warder, keeps the key 

That opes the gates elysian. 

But sometimes, when adown the western sky 

A fiery sunset lingers. 
Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly, 

Unlocked by unseen fingers. 

And while they stand a moment half ajar 

fjleanis from the inner glory 
Stre:iui brightly through the azure vault afar, 

And half reveal ihii story. 

O land unknown 1 O land of love divine! 

Father, all-wise, eternal ! 
O guide these wandering, way-worn fi'ct of mine 

Into these pastures vernal.' 



862 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AilEEICAN POETST. 



lUilliam illorvis. 



Morris was born iii Loiulon in 1834, and educated at 
Oxford. His first publication (1853) was "The Defence 
of Guenevere, and other Poems." In 1867 appeared liis 
"Life and Death of Jason," and in 1868-1871, at inter- 
vals, " The Earthly Paradise," in four parts. In his skill 
as a poetical narrator Morris has been compared by Swin- 
burne to Chaucer. His long poems, if deficient in ele- 
ments of popularity, because of their remoteness from 
modern themes, show i-cmarkable ease and fluency of 
versification, with beauty of narrative diction. 



MARCH. 

Slayer of the -winter, art thou here again f 
O welcome thon that brin^n'st the summer nigb ! 
The hitter wind makes nut thy victory vain. 
Nor will we mock thee for thy faint bine sky. 
AVelconie, O March ! whose kindly days and drj' 
Make April ready for the throstle's song, 
Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong! 

Yea, welcome March! and though I die ere June, 
Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise, 
Striving to swell the burden of the tune 
That even now I hear thy brown bird.s raise, 
Unmindfnl of the past or coming days ; 
Who sing : " O joy ! a new year is begun : 
What happiness to look upon the sun !" 

Ab, what begctteth all this storm of bliss 

But Death himself, who, crying solemnly, 

Even from the heart of sweet Forgetfulne.ss, 

Bids us " Rejoice, lest pleasureless ye die. 

Within a little time must ye go by. 

Stretch forth your open hands, and while ye live. 

Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give." 



(Hclia «II)tavtcr. 



Mrs. Thaxter, dauijhter of Mr. Lais'liton, once propri- 
etor of Appledore, Isles of Shoals, was born in Ports- 
mouth, N. H., in 1835. She passed the early part of lier 
life, and much of the later, at Appledore, one of a rocky 
group of small islands about ten miles from the main- 
land. She has been no idle observer of the moods and 
colors of the ocean, tlie habits of the sea-birds, and all 
the poetical aspects of the rugged scenes amidst which 
she was bred. The fidelity of her marine descriptions 
is remarkable. She has publislied (1868) an excellent 
account, historical and descriptive, of the Isles. Her 
poems are vivid with touclies that show the intimacy 
of her study of external nature. 



SONG. 

We sail toward evening's lonely star. 

That trembles in the tender blue ; 
One single cloud, a dusky bar 

Burnt with dull carmine through and tl 
Slow smouldering in the summer sky, 

Lies low along the fading west ; 
How sweet to watch its splendors die, 

Wave-cradled thus, and wind-caressed! 

The soft breeze freshens ; leaps the spray 

To kiss our checks wilh sudden cheer. 
Upon the dark edge of the bay 

Light-houses kindle far and near, 
And through the warm deeps of the sky 

Steal faint star-elnstcrs, while we rest 
In deep refreshment, thon and I, 

Wave-cradled thus, and wiud-eares.sed. 

How like a dream are earth and heaven. 

Star-beam and darkness, sky and sea ; 
Thy face, pale in the shadowy even. 

Thy quiet eyes that gaze on me ! 
O realize the moment's charm. 

Thou dearest! We are at life's best, 
Folded in CJod's encircling arm. 

Wave-cradled thus, and wind-care.ssed ! 



THE SAND-PIPER. 

Across the narrow beach we flit. 

One little sand-piper and I; 
And fast I gather, bit by bit. 

The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry. 
The wild waves reach their hands lor it, 

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high. 
As np and down the beach we flit — 

One little sand-piper an<l I. 

Above our heads the sullen clouds 

Scud Idaek and swift across the sky ; 
Like silent ghosts, in misty shrouds 

Stand out the white light-houses nigh. 
Almost as far as eye can reach, 

I see the close-reefed vessels fly. 
As fast we flit along the beach — 

One little saud-piper and I. 

I watch him as he skims along. 

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry ; 

He starts not at my titful song, 
Or flash of flutteriug drapery : 



CELIA TIIAXTKR.— HARRIET P. SPOFFORD.— ELLEN LOCISE MOCLTOX. 



863 



He has uo tboiiglit of any wrong, 
Ho scans nio with a fearless eye ; 

Staunch fiiemls are we, well-tried and strong, 
TLis little saiid-)ii|ier and I. 

Comrade, where wilt thou l>e to-niglit, 

When the loosed Btorni breaks furiously f 
My drift-wood lire will burn so bright ! 

To what warm shelter canst thou lly f 
I do not fear for thee, though wroth 

The tempest rushes through the sky ; 
For are we not God's children both. 

Thou little sand-i)ii)er and If 



fiavrict [Jrcscctt SpofforD. 

AMERICAN. 

Harriet Elizabctli Prescott, born in Calais, Me., in lKi5, 
was married in ISlio to Richard S. Spoflbrd, Esq., a law- 
yer, of Newburyport, Mass. Slie early gave promise of 
literary ability In a scries of remarkable prose tales : "Sir 
Roland's Ghost" (18G0); "The Amber Gods, and other 
Stories;" "Azarian;" "New England Legends;" "A 
Thief in the Night," etc. She lias been a liberal contrib- 
utor to the magazines, and there have been several pub- 
lished coUceliuns of her prose writings. There is a fine 
enthusiasm for all that is lovely in nature, flashing out in 
many of her poems. 

A P'OUK-O'CLOCK. 

All. happy day, refuse to go : 
Hang in the heavens forever so." 
Forever in mid-afternoon. 
Ah, happy day of happy June .' 
Pour out thy sunshine on the hill. 
The piny wood with perfume fill. 
And breathe across the singing sea 
Land-scented breezes, that shall bo 
Sweet as the gardens that they pass. 
Where children tumble in the grass : 

Ah, happy day, refuse to go 1 
Hang in the heavens forever so! 
Ami long not for thy blushing rest 
In the soft bosom of the west. 
But bid gr.ay evening get her back 
With all the stars upon her track! 
Forget the dark, forget the dew, 
The mystery of the midnight l)lne. 
And only s])read thy wide warm wings 
While summer her enchantment flings I 

Ah, liap|iy day. refuse to go! 
Hang in the heavens forever so I 



Forever let thy tender mist 

Lie like dis.solving amethyst 

Deep in the distant dales, and shed 

Thy mellow glory overhead I 

Yet wilt thou wander, — call the thrush, 

And have the wilds and waters hush 

To hear his passion -broken tune, 

Ah, happy day of haiqiy June ! 



Crllcu £oui0c illoulton. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Moulton, whose maiden name was Chandler, was 
born in ISJo at Pomfret, Conn., and educated at Mrs. Wil- 
lard's famed seminary. Slie begun writing for the maga- 
zines at an early age, and when elghlecu published a vol- 
ume entitled " This, Tliat, and the Other," of which ten 
thousand copies were sold. She contributed largely to 
the principal American magazines, and was a coirespond- 
ent of the Xeui York Tribune. She married Mr. Moulton, 
a well-known newspaper publisher of Boston. A volume 
of her poems was published in London, and one iu Bos- 
ton (1878). 



ALONK BY Till-: 1!.\Y. 

Ho is gone, O my heart, ho is gone ; 

And the sea remains, and the sky ; 
And the skill's flit in and out. 

And the wliite-uiiiged yachts go by. 

And the waves run purple and green, 
Aiul the sunshine glints and glows, 

And freshly across the Hay 

The breath of the morning blows. 

I liked it better last night. 

When the dark shut down on the main, 
And the phantom fleet lay still, 

And I heard the waves complain. 

F(U' the sadness that dwells in my heart, 
Ami the riiiio of their endless woe. 

Their longing and void .and despair. 
Kept time in their ebb and How. 



IN TIMK TO COMIC. 

The time will come full soon, I shall bo gone, 
And you sit silent in the silent place, 
Willi the sad .Vntninu sunlight on your face: 
Heiiiembering the loves that were your own, 
Haunted perchance by some familiar tone, — 



864 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISS AND AMEBIC AK POETRY. 



You will grow weary tlien for the (lead days, 
And iiiiudriil of theii' sweet and bitter ways, 
Though passion into memory shall have grown. 
Then shall I with your other ghosts draw uigh. 
And whisper, as I jjass, some former word, 
Some old endearment known in days gone by. 
Some tenderness that once your pulses stirred, — ■ 
Which was it spoke to yon, the wind or I, 
I think you, musing, scarcely will have heard. 



©Ijcobove illiltou. 



AMERICAN. 

TiUon was born in 183.5 in the city of New York. He 
received a good education, and became early in life con- 
nected with the IiulepemJent, a widely circulated weekly 
paper. The connection lasted fifteen years. In 1871 he 
started a new weekly. The Ouhlen Ar/e, which did not meet 
the success it deserved. He is the author of "The Sex- 
ton's Talc, and other Poems," and has shown much ver- 
satility as a spirited writer both of prose and verse. 



SIR MARMADUKE'S MUSINGS. 

I won a noble fame ; 

But, with a sudden frown. 
The people snatched my crown. 
And in the mire trod down 

My lofty name. 

I bore a bounteous purse, 
And beggars by the way 
Then blessed me day by day ; 
But I, grown poor as they, 

Have now their curse. 

I gained what men call friends ; 
But now their love is hate. 
And I have learned too late 
How mated minds unmate, 

And friendship ends. 

I clasped a woman's breast, 
As if her heart I knew. 
Or fancied would be true ; 
Who proved, alas ! she, too, 

False like the rest. 

I am now all bereft, — 

As when some tower doth fall, 
With battlements and wall, 
And gate and bridge and all, — 

And nothing left. 



But I account it worth 

All pangs of fair hopes crossed- 
AU loves and honors lost — 
To gain the heavens at cost 

Of losing earth. 

So, lest I be inclined 
To render ill for ill — 
Henceforth in me instill, 
O God ! a sweet good will 

To all mankind. 



3ol)n iJamcs ^3tatt. 

AMERICAN. 

Piatt, born in Milton, Ind., March 1st, 183.5, was edu- 
cated at Kenyon College. He wrote verses for the 
Louisville Journal, also for the Atlantic Monthly, before he 
was twenty-flve. In conjunction with Mr. W. D. How- 
ells, he published, in ISUO, "Poems of Two Friends ;" in 
1864, "Nests, and other Poems," part of which were by 
his wife, Mrs. Sarah M. B. Piatt. In 1869 he published 
" Western Windows, and other Poems," dedicated to 
George D. Prentice; and in 1871, "Landmarks, and oth- 
er Poems." His style is well individualized, and formed 
on no particular model. Mrs. Piatt has written several 
admirable little poems, general!}- conveying some pithy 
moral. 



THE FIRST TRYST. 

She pulls a rose from her rose-tree, 
Kissing its soul to him, — 

Far over years, far over dreams 
And tides of chances dim. 

He plucks from his heart a poem, 
A flower-sweet messenger, — 

Far over years, far over dreams, 
Flutters its soul to her. 

These are the world-old lovers, 
Clasped iu one twilight's gleam; 

Yet he is but a dream to her, 
And she a poet's dream. 



THE MORNING STREET. 

From " Western Windows," 

Alone I walk the morning street. 
Filled with the silence vague and sweet ; 
All seems as strange, as still, as dead, 
As if unnumbered years had fled, 



JOUX JAMES PUTT.— FRANCES LAUGBTON MACE. 



865 



Letting tlio noisy Babel lie 
Breatlilcss and (liiiiitj against tlic sky; 
Tlio light wind walks with me alone 
Where the hot ilay llanio-liko was blown, 
WliiTo the wheels roared, the dnst was heat ; 
The dew is in the morning street. 

Where are the restless throngs that ijour 

Along this mighty corridor 

While the noon shines f — the hurrying crowd 

Whose footsteps make the eity loud, — 

The myriad faces, — hearts that beat 

No more in the deserted street t 

Those footsteps in their dreaming maze 

Cross thresholds of forgotten days ; 

Those faces brighten from the years 

In rising snns long set in tears ; 

Those lionrts, — far in the Past they beat, 

I'liheard within the morning street. 

A city of the world's gr.iy prime, 
Lost in some desert far from Time, 
Wliere noiseless ages, gliding through, 
Have only sifted sand and dew, — 
Yet a mysterious hand of man 
Lying on all the haunted plan, 
The passions of the human heart 
Quickening the marble breast of Art, — 
Were not more strange to one wlio first 
I'pon its ghostly silence burst 
Than this vast quiet, where the tide 
Of life, nphcaved on cither side, 
Hangs trembling, ready soon to beat 
Witli human waves th(> morning street. 

Ay, soon the glowing morning flood 
Breaks through the charmdd solitude : 
This silent stone, to music won. 
Shall mnrniur to the rising sun ; 
The busy place, in dust and heat, 
Shall rush witli wheels and swarm with feet; 
The Arachue-threads of Purpose stream 
Unseen within the morning gleam; 
The life shall move, the death be plain; 
The bridal tlirong, the funeral train, 
Together, face to face, shall meet. 
And pass within the nmruing street. 



Tin: GIFT OF EMPTY HANT)S. 

Mils. riATT. 

They were two princes doomed to death. 
Each loved bis beauty and his breath ; 



" Leave ns our life, and wo will bring 
Fair gifts unto our lord, the king." 

They went together. In the dew 
A ehannod bird before them Hew. 
Through sun and thorn one followed it ; 
Upon the other's arm it lit. 

A rose, whoso faintest blush was worth 
All buds that ever blew on e.arth. 
One climbed the rocks to reach : all, well. 
Into the other's breast it fell. 

W\'ird jewels, such as fairies wear, 
When moons go out, to light their hair, 
One tried to touch ou ghostly ground ; 
Gems of quick fire the other found. 

One with the dragon fought to gain 
The enchanted fruit, and fouglit in vain ; 
The other breathed the gai'den's air. 
And gathered precious apples there. 

Backward to the imperial gate 

One took his fortune, one his fate : 

One showed sweet gifts from sweetest lands. 

The other lorn and empty hands. 

At bird, and rose, .and gem, and fruit. 
The king was s.ad, the king was unite; 
At liist he slowly said, " My son, 
True treasure is not lightly won. 

" Your brother's hands, wherein you see 
Only these scars, show more to me 
Thau if a kingdom's price I found 
In place of each forgotten wound." 



i'raiucs £augl)toii illacc. 



Miss Laughton, who by marriage (IS.5.5) became Mrs. 
Mace, was born in the village of Orono, near Bangor, Me., 
Jan. l.'Uh, 1H30, where her father commenced practice as 
a pliysiciaii, but soon removed to Bangor. She lias writ- 
ten for Ilitrpcr'n Mar/fainc, the .Ulantie Monthhj, and other 
wcUUnown periodicals. Her little poem of Only Wait- 
ing" was written when slie was ciirliteen, and lirst pub- 
lisliod in the Watcrville (Me.) Mail of 8cpt. 7tli, 1H54. It 
was introduced by the Rev. James .Miirlincau, of England, 
into his collection of " Hymns," and lie took pains to 
have the fact of its nuthorshiii lliorouglily investigated. 
The poem had passed into several collections, British 
aud American, as auonymous. 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



EASTER MORNING. 
I. 

Ostera ! spirit of spriug-time, 

Awalse from tby slumbers deep ! 
Arise! aud witli hands that are glowing, 

Put off the white garments of sleep ! 
Make thyself fair, O goddess ! , 

In new aud respleudeut array. 
For the footsteps of Him who has risen 

Shall be heard in the dawn of day. 

Flushes the trailing arbutus 

Low under the forest leaves — 
A sign that the drowsy goddess 

The breath of her Lord perceives. 
While He suifered, her pulse beat numbly ; 

Wliile He slept, she was still with pain ; 
But now He awakes — He has risen — 

Her beauty shall bloom again. 

Oh hark ! iu the budding woodland.s. 

Now far, now near, is heard 
The first prelusive warble 

Of rivulet and of bird. 
Oh listen ! the Jubilate 

From every bough is poured, 
Aud earth in the smile of spring-time 

Arises to greet her Lord ! 



Radiant goddess, Aurora ! 

Open the chambers of dawn ; 
Let the Hours like a garland of graces 

Encircle the chariot of morn. 
Thou dost herald no longer Apollo, 

The god of the sunbeam and lyre ; 
The pride of his empire is ended, 

Aud pale is his armor of fire. 

From a loftier height than Olympus 

Light flows, from the Temple above. 
And the mists of old legends are scattered 

In the dawn of the Kingdom of Love. 
Come forth from the cloud-laud of fablo, 

For day in full splendor make room — 
For a triumph that lost not its glory 

As it paused in the sepulchre's gloom. 

She comes ! the bright goddess of morning, 

In crimson and purple array ; 
Far down on the hill-tops she tosses 

The first golden lilies of day. 



On the mountains her sandals are glowing, 

O'er the valleys she speeds on the wing. 
Till earth is all rosy and radiant 
For the feet of the new-riseu King. 



Open the gates of the Temple ; 

Spread branches of palm and of bay ; 
Let uot the spirits of nature 

Alone deck the Conqueroi''s way. 
While Spring from her death-sleep arises. 

And joyous His presence awaits, 
While Morning's smile lights up the heavens, 

Open the Beautiful Gates. 

He is here ! The long watches are over, 

The stone from the grave rolled away. 
" We shall sleep," was the sigh of the midnight ; 

" We shall rise !" is the song of to-day, 
O Music ! no longer lamenting, 

On pinions of tremulous flame 
Go soaring to meet the Belovdd, 

And swell the new song of His fame ! 

The altar is snowy with blossoms. 

The font is a vase of perfume, 
On jiillar and chancel are twiniug 

Fresh garlands of eloquent bloom. 
Christ is risen .' with glad lips we utter, 

And far up the Infinite height 
Archangels the pa^an re-echo. 

And crown Him with Lilies of Light ! 



INDIAN SUMMER. 

When the hunter's moon is w.aning 
And hangs like a crimsou bow, 

And the frosty fields of morning 
Are white with a phantom snow. 

Who then is the beautiful spirit 
That wandering smiles and grieves 

Along the desolate hill-sides, 
.And over the drifted leaves? 

She has strayed from the far-off dwelling 

Of forgotten Indian braves. 
And stolen wistfully earthward 

Over the path of graves ; 
She has left the cloudy gate-way 

Of the hunting-grounds ajar, 
To follow the trail of the summer 

Toward the morning-star! 



FBJXCES LACGHTOX MACE.— THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 



867 



There's a rustle of soft, slow footsteps, 

TUe toss of :v purple i>liiiue, 
And tbo glimmer of goUleu arrows 

Athwart the hazy gloom. 
'Tis the smoke of tbo happy wigwams 

That rciUlens our wintry sky, 
The sceut of uufadiiig forests 

That is dreamily lloatiug hy. 

O shadow-sister of summer ! 

Astray from tho world of dreams. 
Thou wraith of tho liloom departed. 

Thou eeho of spring-tide streams. 
Thou moonlight and starlight vision 

Of a day that will como no more, 
Would that our love might wiu thee 

To dwell ou this stormy shore! 

But the roaming Indian goddess 

Stays not for our tender sighs — 
She has heard the call of her luintors 

Beyond the sunset skies ! 
By her beaming arrows stricken, 

Tho last leaves liiittcring fall, 
With a sigh and smile she has vanished- 

Aud darkness is over all. 



ONLY WAITING. 

Duly waiting till the shadows 

Are a little longer grown. 
Only waiting till the glimmer 

Of the day's last beam is llown ; 
Till the night of earth is faded 

From this heart onco full of day. 
Till tbo dawn of Heaven is breaking 

Through tho twilight soft and gray. 

Only waiting till tbo reapers 

Have tbo last sheaf gathered home, 
For tho aummcr-timo hath faded, 

And tho autumn winds are corao. 
Quickly, reapers ! gather ijuickly, 

The last ripe hours of my heart. 
For tho bloom of life is witliered, 

And I hasten to depart. 

Only waiting till tbo angels 
Open wide the mystic gate. 

At whose feet 1 long have lingered, 
Weary, poor, and desolate. 



Even now I hear their footste|is 
And their voices far aw.ay — 

If they call me, I am waiting, 
Only 'waiting to obey. 

Only waiting till the shadows 
.\ro a little longer grown — 

Only \vaiting till the glimmer 
Of tho day's last beam is flown. 

When from out tho folded darkness 
Holy, deathless stars shall rise, 

liy whose light my soul will gladly 
Wing her passage to tbo skies. 



iiljoiuas Sailcn il^lLiritlj. 

AMERICAN. 

Aldrich W.13 born in Portsmoutli, N. II., 1830. After 
trying mercantile pursuits in a New York counting- 
room, he gave bis attention to literature ; was connected 
with the Uomc Journal, and otiior periodicals, and be- 
came a frequent contributor to the Iciding magazines. 
He began to publish poems in 1S54. His "Baby Bell" 
(1858) Bbowcd tliat lie bad not mistaken bis vocation. 
Removing to Boston, he published a series of talcs 
which attracted much attention, and were translated 
into French. They appeared originally in the Allantic 
Mont/ilij. Mr. Aldrich has made two visits to Europe 
with bis wife, and given evidence that they were not 
unproiitablc in literary respects. His poetical vein is 
rich, delicate, and tender; and the cultivated circle he 
addresses is always enlarging. He published in 18S0 
"The Stillwater Tragedy," a novel, iu which, in spile 
of its name, wit and humor prevail. 



PISCATAQUA KIVER. 

Thou singest by tho gleaming isles, 
By woods and fields of corn 

Thou singest, and tbo heaven smiles 
Upon my birthday morn. 

But I, within a city, I, 

So full of vague unrest, 
Would almost give my life to lie 

An hour upon thy breast ; 

To lit the wherry listless go, 
.\nd, wriippcd in dreamy joy, 

Dip and surge idly to and fro, 
Like tho red harbor-buoy. 

To sit in happy indolence, 
To rest upon the oars. 



CYCLOFJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Ami catch the heavy earthy scents 
That blow from summer shores ; 

To see the rounded sun go down, 

Aud with its parting tires 
Light up the windows of the town, 

And burn the tapering spires. 

And then to hear the muiiled tolls 
From steeples slim and white, 

And watch, among the Isles of Shoals, 
The Beacon's orange light. 

O Eiver! flowing to the main 

Through woods and fields of corn, 

Hear thou my longing and my paiu 
This sunny birthday morn : 

Aud take this song, which sorrow shapes 

To music like thine own, 
And sing it to the cliffs and capes 

Aud crags where I am known. 



Aud uow it glimmers in the sun, 
A globe of gold, a disk, a speck ; 

Aud iu the belfry sits a dovo 

With iiurjile ripples on her neck. 



BEFOEE THE RAIN. 

We knew it would rain, for all the morn 

A spirit on slender ropes of mist 
Was lowering its goldeu buckets down 

Into the vapory amethyst 

Of marshes, aud swamps, and dismal fens, — 
Scooping the dew that lay iu the flowers. 

Dipping the jewels out of the sea. 

To sprinkle them over the land in showers. 

We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed 
The white of their leaves, the amber grain 

Shrunk in the wind, — and the lightning now 
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain! 



AFTER THE RAIN. 

The rain has ceased, and in my room 
The sunshine pours au airy flood ; 

And on the church's dizzy vane 

The ancient cross is bathed iu blood. 

From out the dripping ivy leaves, 
Antiquely carveu, gray and high, 

A dormer, facing westward, locdcs 
Upon the village like an eye : 



UNSUNG. 

As sweet as the breath that goes 
From the lips of tlie white rose, 
As weird as the cltin lights 
That glimmer of frosty nights. 
As wild as the winds that tear 
The curled red leaf iu the air, 
Is the song I have never sung. 

Iu sUimber, a hundred times 

I've said the enchanted rhymes. 

But ere I open my eyes 

This ghost of a poem flies ; 

Of the interfluent strains 

Not even a note remains : 

I know by my pulses' beat 

It was something wild and sweet, 

And my heart is strangely stirred 

By an unremembered word ! 

I strive, but I strive in vain. 
To recall the lost refrain. 
On some miraculous day 
Perhaps it will come and stay; 
In some uuimagiucd Spring 
I may find my voice, and sing 
The song I have never sung. 



SONNET. 

Enamored architect of airy rhyme. 

Build as thou wilt; heed not what each niau says. 

Good souls, but innocent of dreamers' ways. 

Will come, and marvel why thou wastest time : 

Others, beholding how thy turrets climb 

'Twixt theirs au<l heaven, will hate thee all their 

days ; 
But most beware of those who come to praise. 
O Wondersmith, O worker iu sublime 
And heaven-sent dreams, let art bo all in all : 
Build as thou wilt, unspoiled by iiraise or blame, 
Build as thou wilt, aud as the gods have given ; 
Then, if at last the airy structure fall. 
Dissolve, aud vanish, — take thyself no shame. 
They fail, aud they alone, who have not striven. 



WILLIAM WISTER. 



Ulilliam lUintcr. 



A native of Gloneestcr, Mass., Winter was born July 
lolli, 1830. He publislicd a Tolumc of poems before lie 
was twenty -one. For several years be has been con- 
nected witb the yew York Tribune as dramatic critic. An 
edition of bis poems was rcpublisUcd in London in 1S77. 
In tlie spring of 1ST9 he read a poem called " The Pledjre 
and the Deed" before the Society of the Army of the 
Potomac at Albany, which was received with great en- 
tliusiasm. Of his "Orgia" be writes: "It is tlioroufjh- 
ly sincere— honestly expressive of my feelings about life 
lit the time it was written, but wild as a white squall. 
All sorts of names have been signed to it in the newspa- 
pcre; all sorts of misprints have been perpetrated on its 
text." A new and complete edition of Winter's poems 
in one volume was to appear in 1S81. 



THE B.VLLAU OF COXSTAXCE. 

WilU (lianioiiil dew the grass was wet, 
"rwa.s in the spring and goutle.st weatber. 

And all tlio liirds of morning met. 
And carolled in bcr Iioart together. 

The wind blew softly o'er the land. 
And softly kissed the joyous ocean ; 

lie walked beside her on the sand. 
And gave and won a hcarfs devotion. 

The thistle-down was in tlio breeze. 

With birds of passage horaoward flying; 

His fortune called him o'er the sea.s, 
And ou the shore he left her sighing. 

.She saw his hark glide clown the hay. 

Through tears and fears slio could not banish ; 

l^lio saw his white sails melt away ; 

She saw them fade ; she saw them vanish. 

And "Go," she said, " for winds are fair, 
.Vnd love and blessing rimnd you hover; 

When you sail backward through the air, 
Thcu I will trust the word of lover." 

Still ebbed, still flowed the tide of years. 

Now chilled with snows, now bright with roses, 

And many smiles were turned to tears, 
Aud sombre morns to radiant closes. 

And many ships came gliding by. 

With nmny u golden promise freighted ; 

Hut nevermore from sc.i or sky 

Came lovo to bles-s her heart that waited. 



Yet on, by teuder patience led. 

Her .sacred footsteps walked, unhidden, 

Wherever sorrow bows its head, 

Or want aud care and shame are hidden. 

Aud they who saw her snow-white hair. 
And dark, sad eyes, .so deep with feeling, 

lireathed all at once the chancel air, 
And seemed to hear the organ pealing. 

Till once, at shut of autumn day, 

In marble chill she pau-scd and barkened, 

With startled gaze, where far away 
The waste of sky and ocean darkened. 

There, for a moment, faint and wan, 
High up in air, and landward striving. 

Stern-fore, a spectral bark eanio on. 
Across the purple sunset driving. 

Then something out of night she knew, 

.Some whisper heard, from heaven descended, 

Aud peacefully as falls the dew 
Her long and lonely vigil ended. 

The violet and the bramble rose 

Make gl.id the grass that dreams above her: 
And freed from time and all its woes. 

She trusts again the word of lover. 



ORGIA. 

THE SONG OF A lilMNED M.\N. 

Who oares for nothing alone is free, — 
Sit down, good fellow, aud drink with me. 

With a careless heart and a merry eye, 

Ho will laugh at the world as the world goes o^. 

He laughs at power and wealth and fame; 
He laughs at virtue, he laughs at shame ; 

Ho laughs at hope, and he laughs at fear. 
And at memory's dead leaves, crisp and sere : 

He langhs at the future, cold and dim, — 
Nor earth nor heaven is dear to him. 

Oh, that is the comrade fit for me : 
He cares for nothing, his soul is free; 

Free as the soul of the fragrant wine : 
Sit down, good fellow, my heart is thine. 



870 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



For I heed not custom, creed, nor law ; 
I care for uotliing that ever I saw. 

lu every city my cups I quaff, 

Aud over my liquor I riot auil laugh. 

I laugh like the cruel aud turbuleut wave ; 

I laugh at the church, and I laugh at the grave. 

I laugh at joy, aud well I kuow 
That I merrily, merrily laugh at woe. 

I terril)Iy laugh, with an oath aud a sneer, 
Wheu I think that the hour of death is near. 

For I kuow that Death is a guest divine. 

Who shall driuk my blood as I drink this wiue. 

Aud He cares for nothing! a king is He! 
Come on, old fellow, aud driuk with lue ! 

With you I will driuk to the solemn Past, 
Though the onp that I drain should be my last. 

I will driuk to the phantoms of love aud truth ; 
To ruiucd manhood aud wasted youth. 

I will drink to the woman who wrought my woe, 
lu the diamond morning of Long Ago ; 

To a heavenly face, in sweet repose ; 

To the lily's snow aud the hlood of the rose ; 

To the splendor, caught from orient skies, 
Tliat thrilled in the dark of her liazel eyes — 

Her large eyes, wild witli the fire of the south — 
And the dewy wine of her warm, red mouth. 

I will drink to the thought of a better time; 
To innocence, gone like .a death-bell chime. 

I will driuk to the shadow of coming doom ; 
To the phantoms that wait in my louely tomb. 

I will drink to my soul in its terrible mood, 
Dimly aud solemnly understood. 

Aud, last of all, to the Monarch of Sin, 

Who has conquered that fortress and reigns within. 

My siglit is fading, — it dies away, — 
I cannot tell — is it night or day. 



My heart is burnt and blackened with pain, 

Aud .a horrible darkness crushes my brain. 

I cannot see you. The end is nigh ; 
But — we'll laugh together before I die. 

Through awful chasms I plunge and fall! 
Your hand, good fellow ! I die, — that's all. 



THE GOLDEN SILENCE. 

Wliat tliough I sing no other song? 

What though I speak no other word ? — 
Is silence shame ? Is patieuce wrong ? — 

At least, one song of miue was heard : 

One echo from tlie mountain air. 
One ocean murmur, glad aud free — 

One sign that notliing grand or fair 
In all this world was lost to me. 

I will not wake the .sleeping lyre ; 

I will not strain tlie chords of thought : 
The sweetest fruit of all desire 

Comes its own way, aud comes unsought. 

Though all the Ijards of earth were dead. 
And all their music passed away, 

What Nature wishes should be said 
She'll find the rightful voice to say ! 

Her heart is in the shimmering leaf. 
The drifting cloud, the lonely sky, 

Aud all we kuow of bliss or grief 
She speaks in forms tliat cannot die. 

The mountain-peaks that shine afar, 
The silent star, the pathless sea, 

Are living signs of all we are. 
And types of all we hope to be. 



lllilliam !5cl)iiicnck Gilbert. 

Gilbert, born in London, 1836, won celebrity by hia 
participation in the burlesque musical drama of "Pina- 
fore" (1878), the libretto of which was his own concep- 
tion. The success of the piece at the principal theatres 
of the United States was something quite unexampled. 
It was followed by "The Pirates of Penzance" (1879), 
another profitable hit. He published in 1877 a volume 
of humorous poetry. Before that lie h.id produced 
" Original Plays," republished in New York ; among 



WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT.— WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. 



871 



them "The Wicked World, an Original Fairy Comedy," 
and " Pygmalion and CJalatca, an Original Mytliological 
Comedy." He produces his comic effects by a grotesque 
extravagance, or liy Immoruus nonsense, unniarrcd hy 
coarseness. 



TO THE TKRKESTKIAL GLOBE. 

Roll on, tbou ball, roll on ! 
Through pathless realms of epaco 

Roll on ! 
What though I'm in a sorry case f 
What though I cannot meet my bills T 
What though I sulVer toothache's ills ? 
What though I swallow countless pills ? 
Never you miud ! 
Roll on ! 

Roll on, thou ball, roll on ! 
Through seas of inky air 

Roll on ! 
It's true I've got no shirts to wear ; 
It's true my butcher's bill is <lne ; 
It's true my prospects all look very blue; 
But don't let that unsettle you ! 
Never you mind ! 
Roll on ! 

It rolls on. 



MORTAL LOVE. 

From " The Wicked World." 

Selene, a Fairy Qaeen, is the supposed speaker. 

With all their misery, with all their sin. 
With all the elements of wretehcdncss 
That teem on that unholy world of theirs. 
They have one great and cver-glorions gift. 
That compensates for all they have to bear — 
Tho gift of Love ! Not as wo use the word. 
To signify mere tranquil brotherhood ; 
Hut in .some Bens<) that is unknown to us. 
Their love bears like relation to our own 
That tho fierce beauty of tho noonday sun 
Bears to tho calm of a soft summer's eve. 
It nerves tho wearied mortals with hot life. 
And bathes his soul in hazy happiness. 
The richest man is poor who hath it not. 
And ho who hath it laughs at poverty. 
It hath no con<iueror. When Death himself 
Has worked his very worst, this lovo of theirs 
Lives slill upon tho loved one's memory. 
It is a strange enchantment, which invests 
The most unlovely things with loveliness. 



The maiden, fascinated by this spell. 
Sees everything as sho would have it bo : 
Iler squalid cot becomes a princely homo; 
Its stunted shrubs are groves of stately elms; 
Tho weedy brook that trickles past her door 
Is a broad river fringed with drooping trees : 
And of all marvels the most marvellous, 
The coarse unholy man who rules her lovo 
Is a bright being — puro as we are pure ; 
Wise in his folly — blameless in his sin ; 
The incarnation of a perfect soul ; 
A great and ever-glorious demi-god. 



lUilliam Dean Qottulls. 

AMERICAN. 

Born in Martinsville, Belmont County, 0.,in 1837, tho 
son of a printer, Howells learned the business, and be- 
came editorially connected with several Ohio newspa- 
pers. In 1800 he published, in conjunction witli Mr. J. J. 
Piatt, a volume entitled "Poems of Two Friends." In 
18(31 he was Consul at Venice, where he resided till 1865. 
lie published "Venetian Life" (1866); "Italian Jour- 
neys" (1867); "No Love Lost: a Poem " (1868); "Sub- 
urban Sketches" (1871); "Their Wedding Journey" 
(1872); "The Undiscovered Country" (1880). In 1870 
he became editor of the Atlantk Monthly. He has gained 
a wide reputation for the grace and purity of his prose 
style ; and has shown, in some of his shorter poems, high 
lyrical capacities and an artist-like care. 



THANKSGIVING. 

Lord, for the erring thought 
Not into evil wrought : 
Lord, for tlio wicked will 
Betrayed and ballled still: 
For the heart from itself kept, 
Oar thanksgiving accept. 

For ignorant hopes that were 
Broken to our blind prayer: 
For pain, death, sorrow, sent 
Unto our chastisement : 
For all loss of seeming good, 
Quicken our gratitude. 



THE MYSTERIES. 

Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept. 

Holding my breath ; 
There, s.'ife and sad, lay shuddering, and wept 

At the dark mystery of Death. 



872 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Weary and weak, aud woru with all iiuiest, 

Spout witb the strife, — 
O mother, let me weep upon thy breast 

At the sad mystery of Life ! 



3o\)n Uurrongljs. 



Burroughs was bom April 3d, 1837, at Roxbury, N. T. 
He has distinguished liimself as a genial observei' of nat- 
ural phenomena, and his hooks about birds, flowers, and 
out-of-door life have a distinctive value, as coming from 
one at once a poet and a naturalist. He is the author 
of "Walt Whitman as Poet and Person" (1867); "Wake 
Robin" (1871); "Winter Sunshine" (1875); "Birds and 
Poets" (1877); "Locusts and Wild Honey " (1879). 



WAITING. 

Serene I fold my arms aud wait, 
Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea: 

I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, 
For lo ! my own shall come to me. 

I st.ay my baste, I m.ake delays, 
For what avails this e.ager pace? 

I stand amid the eternal waj-s, 

And what is mine shall know my face. 

Asleep, awake, by night or day. 

The friends I seek are seeking me ; 

No wind can drive my bark astray, 
Nor change the tide of destiny. 

What matter if I stand alone ? 

I wait with joy the coming years; 
My heart sb.all reap where it has sown, 

Ami garner up its fruit of tears. 

The waters know their own, and draw 
The brook that springs in yonder height: 

So flows the good with equiil law 
Unto the soul of pure delight. 

The floweret nodding iu the wind 

Is ready plighted to the bee ; 
Aud, maiden, why that look unkind? 

For lo ! thy lover seeketh thee. 

The stars come nightly to the sky ; 

The tidal wave unto the sea ; 
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high 

Can keep my own away from me. 



:2ll9ernon (Eljorlcs Suiinburne. 

Swinburne, son of an English admiral, was born at 
Holmwood, near Henley-on-Thames, iu 1837. His early 
education, begun in France, was continued at Eton. In 
18.57 he entered a commoner of Baliol College, Oxford, 
but left without taking a degree. In his twenty-third 
year ho published two plays, "The Queen Mother" and 
"Rosamund." In 1865 appeared his dramatic poem of 
" Atalanta in Calydon," thoroughly Grecian in form and 
sph'it. The Edinburgh Revicm pronounced it " the prod- 
uce of an affluent apprehensive genius which, with or- 
dinary care and fair fortune, will take a foremost place 
iu English litcraturo." In 1866 appeared a volume of 
"Poems and Ballads," which was considered so objec- 
tionable in its free aud sensuous expressions, that, in 
obedience to the critieal outcry against it, the edition 
was suppressed by the English publishers. Since then 
Swinburne has published "A Song of Italy " (1867) ; "Si- 
ena, a Poem " (1868) ; " Ode on the Proclamation of the 
French Republic " (1870) ; " Songs before Sunrise " (1871) ; 
"Bothwell, a Tragedy" (1874); "Songs of the Spring- 
tides" (1880). He is a genuine poet, both in tempera- 
ment and original vivacity of thought and expression. 
At times there is a marvellous charm, peculiarly his own, 
in his diction, which is at once mellifluous and vigorous. 
It will be noticed that he has revived the old fashion 
of alliteration in many of his lines. Sometimes this is 
a defect, but not unfrequently it helps to sweeten the 
versification. 



AN INTERLUDE. 

In the greeuest growth of the May-time, 

I rode where the woods ^ver6 wet, 
Between the dawn and the daytime ; 

The spring was gliid that wo met. 

There was something the season wanted, 

Though the ways and the woods smelled sweet ; 

The breath at your lips that panted. 
The pulse of the grass at your feet. 

Yon came, and the suu came after, 

And the green grew golden above ; 
And the flag-flowers lightened w'ith laughter, 

And the meadow-sweet shook with love. 

Your feet in the full-grown grasses 
Moved soft as a we.ik wind blows ; 

You passed me as April passes. 
With face made out of a rose. 

By the stream where the stems were slender, 
Your bright foot paused at the sedge ; 

It might be to watch the tender 

Light leaves iu the spring-time hedge, 



ALGKRXON CBAIILES SIIIXBrRyE. 



873 



Oil bonglis tlint thu sweet iiioiith blaucbes 

With flowery frost of May : 
It might be a bird in the branches, 

It might bo a thorn in tbo way. 

I waited to watch yon linger 

With foot drawn back from the dew, 

Till a snnbcam straight like a linger 
Struck sharp through the leaves at you. 

And a bird overhead sang Follow, 
And a bird to llio right sang Here; 

And tlio arch of the leaves was hollow, 
And tlio meaning of May was clear. 

I .saw where the sum's hand pointed, 
I knew what the bird's note said; 

By the dawn and tlio dewfall anointed. 

Yon were queeu by the gold on yonr head. 

As the glimpse of a burnt-ont ember 

Recalls a regret of the sun, 
I remember, forget, and remember 

What Lovo saw done and undone. 

I remember the way we parted, 

Tlio day and the way we met ; 
Yon hoped wo were both broken-hearted, 

And knew wo should both forget. 

And May with her world in flower 
Seemed still to miirniiir and smilo 

As yon murmured and smiled for an hour; 
I saw you turn at the stile. 

A hand like a white wood-blossom 
Yon lifted, and waved, and jiassed, 

With he.id hnng down to the bosom. 
And pale, as it seemed, at last. 

And the best and the -worst of this is, 

That neither is most to blame, 
If you've forgotten my kis.ses 

And I've forgotten your name. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 

We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair; thon art 

goodly, O Love ; 
Thy wings make light in the air as the wings of 

a dove. 



Thy feet are as winds that divide the stream of 

tho sea; 
Earth is thy covering to hide thee, tho garment of 

thoo. 
Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a flame of 

tire ; 
Before thee the laughter, behind thee the tears of 

desire ; 
And twain go forth beside thee, a man with a maid ; 
Her eyes are tho eyes of a bride whom delight makes 

afraid ; [breath : 

As tlio breath in the buds that stir is her bridal 
But Fate is tho name of her ; and his name is 

Death. 



A MATCH. 

If lovo were what tlio rose is, 

And I were like the leaf. 
Our lives would grow together 
In sad or singing Aveather, 
Blown lields or flowerful closes, 
Green pleasure or gray grief; 
If love were what the rose is, 
And I were like the leaf. 

If I were what tbo worils are. 

And lovo were like the tune, 
AVith double sound and single 
Delight our lips would miugle. 
With kisses glad as birds arc 

That get sweet rain at noon ; 
If I were what tho words are. 
And lovo were like the tune. 

If you were life, my darling. 
And I, your lovo, were death, 

We'd shine and snow together 

Ere March made sweet tho weather 

With daffodil and starling, 
And hours of fruitful breath ; 

If you were life, my darling, 
And I, your love, were death. 

If you were thrall to sorrow, 

And I were jiago to joy, 
We'd play for lives and seasons, 
With loving looks and treasons. 
And tears of night and morrow, 

And laughs of maid and boy; 
If you were thrall to sorrow, 

And I were page to jdv. 



874 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



If you were April's lady, 

And I were lord in May, 
We'd throw with leaves fur Lours, 
And draw for days with flowers, 
Till day like night were shady. 

And night were bright like day; 
If you were April's lady. 
And I were lord in May. 

If you were queen of pleasure. 

And I were king of pain, 
We'd hunt down love together, 
Plnck out his liying-feather. 
And teach his feet a measure. 
And find his mouth a rein ; 
If you were queen of pleasure, 
And I were king of pain. 



Jorrcijtije lUUlson. 

AMERICAN. 

WiUson (1837-1 807) was a native of Little Genesee, N. Y. 
" The Old Sergeant, and other Poems," was the title of a 
volume from his pen, published in Boston in 1867. " The 
Old Sergeant" has in it more of the narrative and dra- 
matic element than of tlie poetic, but its pathos is gen- 
uine, and WiUson fully believed in the possibility of tlic 
occurrence he describes. He w.is himself an intuitional- 
ist, and the spirit-world seemed to him more real than 
this. In his poem of "The Voice" he describes himself 
as listening to the words of his deceased wife, and adds : 

"They fell and died upon my ear, 
As dew dies on the atmosphere: 
And then au intense yearning thrilled 
My Soul, that all might be fulfilled : 
'Where art thou, Blessed Spirit, where? 
Whose Voice is dew upon the air?' 
I looked around me aud above, 
And cried aloud, 'Where art thou. Love? 

let me see thy liviug eye, 

Aud clasp thy living hand, or die 1' 

Again, upon the atmosphere, 

The self-same words fell : ' / am here /* 

"'Here? Thou art here, Love I* 'lavikerc:' 
The echo died upon my ear: 

1 looked around me — everywhere; 
But, ah ! there was no mortal there ! 
The moonlight was upon the mart, 
And Awe aud Wonder in my heart ! 
I saw no form ! — I only felt 
Heaven's Peace upon me as I knelt ; 
And knew a Soul Beatified 

Was at that moment by my side ! 
And there was Silence in my ear, 
Aud Silence in the atmosphere!" 

Like Obcrlin, he was firm in the belief here poetically 
expressed, and claimed to have had frequent interviews 
with the partner so dear to liim in life. 



THE OLD SERGEANT. 

"Come a littlo nearer. Doctor — Thank you! let me 

take the cup ! 
Draw your chair up — draw it closer — ^just another 

little sup ! 
Maybe you may think I'm better, but I'm pretty 

well used up — 
Doctor, you've doue all you could do, but I'm just 

agoing up. 

"Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to; but it is no 
use to try." 

"Never say that," said the surgeon, as he smoth- 
ered down a sigh ; 

" It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say 
die !" 

" What you say will make no difference, Doctor, 
when you come to die. 

" Doctor, what has been the matter ?" " You were 

very faint, they say ; 
You must try to get to sleep now." "Doctor, have 

I been away ?" 
"No, my venerable comrade." "Doctor, will you 

please to stay ? 
There is something I must tell you, and you won't 

have long to stay ! 

" I have got my marching orders, and am ready now 

to go; 
Doctor, did you say I fainted ? — but it couldn't have 

been so — 
For as sure as I'm a sergeant, and was wounded at 

Shiloh, 
I've this very night been back there — on the old 

field of Shiloh ! 

" You may think it all delusion — all the sickness 

of the brain — 
If yon do, you are mistaken, and mistaken to my 

pain ; 
For upon my dying honor, as I hope to live again, 
I have just been back to Shiloh, and all over it again. 

"This is all that I remember; the last time the 
Lighter came. 

And the lights had all been lowered, aud the noises 
nuich the same. 

He had not been gone five minutes before some- 
thing called my name — 

' Orderly-Sergeaxt-Eobert-Burton!'— just that 
way it called my name. 



I 



FOItCEYTHE WILLSOX. 



875 



" Then I thought who could have callcil mo so dis- 
tinctly and so slow : 

It can't be the Lighter, surely, he could not have 
spoken so ; 
I And I tried to answer, ' Here, sir." but I couldn't 
make it go. 

Tor I couldn't move a muscle, aud I couldn't make 
it go! 

. "Then I thought it all a nightmare — all a humbug 
' aud a bore ! 

It is just another (jrapc-viiic, atul it won't come any 

more ; 
But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the same 

words as before, 
' 0RDEni,Y-SEROE,vxT-RoBERT-BuRTON' !' — more dis- 
tinctly than before! 

"That is all that I remember till a sudden burst 
of light, 

And I stood beside the river, where we stood thai 
Saturday night 

Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluffs ojK, 
jiosite, ^-"^^ 

When the river seemed perdition, and all hell seem- 
ed opposite ! 

"And the same old palpitation camo again with all 

its power. 
And I heard a bnglo sounding as from heaven or 

a tower ; 
Anil the same mysterious voice said: 'It is — the 

ki.i:vi:ntii hour! 
Orderlv-.Ser(;i;axt-Robert-Burton — it is the 

ELEVENTH lIOfR !' 

"Dr. Austin!— what day is this f"— "It is Wednes- 
day night, you know." 

"Yes! To-morrow will be New-year's, and a riglit 
good time below ! 

What time is it, Dr. Au.stin T" — "Nearly twelve;" 
— "Then don't you go! 

Can it be that all this happened — all this — not an 
liour ago! 

" There was where the gun-boats opened on the dark, 

rebellious host, 
And where Webster semicircled all his guns upon 

the coast — 
There were still the two log-houses, just the same, 

or else their ghost — 
And the same old transport camo and took mo over 

— or its ghost ! 



" And the whole field lay before mc, all deserted far 

and wide — 
There was where they fell on Prentiss — there 

McClernand met the fide; 
There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where 

Hurlburt's heroes died — 
Lower down, where Wallace charged them, and kept 

charging till ho died ! 

" There was where Lew Wallace showed them he 

was of the cannie kin — 
There was where old Nelson thundered, and whore 

Rousseau waded in — 
There McCook 'sent them to breakfast,' and we all 

began to win — 
There was where the grape-shot took me just as wo 

began to win. 

"Now a sliiond of snow and silence over everything 

was spread ; 
And but for this old blue mantle, and the old hat 

on my head, 
--r should not have even doubted, to this moment, I 

was dead ; 
For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon 

the dead! 

"Death and silence! Death and silence! Starry 
silence overhead! 

And behold a mighty tower, as if builded to the 
dra.l, 

To the heaven of the heavens lifted up its mighty 
head ! 

Till the Stars aud Stripes of heaven all seemed wav- 
ing from its head! 

"Round and mighty-based, it towered^up into the 

infinite ! 
And I knew no mortal mason could have built a 

shaft so bright ; 
For it sliono like solid sunshine ; and a winding 

stair of light 
Wound around it aud around it till it wound clear 

out of sight ! 

"And behold, as I approached it with a raiit and 

dazzled stare — 
Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending 

the great stair — 
Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of 'Halt! and 

who goes there!' 
'I'm a friend,' I said, 'if yon are' — 'Then advance, 

sir, to the stair!' 



876 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BIUTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



" I advauced — that seutry, Doctor, ^va3 Elijah Bal- 

lantyne — 
First of all to fall ou Slouday after we had formed 

the liue ! 
' Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome ! Welcome by 

that countersign !' 
And he pointed to that scar there under this old 

cloak of mine ! 

"As he grasped my hand, I shuddered — thinking 
only of the grave — 

But he smiled and pointed npward, with a bright 
and bloodless glave — 

' That's the way, sir, to head-quarters ' — ' What head- 
quarters?' — 'Of the brave!' 

'But the great tower?' — 'That was builded of the 
great deeds of the brave !' 

"Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform 

of light— 
At my own so old and tattered, and at his so new 

and bright; 
' Ah !' said he, ' you have forgotten the new uniform 

to-night ! 
Hurry back, for you must be here at just twelve 

o'clock to-night!' 

"And the next thing I remember, you were sitting 
THERK, and I — 

Doctor, it is hard to leave you — Hark ! God bless 
you all! Good-bye! 

Doctor! please to give my musket and my knap- 
sack, when I die. 

To my sou — my son that's coming — he won't get 
here till I die! 

"Tell him his old father blessed him as he never 

did before — 
And to carry that old musket — Hark! a knock is 

at the door! 
Till the Union — see! it opens!" — "Father! father! 

speak once more !" 
" Bless you !" gasped the old gray Sergeant, and he 

lay and said no more ! 

When the Surgeon gave the heir-son the old Ser- 
geant's last advice — 

And his musket and his knapsack — how the fire 
flashed in his eyes! — 

He is on the march this morning, and will march 
on till he dies — [until he dies! 

He will save this bleeding country, or will light 
186G. 



£utji fjamtlton fjoopcr- 

AMERICAN. 

A native of Philadelphia, daughter of B, M. Jones, Esq., 
a well-known merchant, Lucy gave her attention early 
to literature. Married to Robert M. Hooper, Esq., she 
published in 18G4 a volume entitled " Poems, with Trans- 
lations from the German of Gcibel and Others;" and for 
two years assisted in editing LippincoH's Magazine. A sec- 
ond volume of her poems, containing some eighty pieces, 
appeared in 1871. 

OX AN OLD rORTRAIT. 

Eyes that outsmiled the morn, 

Behind your golden lashes, 
What are yonr fires now ? 
Ashes ! 

Cheeks that outblushed the rose, 

White arms and snowy bust, 
What is your beauty now ? 
Dust ! 



IN VAIN. 

Clasp closer, arms ; press closer, lips, 

In last and vain caressing; 
For nevermore that pallid cheek 

Will crimson 'neath yonr pressing. 
For these vain words and vainer tears 

She waited yester-even : 
She waits you now, — but in the far 

Eesplendent halls of heaven. 

With patient ej'cs fixed on the door. 

She waited, hoping ever. 
Till death's dark wall rose cold between 

Her gaze and you forever. 
She heard your footsteps in the breeze, 

And in the wild-bee's humming : 
The last breath that she shaped to words 

Said softly, " Is he coming ?" 

Now silenced lies the gentlest heart 

That ever beat 'ncath cover ; 
Safe, never to be wrung again 

By you, a fickle lover ! 
Your wrong to her knew never end 

Till earth's last bonds were riven ; 
Your memory rose cold between 

Her parting soul and heaven. 

Now vain your false and tardy grief, 
Vain your remorseful weeping ; 



1 



LUCT U.iMILTnX nnorEn.—IiHET Il.iUTE. 



877 



For she, wliora only you deceiveil, 
Lies luishcil in ilreanilcss sleeping. 

Go: not beside that peaceful loini, 
Sboiilil lying words bo spoken ! 

Go, pray to God, '■ 15o merciful, 
As she whose heart I've broken." 



THE KINGS RIDE. 

Above the city of Berlin 

Shines soft the summer day, 
And near the royal palace shout 

The school-boys at their play. 

Sudden the mighty palace gates 

Uucl.isp their portals wide, 
And fiirtli into the sunshine see 

A single horseman ride. 

A bent old uiau iu plain attire ; 

No glittering courtiers wait, 
No arm(5d guard attend the steps 

Of Frederick the Great ! 

The boys have spied liim, and with shouts 

The summer breezes ring: 
The merry urchins baste to greet 

Their well-belovdd king. 

Impeding e'en his horse's tread, 

Presses the joyous train ; 
And Prussia's despot frowns his best. 

And sh.akcs his stick iu vuiu. 

The frowning look, the angry tone 
Are feigned, full well they know ; 

They do not fear his stick — tliat haiul 
Ne'er struck a coward blow. 

" Bo off to school, you boys !" be cries. 

"Ho! bo!" the laughers say, 
"A pretty king you not to know 

We've holiday to-day!" 

And so upon that summer day. 

These cliildren .at his side. 
The symbol of his nation's love, 

Did royal Frederick ride. 

O Kings! your thrones are tottering now! 

Dark frowns the brow of Fate ! 
Wlien did you ride as rode that day 

King Frederick the Great f 



Urct f)artc. 

AMERICAN. 

Francis Bret Hartc, born in Albany, N. Y., in 1837, was 
the son of a school-master, and partly of Dutch origin. 
When seventeen years old, he went with his widowed 
mother to California. Here he opened a school at tlie 
mines of Sonora, but.not prospcrin;; in it, qualilied liini- 
self us a setter of types. In San Francisco he got a place 
on the Golden Era; then engaged in The Callfomian, 
wliich was not a success. In it appeared his " Condensed 
Novels." He made his first decided hit in the Overland 
Monthhj, in his " Phiin Language from Trutliful James," 
a delectable hit of orijjiual humor. Kcturning to the At- 
lantic States, he published his " Luck of Koaring Camp, 
and other Tales," in 1809 ; his " Poems " and " Condensed 
Novels," in ISTO; his "East and West Poems," in 1872. 
He has since written a novel for iSa-ibner's Mngazine, and 
several articles for the Atlantic Monthly. In 1879 he was 
appointed to the impoitant Consulate at Glasgow. His 
various writings have won for him quite a ruputalion iu 
England and Germany as well as iu his own country. 



DOW'S FLAT. 

Dow's Flat. That's its name. 

And I reckon that you 
Arc a stranger? The same. 
Well, I thought it was true. 
For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the 
place at first view. 

It was called after Dow, — 

Which the same was an ass ; 
.\nil as to the how 

Thet the thing came to pa.ss, — 
Jest tie up your horse to that buckeye, and sit yo 
down here in the grass. 

You 800 this yer Dow 

lied the worst kind of luck ; 
He slipped np somehow 

On each thing thet he struck. 
Why, ef he'd a-straddled that fence-rail, the derned 
thing 'ed get up and buck. 

He mined on the bar 

Till he couldn't pay rates ; 
He was smashed by a car. 

When he tunnelled with Bates ; 
.\nd right on the top of his trouble kem his wife 
and five kids from the States. 

It was rough, mighty rough ; 
But the Boys they stood by, 



878 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Aucl tliey brought him the stuff 
For a house, on the sly ; 
And the old woman, — she did washing 
on when no one was nigh. 



and took 



But tliis yer hick of Dow's 

Was so powerful mean, 
That the sjiring near his house 
Dried right up on the green : 
And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary 
a drop to be seen. 

Then the bar petered out. 

And the boys wouldn't stay ; 
And the chills got about, 
And his wife fell away ; 
But Dow in his well kept a-peggiug in his usual 
ridikilous way. 

One day, — it was June, — 

Aud a year ago jest, 
This Dow kem at uoou 
To his work like the rest, 
With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and a Der- 
riuger hid in his breast. 

He goes to the well, 

And he stands on the brink, 
Aud stops for a spell 

Jest to listen and think ; 
For the sun iu his eyes (jest like this, sir!), you see, 
kiuder made the cuss blink. 

His two ragged gals 

In the gulch were at play, 
And a gownd that was Sal's 
Kiuder flapped on a bay : 
Not much for a man to be leaviu', but his all, — as 
I've heerd the folks say. 

Aud — that's a jieart hoss 

Thet you've got — ain't it, now ? 
What might be her cost ? 

Eh ? Oh .'—Well, then, Dow- 
Let's see, — well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, 
sir, that day, anyhow. 

For a blow of his pick 

Sorter caved iu the side, 
Aud he looked and turned sick, 
Then he trembled and cried ; 
For you see the deru cuss had struck — " Water?" — 
beg your parding, young man, there you lied ! 



It was gold, — in the quartz, — 

Aud it run all alike ; 
Aud I reckon live oughts 

Was the worth of that strike ; 
Aud that house with the coopilow's his'n — ^which 
the same isn't bad for a Pike. 

Thet's why it's Dow's Flat ; 

And the thing of it is 
That ho kiuder got that 
Through sheer contrariness; 
For 'twas water the derned cuss was seekin', and 
his luck made him certain to miss. 

That's so. Thar's your way 

To the left of yon tree ; 
But — a — look h'yur, say. 

Won't you come up to tea? 
No ? Well, then the next time you're passin' ; and 
ask after Dow, — and that's me! 



JIM. 



Say there ! P'r'aps 
Some on you chaps 

Might kuow Jim Wild ? 
Well, — no offence : 
Thar ain't no sense 

In gittin' riled ! 

Jim was my chum 

Up on the Bar : 
That's why I come 

Down from up yar, 
Lookin' for Jim. 
Thank ye, sir ! You 
Ain't of that crew, — 

Blessed if you are! 

Money ? — Not much : 
That ain't my kind : 

I aiu't no such. 

Rum ? — I don't mind, 

Seein' it's you. 

Well, this yer Jim, 
Did you know him ? — 
Jess 'bout your size ; 
Same kind of eyes ? — , 
Well, that is strange : 
Why, it's two year 
Since he came here 
Sick, for a change. 



JBSET HARXE. 



879 



Well, bero's to us : 

EhT 
The h — you say ! 

Dead ?— 
That little cuss f 

What makes you star, — 
You over thar f 
Can't a man (Ir(>|> 
's glass in yer shop 
But you must rar' f 
It ■wouldn't take 
D — much to break 
You and your bar. 

Dead ! 
Poor — little — Jim ! 
— AVhy, thar was me, 
Jones, and Bob Lee, 
Harry and Ben, — 
No-account men : 
Then to take him ! 

Well, thar— Good-bye- 
No more, sir, — I — 

Eh? 
What's that you say ? — 
Why, dcrn it ! — sho ! — 
No ? Yes ! By Jo ! 

Sold ! 
Sold ! Why, you limb. 
You ornery. 

Denied old 
Long-legged Jim ! 



I'LAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL J^UIES. 

Which I wish to remark — 

Aud my language is plain — 
That for ways that are dark, 

Aud for tricks that are vain, 
The hoathoM Chinee is peculiar. 

Which the same 1 would rise to cxi)lain. 

Ah Sin was his name. 

And I shall not deny 
In regard to the same 

1 What that nann; might imply; 
Bnt Ills smile it was pensive and cliildlikc, 

As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 

If w.ns August the third, 
And quite soft were the skies; 



Which it might be inferred 

That Ah Sin was likewise. 
Yet ho played it that day upou William 

And nie in a way I despise. 

Which we had a small game, 

And Ah Sin took a hand; 
It was euchre — the same 

Ho did not understand ; 
But ho smiled as he sat at the table 

With the smile that was childlike ami bland. 

Yet the cards thoy were stocked 

In a way that I grieve, 
Aud my feelings were shocked 

At the state of Nye's sleeve, 
Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, 

And the same with intent to deceive. 

Hilt the hands that were played 

By that heathen Chinee 
And the points that ho made 

Were quite frightful to see. 
Till at last ho put down a right bower, 

Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 

Then I looked np at Nye, 

Aud ho gazed upon me ; 
And he rose with a sigh, 

And said, "Can this be f 
We are mined by Chinese cheap labor ;" 

And ho went for that heathen Chinee. 

In the scene that ensued 

I did not take a hand. 
But the floor it was strewiMl 

Like the leaves on the strand 
With the cards that Ah Sin had boon hiding 

In the game "he did not understand." 

In his sleeves, which were long, 

He Iiad twenty-four packs, 
Which was coming it strong, 

Yet I st.ite but the facts; 
And wo found on his nails, which ■were taper, 

What is frequent in tapers — that's wax. 

Whicli is why I remark — 

Aud my Language is plain — 
That for ways that are dark. 

And for tricks that are vain, 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar. 

Which the same I am free to maintain. 



880 



CYCLOPMiDIA OF BKITISS AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Samuel Stillinan (Uonant. 

AMERICAN. 

Mr. Conant was born in Waterville, Me., in 1831. Af- 
ter receiving; a college education in tliis country, he spent 
several years abroad, principally at the universities of 
Berlin, Heidelberg, and Munich. On his return to this 
eountrj' Mr. Couant became connected with the press 
of New York, and devoted himself to the profession of 
a journalist. In 1870 he published a translation of " The 
Circassian Boy," a metrical romance by the Russian poet 
Lermontotr. He has contributed frequently to the peri- 
odical literature of the day. 



The thoughts of her heart, like incense. 

Fill the chaste and silent air ; 
And how can evil, or fear of it, 

Enter in there 1 



RELEASE. 

As ouo who leaves a iirisou cell, 

And looks, with glad though dazzled eye, 
Once more on wood and field and sky, 

And feels again the quickening spell 

Of Nature thrill through every vein, 
I leave my former self behind, 
And, free once more in heart and mind. 

Shake olf the old, corroding chain. 

Free from my Past — a jailer dread — 
And with the Present clasping hands. 
Beneath fair skies, through sunny lands. 

Which memory's ghosts ne'er hauut, I tread. 

The pains and griefs of otlier days 
May, shadow-like, pursue me yet ; 
But toward tho sun my face is set, 

His golden light on all my ways. 



A VIGIL. 

The hands of my watch iioint to midnight, 

My fire bnrus low ; 
But my pulse runs lilie the morning, 

My heart all aglow. 

My darling, my maiden, is nested 
And wrapped from the chill, 

And slumber lies down on her eyelids. 
Pure, light, and still ; 

She needs not tlio watch-care of angels 
To keep off fear ami ill. 

The throbbing of her heart is ever 
A sweet, virgin prayer ; 



THE SAUCY ROGUE. 

From the Germ.vn. 

There is a sancy rogue, well known 
To youth and gray-beard, maid and crone — 
A boy, with eyes that mirth bespeak, 
With curly locks and dimpled cheek ; 
He has a sly, deniurish air. 

But, maiden fair. 

Take care, take care ! 
His dart may wound you, unaware! 

With bow and arrows in his hand 
He wanders up and down the land ; 
'Tis jolly sport to aim a dart 
At some poor maiden's fluttering heart: 
She wonders what has hurt her there. 

Ah, maiden fair. 

Take care, take care ! 
His dart may wound you, unaware! 

Her nimble hands the distaff ply; 
A gallant soldier-lad rides by ; 
He gives her such a loving glance 
Her heart stands still, as in a trance. 
And dcath-palo sinks the maiden fair. 

Quick, mother, there. 

Give heed, take care. 
Else you may lose her, unaware ! 

Who stands there laughing at the door? 
Tliat rogue, who triuniiihs thus once more! 
Both lad and maiden he has hit, 
And laughs as tliough his sides would .split. 
And so he sports him everywhere ; 

Now here, now there; 

lie mocks your care ; 
You fall his victim, unaware. 

Now wlio so masterful and brave 
To catch and hold this saucy knave ? 
Whoever binds him strong and fast. 
His name and deed shall always last. 
But, if this dangerous feat you dare, 

Beware ! take care 

Lest ill you fare ! 
The rogue may catch you nuaware ! 



HEXRY M. ALDEX. 



881 



AMERICAN. 
Born on Mount Tabor, near Danby, Vt., in 1S3G. In 
lStJ;}-'04 he delivered an inlcrestin;; course of lectures 
at the Lowell Institute, Boston, on "The Structure of 
Pac^anisni." Mr. AUlen has written but few poems, but 
those few are of a very high order. They evince the 
possession of thouglilful insight and unusual power of 
philosophic contemplation. 



THE ANCIENT " LAUY OF SORROW." 

The worship of Ihc Madonna, or Mater Dolorom— "Oar Lady 
of Sorrow"— is not conflaed to the Uonuin Catholic faith; it 
was ail important feature in nil the ancient Pagan systems of 
reIii;ioii, even the mo^t j)rimitivc. In the Sacred Mysteries of 
Egypt and of Greece her worship was the distinctive and prom- 
inent clement. In the latter her name was Achtheia, or Sor- 
row. Under the name of Demetcr, hy which she was generally 
known among the Greeks, she, like the Egyptian Isis, typify- 
ing the Earth, was represented as sympathizing with the sor- 
rowing children of Earth, both as a hountifal mother, bestow- 
ing npoii tticm her fruits and golden harvests, and in her more 
gloomy aspects — as in autumnal decay, in tempests, and wintry 
desolation— as sighing over human frailty, and over the wintry 
deserts of the human heart. The worship counected with this 
tradition was vagnc and symbolical, having no well-dedned 
body of liwtrine as to sin, salvation, or a future life. Day and 
Night, Summer and Winter, Birth and Death, as shown in Nat- 
ure, were seized upon as symbols of vaguely uuder:jtood truths. 

Her closing eyelids mock the light ; 
Her cold, i>alo lijis are scal<?il quite ; 
Ueforc liiT face of spotless vliite 

.V mystic veil is diawii. 
Our Lady hides herself iu iiifjht ; 
In shadows hath she her delight ; 

Shu will not see the dawu ! 

The morning leaps across the plain — 

It glories in a promise vain ; 

At noon the day begins to wane, 

Witli it.s sad prophecy ; 
At eve tlic shadows come agaiit: 
Our Lady linds no rest from pain, 

Xo answer to her cry. 

In Spring she doth her Winter wait ; 
The Autninn shadoweth forth her fate; 
Thus, one liy one, years iterate 

Her solemn tragedy, 
liefore her pass in solemn state 
Ail shapes that come, or soon or late, 

Of this world's misery. 

Wliat is, or shall lie, or lialh licen, 
This Lady is ; and she hath seen, 
5G 



Like frailest leaves, the tribes of men 
Come forth, and (luickly die. 

Therefore our I^ady hath no rest ; 

I'or, close beneatli her snow-white breast, 
Her weary children lie. 

She taketh on her all our grief; 

Her Passion passcth all relief; 

In vain she holds the poppy leaf — 

In vain her lotus ciown. 
Even fabled Lethe hath no rest. 
No solace for her tronlilcd breast, 

And no oblivion. 

"Cliildliood and youth are vain," she saith, 
"Since all things ripen nnto death; 
The flower is blasted by the breath 

Tliat calls it from the earth. 
And yet," she .saith, " this thing is sure — 
There is no life but shall endure, 

And death is only birlli. 

"From dealli or birth no powers defend, 
And thus from grade' to grade we tend, 
Hy resurrections without end, 

Unto some final peace. 
But distant is that peace," she saith ; 
Yet eagerly awaiteth Death, 

Expecting ber release. 

" O Rest," .she saith, •' that will not come, 
Not oven when our lips are dumb. 
Not even when our limbs are uumb. 

And graves are growing greeti ! 
O Death, that, coming on apace, 
■Dost look so kindly in the face. 

Thou wear'st a treach'rous mien !" 

But still .she gives the shadow place — 
Our Lady, witli tlie saddest gr.ice. 
Doth yield her to his feigned embrace. 

And to liis treachery! 
Ye must not draw aside her veil ; 
Ve must not hear her dying wail ; 

Ye must not see her die ! 

But, hark I from out the stillness rise 
Lovv-mnrinnred mytlis tind prophecies, 
And chants that trcmblo to the skies — 

Miserere Domiuc ! 
They, tremlding, lose thein.sclvcs in rest, 
Sootliing the angni.sh of her breast — 

Miserere Dominc ! 



882 



CTCLOPJEDIA OF BBITISR AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



liobtrt Piujier iJojicc. 

A nutivc of Glenoslieen, Limerick County, IreUuKl, 
Joyce was bom in 1837. He was educated cliiefly in 
Dublin, and, entering Queen's University, became first 
scholar in matliematics. He got liis degree of doctor in 
medicine in 18C2, and of master in surgery in 1865. Re- 
moving to Boston, U. S. A., in 1866, lie established him- 
self there as a physician. He published, in 1868, "Le- 
gends of the Wars in Ireland;" in 1871, "Irish Fireside 
Tales;" in 1873, "Ballads of Irish Chivalry, Songs, and 
Poems;" in 1876, "Deirdre," a charming specimen of 
narrative verse ; in 1879, "Blanid," another poetical suc- 
cess, showing remarkable facility in the use of poetical 
diction. Kotwithstanding his fruitful literary Labors, 
accomplished mostly in moments of relaxation and lei- 
sure, Dr. Joyce has attained high success in his profession. 



FAIR GWENDOLINE AND HER DOVE. 
I. 

"Come Litlier, come hitlier, tUou snowy dove, 

Spread out tliy white wings fast anil free ; 
Aud fly over moorlaud, and bill, and grove, 

Till thou reach the castle of gay Tralee. 
Sir Gerald bides in the northern tower, 

While heather is purple and leaves are green ; 
Go, hid him come to thy lady's bower, 

For the love of his own dear Gwendoline! 



"Come hither, come hither, thou lily-white dove. 

Spread out thy white wings fast and free ; 
When thon'st given Sir Gerald luy troth and love, 

In the northern turret of gay Tralee — 
Then speed thy flight to Dunkerron gate, 

While heather is purple and leaves are green ; 
And tell its lord of thy lady's hate, 

That he'll ne'er look more on young Gwendoline." 



Away, away went the faithless dove. 

Away over castle and uionnt and tree, 
Till he lighted Dunkerron's gate above. 

Not the uorthern turret of gay Tralee : 
" Sir Donald, my lady hath lands and power, 

While heather is purple aud leaves are green, 
And she bids thee come to her fer-off bower 

For the love of thiuo own dear Gwendoline !" 



Away, away went the false, false dove. 
Nor rested by castle, or mount, or tree, 

Till he lighted a corbeil stone above. 
On the northern turret of gay Tralee : 



" Sir Gerald, my lady hates thee sore. 

While heather is purple aud leaves are green. 

While the streams dance down the hills ; no more 
Shalt thou look on the face of fair Gwendoline !" 



"Thou liest, thou liest, O faithless dove! 

I'll take my good steed speedily. 
And hie to the bower of my lady-love, 

And ask at its door if she's false to me ; 
I'll uo'er believe but her heart is true, 

While heather is purple aud leaves are green !" 
Aud never a bridle-rein he drew 

Till he rode to the bower of his Gwendoline. 



Dunkerron's lord came by the gate — 

A stout and a deadly foe was he — 
And with lauco in rest aud with frown of hate 

Ho rode at Sir Gerald of fair Tralee. 
Sir Gerald bent o'er his saddle-bow, 

While heather is purple aud leaves are green. 
Struck his lauco through the heart of his bravest foe, 

For the love of his owu dear Gwendoline. 



" Fair Gwendoline, 'twas a faithless dove, 

Yet I knew thou wert ever true to me ; 
'Tuas his words were lies, and thy troth to pi-ovo 

I rode o'er the mountains from fair Tralee !" 
He's clasped his arms round that lady gay, 

While heather is purple and leaves are green. 
And the sununer-tide saw their wedding-day — 

That trusting knight and fair Gwendoline. 



THE BANKS OF ANNEE. 

In purple robes old Sliavnamnn 

Tow'ers monarch of the mountains, 
The first to catch the smiles of dawn. 

With all bis woods and fountains; — 
His streams dance down by tower and town. 

But none since Time began her, 
Jlet mortal sight so pure and bright 

As winding, wandering Anuer. 

In hill-side's gleam or woodland's gloom. 

O'er fairy height and hollow, 
Upon her bauks gay flowerets bloom. 

Where'er her course I follow. 
And balls of pride tower o'er her tide. 

And gleaming bridges span her. 



ROBERT nUYEIi JOYCE.— F1T/-1ILUJI LLDLOIV. 



863 



As, laugliing gay, slie winds away, 
The gcutlc, uiiirmuring Aniier. 

There gallant nioii, for freedom born. 

With friendly grasp will meet you ; 
There lovely maids, as bright as morn, 

With sunny smiles will greet you ; 
And there they strove to raise, above 

The Ked, Green Ireland's banner,^ 
There yet its fidd they'll see unrolled 

Upon the banks of Aiiner. 

'Tis there we'll stand, with bosoms proud. 

True soldiers of our sire-land. 
When freedom's wind blows strong and lond, 

And lloats the Hag of Ireland. 
Let tyrants quake, and doubly sliaUo 

Each traitor and trepauuer. 
When once wo raise our camp-fire's blaze 

I'pou the banks of Anner. 

O God! bo with the good old days. 

The days so light and airy. 
When to blithe friends I sang my lays 

In galhmt, gay Tipperary ; 
When fair maids' sighs and witching eyes 

Made my y(Hing heart the planner 
Of castles rare, built in the air, 

Ui>on the banks of Anner! 

The morning sun may fail to show 

His liglit tile earth illniniiig; 
Old Sliavnamon to blush and glow 

In autumn's purple blooming; 
And Nhainrock's green no mf)re be seen, 

Anil breezes cease to fan her, 
ICre I forget the friends I met 

I'pon tlic banks of Anner! 



GLEXARA. 

Oh, fair shines the sun on Glenara, 
And calm ri'st his beams on Glenara; 

Itnt, oh, there's a light 

I'ar dearer, more bright, 
Illiiinincs my soul in Glenara, 
IIk' light of thine eyes in Glenara. 

.\nd sweet sings tlie stniini of Glenara, 
(ilancing down through the woods like an nn-ow; 

But a sound far more sweet 

Glads my heart when wo meet 



In the green summer woods of Glenara, — 
Thy voice by the wave of Glenara. 

And oh, over thus in Glenara, 

Till we sleep in our graves by Glenara, 

Slay thy voice sound as free 

And as kindly to me, 
And thine eyes beam as fond in Glenara, 
In the green summer woods of Glenara. 



i^it^.ijuglj £ui)loii). 

AMERICAN. 

Ludlow (IS-ST-ISTO) was a native of Pougbkcepsie, X. Y. 
He wrote articles ill prose and verse for the magazines, 
in which he showed line natural abilities, if not original 
genius. Unfortunately, he was addicted to the use of 
opiates. He wrote a remarkable work, entitled "The 
Iliisheesh Eater," portrayini; vividly the pleasures and 
pains attending the use of that drug. In his " Heart of 
the Continent '' he gives a graphic description of a jour- 
ney across the great Western plains. His short stories 
arc among the best of their kind. 



TOO LATE. 

"Ah! 81 la jcunessc savait— fi la viclllesse ponvnit!" 

There sat an old man on a rock, 

And unceasing bewailed him of Fate, — 
That concern where we all must take stock, 

Though our vote has no hearing or weight; 
And the old man sang him an old, old song, — 
Never sang voice so clear and strong 
That it could drown the old man's long. 
For ho sang the song, " Too late ! too late !" 

" When wo want, we have for our pains 

The promise that if we but wait 
Till the want has burnt out of our brains, 

Every means shall be present to sate ; 
While we send for the napkin, the soup gets cohl. 
While the bonnet is trimming, the face grows old, 
Wlien we've matched onr lint tons, the pattern is sold, 

And everything comes too late — too late! 

"When strawberries seemed like red heavens, 

Terrapin stew a wild dream. 
When my brain was at sixes and sevens. 

If niy mother had 'fidks' and ice-cream, 
Then I gazed with a lickerish hunger 
At the restaurant mau and frnit-mongcr: — 
Hut oh, how I wished I were younger [stream! 

When the goodies all came in a stream — in a 



884 



CTCLOPJIDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



"I've a splendid blood-horse, and — a liver 

That it jars into torture to trot ; 
My row-boat's the gem of the river, — 

Gout makes every knuckle a knot ! 
I can buy boundless credits ou Paris and Kome, 
But no jialate lor menus, no ej'es f(U' a dome — 
Those belonged to the yontb who must tarry at home, 

When no home but an attic he'd got — he'd got. 

"How I longed, iu that lonest of garrets, 

Where the tiles baked my brains all July, 
For ground to sow two pecks of carrots. 

Two pigs of my own iu a sty, 
A rose-bush — a little thatched cottage — 
Two spoons — love — a basin of pottage ! — 
Now iu freestone I sit — and my dotage — 

With a woman's chair emptj' close by — close by ! 

"Ah! now, though I sit on a rock, 

I have shared one seat with the great ; 
I have sat — knowing naught of the clock — 

Ou love's high tlirone of state ; 

But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed. 

To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed. 

And circled ii breast that their clasp had blessed 

Had they only not come too late — too late !" 



;^vtljur iUunbj). 



Munby, a native of England, was born about the year 
1837. He published iu 1865 a volume of poems entitled 
" Verses, Old and New." His " Doris : a Pastoral," is re- 
markable for tlie melodious flow of tlie versification and 
tlie ingenious arraugement of tlie rhymes: the tliird line 
of ihe first stanza being rhytlnnically related to tlie tliird 
line of the next, etc. He lias been a contributor to some 
of the best London magazines, and has shown in liis pro- 
ductions that he is a literary artist as well as a poet. 



AUTUMN. 

Come, then, with all thy grave beatitudes. 
Thou soother of the heart and of the brain, 

Antuniu ! whose ample loveliness includes 
The iileasure and the pain 

Of all that is majestic in despair 

Or beautifnl in failure. Hast tliou failed ? 

The winds of heaveu among thy branches bare 
Have wrestled and jirevailed. 

Yet, the fallen bongh shall warm a winter hearth ; 
The lost leaves kiss each other as they fall ; 



The ripened fruits arc garnered off the earth; 

Thou hast not failed at all ! 

Nay — thou hast neither failure nor success : 
Thou wearest still thy lustrous languid wreath 

With such sweet temper, that its hues express 
No thought to thee of death. 

Serene in loss, in glory, too, serene. 

All things to thee seem most indifferent ; 

Thou art as one who knows not vs'liat they mean, 
Or knows and is couteut. 

So yon fair tree, pure crimson to the core. 
Burns like a sunset 'mid its company 

Of golden limes; and cares for death no more 
Thau if it could not die. 



DORIS: A PASTORAL. 

I sat with Doris, the shepherd-maiden ; 

Her crook was laden with wreatli(?d flowers : 
I sat and wooed her, through sunlight wheeling 

And shadows stealing, for hours and hours. 

And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses 
Wild snmmer-roses of sweet perfume, 

The while I sued her, kept hushed, and hearkened. 
Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom. 

She touched my shoulder with fearful finger : 
She said, " Wo linger, we must not stay ; 

My flock's in danger, ray sheep will wander ; 
Behold them yonder, how far they stray !" 

I answered bolder, "Nay, let me hear you. 
And still be near yon, and still adore! 

No wolf nor stranger will touch one yeai-ling. 
Ah ! stay, my darling, a moment more !" 

She whispered, sighing, "There will be sorrow 
Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day ; 

My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, 
I .shall be scolded and sent away." 

Said I, denying, " If they do miss you. 

They ought to kiss you when you get home ; 

AikI well rewarded by friend and neighbor 
Should be the labor from which you come." 

"Tlicy might remember," she answered, meekly, 
" Tliat lambs are weakly, and sheep are wild ; 



AiiTUCR Muyny.—AiiHAiiAM I'EnnY mii.lfa:. 



865 



Uiit if tbcy love me, it's none so fervent : 
I am ;i servant, and not a child." 

Tlien each hot euiber glowed quick williiii nio. 
And love did wiu nie to swift reply : 

" Ah ! do but prove uic ; and none shall bind you, 
Nor fraj- uor lind ymi, until I die!" 

She blushed and started : I stood awaitiug. 

As if debatiufc in dreams divine ; 
Itnt I did brave them ; I told her plainly 

She doubted vainly, — she must bo mine. 

So we, twiu-hearted, from all the valley 
Did rouse and rally her nibbling ewes ; 

And homeward dravo them, we two together, 
Through blooming heather and gleaming dews. 

That simple duty frosh grace did lend her, 

My Doris teudcr, uiy Doris true ; 
That I, her warder, did always bless her, 

And often press her to take her due. 

Ami now in beauty she fills my dwelling. 

With love excelling, aud uudefilcd ; 
And love doth guard her, both fast aud fervent, 

No more a servant, nor yet a child. 



2bral)ain \)txx\s iUillcr. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of Fairfleld County, Ohio, Miller was born 
Oct. 1.5th, 1837. Educated at tlie University of Virsinin, 
he chose the occupation of a journalis.t ; and in 18S0 was 
a resident of \Vortliin;;tou, Minn., wlicic he edited The 
Advance, the county newspaper. One of his poems, ex- 
tending to five hundred lines, entitled " Consolation, a 
Poetic Epistle to a Young Poet," though in the old he- 
roic measure, which modern poets seem to avoid, is rich 
in passages iudicatiug true ijoclic feeling and power of 
expression. 



A sr.M.Mi:ii AFTERXOOX. 

From *' Consolation." 

.MI through the afternoon tlie dreamy day 
••^wani listless o'er the earth, and far away 
The lazy clouds went loitering round the sky, 
Or sat far np and dozed on mountains high; 
The green trees drooped, the panting cattle lay 
In the warm shade and fiuight the Hies away. 
Along the world's far rim ami down the sky, 
Cloud-panoraiuas loomed aud glided by ; 



Rocks, icebergs, mountains, capped with luminous 

snow, 
Aud hundred-towered cities, moving slow I 
Aud then, with banners round the West unfurled. 
The great red Sun went down behind the world. 



THE DIVINE REFUGE. 

From " Consolation." 

loving Cod of Nature ! who through all 
Ilast never yet betrayed me to a fall, — 
While, following creeds of men, I went astray, 
And in distressing mazes lost my w.ay ; 

But turning back to Thee, I found Thee true. 
And sweet as woman's love, and fresh as dew, — 
Henceforth ou Thee, aud Thee alone, I rest. 
Nor warring sects shall tear mo from Thy breast. 
While others doubt aud wrangle o"er their creeds, 

1 rest in Thee, and satisfy my needs. 



TURN TtJ THE HELPER. 
From "Consolation." 

As when a littlo child, returned from play, 
Finds tlio door closed and latched across its way. 
Against the door, with infant push aud strain. 
It gathers all its strength ami strives in vaiu ; — 
Unseen, within a loving father staiuls 
And lifts the iron latch with easy hands; 
Then, as ho lightly draws the door aside. 
He hides beliiud it, while, with baby pride, — 
And face aglow, in struts the littlo one. 
Flushed and rejoiced to think what it has done, — 
So, when men find, across life's rugged way. 
Strong doors of trouble barred from day to day. 
And strive with all their power of knees and hands, — 
Unseen within their heavenly Father stands 
And lifts each irou latch, while men i)a.ss through, 
Flushed aud rejoiced to think what they can ilo I 

Turn to the Helper, unto whom thou art 
More near iiud dear than to thy mother's heart, — 
Who is more near to thee than is the blood 
That warms thy bosom with its purple Hood — 
Who by a word can change the mental state, 
And make a burden light, however groat! 

O loving I'ower I that, dwidling deep within. 
Consoles our spirits in their woe and sin : — 
When days were dark aud all the world went wrong. 
Nor any heart was left for prayer or song — 



886 



CYCLOPJEDIA OF BUITISU AXD AilEEICAN POETRY. 



When bitter memory, o'er aud o'er again, 
Revolved tlio wrongs endured from fellow-meu ; 
Aud showed how hopes decayed aud bore uo fruit, 
Aud He who placed us Iiere was deaf aud uiute : — 
If tlieu we turned on God in augry wise, 
Aud scanned His dealings with reproachful eyes. 
Questioned His goodness, aud, in foolish wrath. 
Called Hope a lie and ridiculed our Faith, — 
Uid we not find, in such an evil hour, 
That far within us dwelt this Loving Power? 
No wrathful God without to smite us down, 
Or turn his face away with augry frown ; 
But in the bitter heart a smile began. 
Grew, all at once, within and upward i-au. 
Broke out upon the face — aud, for awhile. 
Despite all bitterness, we had to smile! 
Because God's spirit that within ns lay. 
Simply rose up and smiled our wrath away ! 
This love endures through all things, without end. 
And every soul has one Almighty Friend, 
Whose augels watch and tend it from its birth, 
And heaven becomes the servant of the earth ! 
Whate'er befall, our spirits live and move 
In one vast ocean of Eternal Love ! 



THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER. 

From "Consolation." 

How many men have passed the tiames to luove 
That tliere are better things than woman's love ! 
Aud yet when Love is scorned aud made our grief, 
Where shall we fly for comfort and relief? 
Now that thine own is spurned aud undertrod, 
Fly thou to Nature, Poetry, and God; — 
Nay, lly to Love itself, ami Love shall be 
Its own strong healer, and shall set thee free. 



KEEP FAITH IN LOVE. 

From " Consolation.'* 

Keep faith in Love, the cure of every curse — 
The strange, sweet wonder of the universe! 
God loves a Lover, and wliile time shall roll. 
This wonder. Love, shall save the human Soul ! 
Love is the heart's condition : youth and age. 
Alike are subject to the tender rage ; 
Age crowns the head with venerable snow, 
But Life and Lox'e forever mated go ; 
Along life's far frontier the aged move, 
One foot beyond, aud uothiug left but Love! 
And when the Soul its mortal part resigns, 
The perfect world of Love arouud it shines! 



€l)arles Dimitrn. 



Dimitry, a son of Professor Alexander Diniitry, was 
born iu Washington, D. C, in 1838. A graduate of 
Georgetown College, he has been connected with the 
periodical press, both in New York and at the South, 
aud has published the following novels: "Guilty or Not 
Guilty" (1804); "Angela's Christmas" (186.5) ; "TheAI- 
dei-ly Tragedy" (186B); "The House in Balfour Street" 
(1869). His "Viva Italia" is well adapted to dramatic 
cfl'cct ill the recitation. 



VIVA ITALIA. 

ON THE AUSTRI.VN DEr.\UTUi;E FUOM 1T.\I,V. 

Haste ! open the lattice, Giulia, 

Aud wheel me my chair where the sun 
Slay fall on my face while I welcome 

The sound of the life-giving gun! 
Tlie Anstri.au leaves with the morning, 
Aud Venice hath freedom to-day— 
"Viva! Evivva Italia! 
Viva il Re !" 

Would God that I only were younger, 

To stand with the rest on the street, 
To fling up my cap on the mola. 

And the tricolor banner to greet ! 
The gondolas, girl — they are passing ! 
Aud what do the gondoliers say ? — 
"Viva! Evivva Italia! 
Viva il Re !" 

Oil cursed be these years and this weakness 

That shackle me here in my chair. 
When the people's lond clamor is rending 

The chains that once made their despair ! 
So youug wheu the Corsiean sold us ! 
So old when the Furies repay ! 
"Viva! Evviva Italia! 
Viva il Re!" 

Not the.se were the cries when our fathers 

The gonfalon gave to the breeze, 
When Doges sate solemn in council, 

Aud Dandolo harried the seas ! 
But the years of the future are ours, 
To humble the pride of the gray — 
'•Viva! Evivva Italia! 
Viva il Re!" 

Bring, girl, from tlie dust of you closet 
The sword that your ancestor bore 



CHARLES DIMITKW— EMILY Jl. PAGE. 



8S7 



When Genoa's prowess was humbled, 

Ilcr galleys beat bai'k from our shore ! 
great Coutareno! your ashes 
To Freedom are given to-day ! 
'•Viva! Evivva Italia! 
Viva il Re!' 

What! tears in your eyes, my Giulia ? 

Yoa weep when your country is free? 
Von mourn for your Austrian lover, 

Whose face never more you shall see f 
Kneel, girl, kneel beside mo and whisper. 
While to Heaven for vengeauco you pray, 
"Viva! Erivva Italia ! 
Viva il Re !" 

Shame, shame on the weakness that held you. 

And shame on the heart that was won ! 
No blood of the gonfalon iere 

Shall minglo with blood of the Hun ! 
Swear hate to the name of the spoiler, 
Swear lealty to Veuice, and say, 
"Viva! Evivva Italia! 
Viva il Re !" 

Hark ! heard you the gun from the mola ! 

And hear you the welcoming cheer! 
Our army is coming, Ginlin, 

The friends of our Venice are near! 
Ring out from your nlil Campanile, 
Freed bells from Sau Marco, to-day, 
"Viva! Evivva Italia! 
Viva il Re !' 



(fiiiiln U. IJagc. 



AMERICAN. 

Miss Page (1S38-I860) was a native of Bradford, Vt. 
She was a toll -gatherer's daughter, niid her poem of 
"The Old Canoe,"' written when she was eighteen years 
of age, is a pen-picture of an actual scene near the old 
bridge just back of her home. She wrote some fugitive 
pieces for M. M. Ballou's Boston publications, but died 
young. "The Old C'nnoc" was extensively copied, and 
at one lime credited to Eliza Cook. The image of the 
"useless paddles" crossed over the railing "like the 
folded hands when the work is done," is a true stroke 
of genius. 

THE OLD CAXOE. 

Where the rocks are gray, and the shore is steep. 
And the waters below look dark and deep. 
Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride, 
Leans gloomily over the murky tide; 



Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank, 
And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank : 
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through, 
Lies at its moorings the old cauoe. 

The useless paddles are idly dropped, 

Like a sea-bird's wing that the storm has lopped, 

And crossed on the railing, one o'er one. 

Like the folded hands when the work is done ; 

While busily back and forth between 

The spider siretehcs his silvery screen. 

And the solemn owl, with his dull " too-hoo," 

Settles down on the side of the old cauoe. 

The stern half sunk in the slimy wave, 

Rots slowly away in its living grave. 

And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay. 

Hiding the mouldering dust away, 

Like the baud that plants o'er the tomb a flower, 

Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower; 

While many a blossom of loveliest hue 

Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe. 

The curreutless waters are dead and still — • 

But the light wind plays with the boat at will. 

And lazily iu and out again 

It floats the length of its rusty chain. 

Like the weary march of the hands of time, 

That meet and part at the noontide chime. 

And the shore is kissed at each turn anew 

By the dripping bow of the old canoe. 

Oh, many a time, wilh a careless band, 
I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand, 
.Viid ]iaddled it down where the stream runs quick — 
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are 

thick— 
And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side. 
And looked below in the broken tide, 
To see that the faces ami boats were two 
That were mirrored back from the old canoe. 

But now, ;is I lean o'er the crumbling side, 
And look below in the sluggish tide. 
The face that I see there is graver grown. 
And the laugh that I hear has ,a soberer tone. 
And the hands that lent to the light skift" wings 
Have grown familiar with sterner things. 
But I love to think of the Inmrs that Hew 
As I rocked where the whirls their white spray 

threw. 
Ere the blossom waved, or the green gr.ass grew, 
O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe. 



CYCLOl'JEDIA OF BRITISB AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



2lbba (Poolb lHoolGon. 

AMERICAN, 

Mrs. Woolson, a native of WintUiam.Ate., war, born in 
18S8, and educated at the Portland Higli Scliool. Slic 
is tlic wife of Mr. M. Woolson, a teacher in the English 
High School, Boston. Her " Carpe Diem" is one of the 
few realistic love-poems as true to nature in the senti- 
ment as to art in the construction. 



CAEPE DIEM. 

All, Jennio dear, 'lis li.ilf a year 

Since wo sang late and long, my love ; 

As homo o'er dusky lield.s we came, 

While Venus lit Ler tender flame 
In silent plains above. 

I scarcely knew if rain or dew 

Had made tbe grass so fresh and sweet ; 
I only felt the misty gloom 
Was filled with scent of hidden bloom 

That bent beneath our feet. 

In songs wo tried our hearts to bide, 
And each to crush a voiceless pain ; 
With bitter force my love returned, 
But dared not hope that passion burned 
Where once it met disdain. 

Thus singing still we reached the bill. 
And on it faced a breeze of June ; 

Wliito rolled the mist along the lea ; 

But eastward flashed a throbbing sea 
Beneath the rising moon. 

Yonr lips apart, as if yonr heart 

Had something it wonld say to mine, 
I saw you with your dreamy glance 
Far sent, in some delicious trance, 
Beyond the silver shine. 

The hour supreme, that in my dream 

Should bring me bliss for aye, was come ; 
But though my heart was fit to break, 
The scornful words that once you spake 
Smote all its jileadings dumb. 

No note or word the silence stirred, 

As wo resumed our homeward tread ; 
Below we beard the cattle browse. 
And wakeful birds within the boughs 
Move softly overhead. 



The hour was late when at the gate 
We lingered ere we spake adieu ; 

Your white hand plucked from near the door 

A lily's queenly cup, and tore 
Each waxen leaf In two. 

My hope grew bold, and I bad told 
Anew my love, my fate had known ; 

But then a quick Good-night I heard, 

A sudden whirring like a bird, 
And there I stood alone. 

Thus love-bereft my heart was left, 

At swinging of that cruel door ; 
So shut the gates of Paradise 
On timid fools who dare not twice 
Ask bliss denied before. 

Yes, Jennie, dear, 'tis half a year. 

But all my doubts, my tears are flown ; 
For did I not on yesternight 
Read once again your love aright, 
And dare proclaim my own ? 



Danib 0ray. 

In 1863 appeared a sm.iU volume, "The Luggie, and 
other Poems," by David Gray (1838-1861), son of a hand- 
loom weaver at Merklaud, ScotUiud. Tlie Luggie is a 
mere unpretending rivulet, flowing into one of the trib- 
utaries of the Clyde ; but Gray was bora on its banks, 
and loved its every aspect. He died early of consump- 
tion. James Hedderwick, Lord Houghton, and Robert 
Buchanan have written tributes to bis memory. In the 
near view of death he continued to find his solace in 
giving expression to his poetic fancies. 



WINTRY WEATHER. 

O Winter, wilt thou never, never go? 

O Summer, but I weary for thy coming, 

Longing once more to hear the Luggie flow. 

And frugal bees, laboriously humming. 

Now the east wind di.seases the infirm. 

And I must crouch in corners from rough weather ; 

Sometimes a winter sunset is a charm — 

When the fired clouds, compacted, blaze together. 

And the largo sun dips red behind the hills. 

I, from my window, can behidd this pleasure ; 

And the eternal moon, what time she fills 

Her orb with argent, treading a soft measure, 

With queenly motions of a bridal mood. 

Through the white spaces of infinitude. 



DAVID GltAY.—MAHY CLEMMEK. 



889 



DIE DOWX, O DISMAL DAY. 

Die (lonii, O dismal day, and let mo live; 
And come, blue deeps, magnificently strewn 
With colored clonds — large, light, and fugitive — 
My njiper wimls thmngh pompous motions blown. 
Now it is death in life — a vapor dense 
Creeps ronnd my window, till I cannot see 
The far snow-shining mountains, and the glens 
.*<liagging the mountain-tops. O God ! make free 
This barren, shackled cartli, so deadly cold — 
Breathe gently forth thy Spring, till Winter Hies 
111 rnde amazement, fearful and yet bohl. 
While she performs her customed charities. 
1 weigh the loaded hours till life is bare — 
< > God, for one clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air! 



Oh, the sweet melancludy of the time. 

When gently, ero the heart appeals, the year 

Shines iu the fatal beauty of decay ! 

When the sun sinks enhu'ged on Carroubcn, 

Nakedly visible, without a cloud, 

And faintly from tlie faint eternal bhio 

(That dim sweet harebell color!) comes the star 

Which evening wears, when Luggio Hows iu mist, 

And in the cottage windows one by one. 

With sudden twinkle, household lamjjs are lit — 

What noiseless falling of the faded leaf! 



ir IT MIST l!i:. 

If it must be — if it mu.st be, () God! 

That I die young, and make m» further moans; 

Tliat, underneath tlio unre»]ieetive sod, 

In unescnteheoned privacy, my boiu's 

Sh.all crumble soon; — then give me strength to bear 

The last convulsive throe of too sweet breath ! 

I tremble from the edge of life, to daro 

The dark and fatal leap, having no faith, 

No glorious yearning for the Apocalyp.se ; 

But like a child that in the night-time cries 

For light, I cry ; forgetting the eclipse 

Of knowledge and our humau destinies. — 

< • peevish and uncertain Soul ! obey 

Tlio law of life in patience till the Day. 



AN OCTOBER MUSING. 

Ero the last stack is housed, and woods are bare. 

And the vermilion fruitage of the brier 

Is soaked in mist, or shrivelled np with frost, — 

Ere warm spring nests are coldly to be seen 

Tenantless but for rain and the cold snow. 

While yet there is a loveliness abroad — 

Tiio frail and indescribable loveliness 

Of a fair form, life with reluctance leaves. 

Being then only powerful, --while the earth 

Wears sackcloth iu her great prophetic grief: — 

Tlien the reflective, melancholy soul 

Aimlessly wandering with slow-falling feet 

The heathery solitude, in hope to assuage 

The ennning humor of his malady, 

Loses his painful bitterness, and feels 

His own specific sorrows one by one 

Taken np in the huge dolor of all things,— 



illani (nciiiiiicr. 



AMERICAN. 

Mary CIcmmcr, the d.iugliter of Abr.im Clcmmer, was 
born in Utica, N. Y., and educated at tlie Academy iu 
Wcstlicld, Mass. Her ancestors on both sides for cen- 
turies were "unworldly, boukisli, deeply religious per- 
sons ;" and she seems to have iulierited llicir best tr.iits. 
Slic began lier literary career as a newspaper corrcsjiond- 
cnt, and became one of the most accomplished of the 
Washington letter-writers. She is tlie author of "Ten 
Years iu Washington" (1872); "A Memorial of Alice 
and I'hcbc Cary ;" and "His Two Wives," a novel. Ilcr 
style is at once facile, fluent, and brilliant. Her emo- 
tional nature is plainly tliat of the born poet. She has 
contributed largely to the Independent and other well- 
known journals. 



WAITING. 
I wait, 

Till from my veildd brows shall fall 
This baffling cloud, this wearying thrall. 
Which holds me now frcun knowing all; 
I'litil my spirit sight shall see 
Into all Being's mystery, 
See what it really is to bo! 

I wait. 

While robbing days in mockery fling 

Such cruel loss athwart my spring, 

And life flags on with broken wing ; 

Believing that a kindlier fate 

The patient soul will compensate 

I'or all it loses, ero too late. 

I wait ! 

For surely every scanty seed 

I plant in weaknesa and in need 

Will ldos,som iu perfected deed! 

Mine eyes shall .see its atlluent crown, 

Its flagrant fruitage, dropping down 

Care's lowly levels bare and brown! 



890 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BHITISB AXD AMERICAX POETRY. 



I wait, 

Till in white Death's tranquillity 
Shall softly fall away from me 
This weary flesh's infirmity, 
That I in larger light may Icaru 
The larger truth I woulil ilisceru, 
The larger love for which I yearn. 

I wait ! 

The summer of the soul is long, 

Its harvests yet shall round niu throng 

In perfect pomp of sun and song. 

In .storndess mornings yet to be 

I'll pluck from life's fiill-fruited tree 

The joy to-day denied to me. 



A PERFECT DAY. 

Go, glorious day ! 

Here while you pass I make this sign ; 

Earth swinging on her silent way 

Will bear mo back unto this hour divine, 
And I will softly say : " Once thou wcrt mine. 

"Wert mine, O perfect day! 

The light unknown soaring from sea and shore. 

The forest's eager blaze, 

The flaming torches that the autumn bore, 
The fusing sunset seas, when storms were o'er. 

"W^ero mine the brooding airs, 

The pulsing music of the weedy brooks, 

The jewelled fishes and the mossy lairs. 

Wherein shy creatures, with their free, bright 

looks, 
Taught blessed lessons never found in books. 

"All mine the peace of God, 

When it was joy enough to breathe and be, 

The peace of Nature oozing from her sod. 

When face to face with her the soul was free, 
And far the false, wild strife it fain would flee." 

Stay, beauteous day! 

Yet why pray I ! Thy lot, like mine, to fade; 
Thy light, like yonder mountain's golden haze, 

Must merge into the morrow's misty shade. 
And I, an exile in the alien street, 
Still gazing back, yearn toward the visiou fleet. 

" Once thou wert mine !" I'll say, 

And comfort so my heart as witli old wine. 



Poor pilgrims! oft we walk the self-same way, 
To weep its change, to kneel before the shrine 

The heart once bnilded to a happy day. 

When dear it died. I'll say : " O day divine. 
Life presses sore ; but once, o«ce thou wert mine." 



NANTASKET. 

Fair is thy face, Nantasket, 

And fair thy curving shores,^ 
The peering spires of villages. 

The boatman's dipping oars; — 
The lonely ledge of Miuot, 

Where the watchman tends his light, 
And sets its perilous beacon 

A star in the stormiest night. 

Along thy vast sea highways 

The great sliips slide from sight. 
And flocks of wingdd i)hantoms 

Flit by like birds in flight. 
Over the toi>pliug sea-wall 

The home-bound dories float ; — 
I see the patient fisherman 

Bend in bis anchored bo.at. 

I am alone with nature, 

With the rare September day; 
The lifting hills above me 

With golden-rod are gay. 
Across the fields of ether 

Flit butterflies at play ; 
And cones of garnet sumach 

Glow down the country way. 

The autnnni dandelion 

Beside the roadside burns ; 
Above the lichened bowlders 

Quiver the pluni(Sd ferns : 
Tlie cream-white silk of the milk-weed 

Floats from its sea-green pod ; 
From out the mossy rock-seams 

Flashes the golden-rod. 

The woodbine's scarlet banners 

Flaiuit from their towers of stone ; 
The wan, wild morning-glory 

Dies by the road alone : 
By the hill-iiath to the sea-side 

Wave myriad azure bells ; 
Over the grassy ramparts 

Bend milky immortelles. 



I 



MART CLEUMEK. 



891 



Within tlie scu-waslieil meadow 

Tlie Willi grapo climbs the wall ; 
From oft" the o'er-ripo ilicstmitM 

The brown bnrrs softly fall : — 
I bear in the woods of lliii>;ham 

The mellow caw of the crow, 
Till I seem in the woods of Wachuset 

In Angiisl's simiplnoiis glow. 

The lingering marguerites lean 

Along the wa,v-sido bars ; 
The tangled greeu of tho thicket 

Glows with the asteiV stars; 
Beside the brook tbo gentian 

Closes its fringdd eyes, 
And waits tho enticing glory 

Of October's yellow skies. 

Tlie tiny boom of tho beetle 

Smites the shining rocks below ; 
Tho ganzy oar of tho dragou-fly 

Is beating to and fro. 
The lovely ghost of the thistle 

Goes sailing softly by: 
Glad in its second summer 

Hums the awakened fly. 

I see tho tall reeds shiver 

Beside the salt-sea marge; 
I see the sea-bird glimmer 

I'ar out on airy barge. 
The cumulate cry of the cricket 

Pierces the amber noou ; 
Over and through it Ocean 

Chants his pervasive rune. 

Fair is the earth behind me, 

Vast is tho sea before ; 
Afar in tho misty mirage 

Glistens another shore : 
Is it a realm enchanted T 

It cannot be more fair 
Than this nook of Xatnrc's kingdom 

With its spell of space and air. 

Lo ! Over the sapphire ocean 

Trembles a bridge of llame — 
To the burning core of the sunset — 

To the city too fair to name, 
Till a ray of its inner glory 

Streams to this lower sea. 
And we see with human vision 

What Heaven itself may be. 



ALOXE WITH GOD. 

Alone with God! day's craven cares 

Have crowded onward unawares; 

The soul is left to breathe her prayers. 

Alone with God! I bare my breast, 
Ccune in, come in, O holy guest. 
Give rest, thy rest, of rest the best ! 

Alone with (Jod! how deep a calm 
Steals o'er me, sweet as nnisic's balm, 
When seraphs sing a .seraph's i)salm. 

Alone with God I no human eye 
Is here, with eager look to pry 
Into the meaning of each sigh. 

Alone with God! no jealous glare 

Now stings me with its torturing stare; 

No human malice says beware! 

Alone with (iod! from earth's rude crowd. 
With jostling steps and laughter lond, 
Jly better soul I need not shroud. 

Alone with God! He only knows 

If sorrow's ocean overflows 

The silent spring from whence it rose. 

Alone with God! He mercy lemls ; 
Life's fainting hope, life's meagre ends. 
Life's dwarfing pain ho comprehend.s. 

Alone with (iod! He fceli'tli well 

The soul's pent life that will o'erswell ; 

Tho life-long want no words may tell ; 

Alono with God ! still nearer bend ; 

Oh, tender Father, condescend 

In this iny need, to be my frieuil. 

Alone with God! with suppliant mien 
TTpon thy pitying brc.ist I leau, 
No less because thou art unseen. 

Alone with God! safe in thy arms 
Oh shield me from life's wild alarms. 
Oh save mo from life's fearful harms. 

Alono with God! Oh sweet to me 
This cover to whose shades I Uee, 
To breathe repose in thee — in thee. 



893 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



fllvs. Ormma SuttU. 

AMERICAN. 

Mrs. Tattle, whose maiden name was Reed, was bora 
in Braceville, Tniinbull Countj', O., in 1839. Well edu- 
cated at a Methodist seminary, she early developed a 
taste for literature, and published two volumes of poems. 
She is the author of several popular son^i^s, which have 
been set to music by James G. Clark and other well- 
known composers. As an elocutionist and public read- 
er, she has won a high reputation at the West. She is 
the wife of Hudson Tuttle (born 18.36), who to the pur- 
suits of a farmer, resident at his ancestral home, Berlin 
Heights, Ohio, unites the studies of a philosopher. He 
is the author of several works, partly intuitional, and 
partly scientific, some of which have been republished 
in England and Germany, and have had a wide circula- 
tion in America. Mrs. Tuttlc's little poem, "The First 
Fledgling," is not one of her best or most elaborate po- 
ems, but it will carry its delicate pathos to many a true 
motlier's heart. 



THE FIRST FLEDGLING. 

It .seems so lonely in the nest, 

Since one dear bird is flown, 
To fashion, with its chosen mate, 

A borae-nest of its own. 
We miss the twitter and the stir, 

The eager stretching wings, 
The flashing eyes, the ready song, 

And — oh, so many things ! 

Wo lind it hard to understand 

The elianges wrought by years ; 
How our own sprightly little girl 

A stately wife appears. 
It seems to ns she still should be 

Among her dolls and toys, 
Making the farm-house sound again 

With "Little Tomboy's" uoise. 

When berries ripen iu the sun, 

We miss her lingers light, 
Who used to heap them up for tea, 

Dusted with sugar white. 
They never more will taste as fresh 

As when she brought them in, 
Her face ablush with rosiness 

From sunny brow to chin. 

The autumn peaches always turned 
Their reddest cheek to her ; 

She knew the ferneries of the woods 
And where the wild-flowers were, 



And somehow since she left the nest. 

We miss her busy hand 
As gatherer and garnisher, 

Whoever else has planned. 

If little Gold-locks asks of me, 

"When will my sister come? 
Will it be very, rcnj long ?" 

I seem as one struck dumb. 
But when her brother bites his lip 

And turns to hide a tear, 
I answer, with a flashing smile, 

"Not long, I hope, my dear." 

She flutters back more bright with joy 

Thau when she flew away. 
And we are happy — only this — 

She never more will stay. 
A bird of transit, tarrying 

Not long iu the old nest, 
We scarce could bear it, save we know 

God's holy laws are best. 



Sianics Unbcr lianbiall. 



Randall is the author of one of the most spirited lyr- 
ics of the Civil War. It bears date Pointe Coupee, La., 
April 26th, 1861. He is a native of Baltimore, born in 
1839, and was educated at the Catholic college in George- 
town, D. C. He edited a newspaper in Louisiana, but at 
the close of the war settled in Georgia. Fortunately for 
the interests of human liberty throughout the world, 
"My Maryland" did not answer the poet's appeal; but 
the "Northern scum" can now join in hearty recogni- 
tion of the lyrical fervor he has displayed. 



MARYLAND. 

The despot's heel is on thy shore, 

Maryland ! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 

Maryland ! 
Avenge the patriotic gore 
That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
And be the battle-queen of yore, 

Maryland ! my Maryland ! 

Hark to thy wandering son's appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My mother State ! to thee I kneel, 

Maryland ! 
For life and death, for woe and w-oal, 



JAMES RYDER RjyDALL.—JOHX HAY. 



893 



Thy peerless cliivalry reveal, 
And gird tliy iK-anti^oiis liiiilis with steel, 
Maryland ! my Maryland ! 

Tliou wilt not cower in tlio dnst, 

Maryland ! 
Tliy beaming sword sliall never rnst, 

Maryland I 
Remember Carroll's sacred trust ; 
Remember Howard's warlike tlirnsl ; 
And all tliy slnmberers witU the jnst, 

Maryland ! my Maryland ! 

Come ! 'tis the red dawn of the day, 

Maryland ! 
Come ! with thy panoplieil array, 

Sfarylaml '. 
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, 
■\Vith Watson's blood at Monterey, 
With fearless Lowe, ami dashing May, 

Maryland I my Maryland I 

Come I for thy shield is bright and strong. 

Maryland ! 
Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 

Maryland ! 
Come to thine own heroic throng. 
That stalks with Liberty along. 
And give a new key' to thy song, 

Maryland ! my Maryland ! 

Dear Mother! bnrst the tyrant's chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virgini.a slionld not call in vain, 

Maryland ! 
She meets her sisters on the plain: 
".Sic semper," 'tis the prond refrain, 
That battles minions back amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise in majesty again, 

Maryland ! my Maryland ! 

I see the blnsh upon thy cheek, 

Maryland ! 
But thou w.ist ever bravely meek, 

Maryland I 
But lo ! there snrgrs forth a shriek. 
From hill to hill, from creek to creek, 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland ! my Maryland ! 



■ A panning nllDsiou to " The Stnr-spnnglcd Bnnner," written 
by Key uf Baltimore. 



Thon wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou wilt not crook to his control, 

Maryland ! 
Better the lire upon thco roll, 
Better the bl.adc, the shot, the bowl, 
Than ernrilixion of the soul, 

Maryland ! my Maryland ! 

I hear the dist.aut thunder hum, 

Maryland ! 
The <dd Line's bugle, life, and drum, 

JIaryland ! 
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb : 
Huzza! she spurns the Jsorthern scum! 
She breathes — she burns! — she'll come, she'll come! 

JIaryland! my Maryland! 



3ol)ll fjtXIJ. 

AMERICAN. 

Colonel Jolni Hay, aullior of " Pike County Ballads, 
and other I'oems " (1871), also of "Castilian Days," was 
born In Salem, Indiana, in 1S39. He received in 1879 the 
appointment of Undersecretary of State, and became a 
resident of Washington, D. C. Some of his humorous 
verses have been widely copied. 



A TRIUMPH OF ORDER. 

A squ.ad of regular infantry, 

III the Coniinnne's closing days. 
Had captured a crowd of rebels 

liy the wall of Pere-la-chaiso. 

There were desperate men, wild women. 

And dark-eyed Amazon girls. 
And one little boy, with a peach-down cheek 

And yellow clnstering curls. 

The captain seized the little waif. 
And said, " What dost thou here t" 

" t^aprinti, Citizen captain ! 
I'm a Communist, my dear!" 

•'Very well! Then you die with the others!'' 

"Very well! That's my afl'air! 
But first let me take to my niotlicr. 

Who lives by the wine-shop there, 

"My father's watch. Vou see it, 
A gay old thing, is it not f 



894 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



It would please the old lady to have it, 
Tbeu I'll come back here, and be shot." 

"That is the last ■sve shall see of liiiii," 

The grizzled cajitain grinued. 
As the little man skimmed down the hill. 

Like a swallow down the wind. 

For the joy of killing had lost its zest 

In the glut of those awful days. 
And Death writhed gorged like a greedy snake 

From the Arch to Pere-la-Chai.se. 

But hcfiiro the last platoon had fired. 
The child's shrill voice was heard ! 

"Houp-la! the old girl made such a row, 
I feared I should break my word." 

Against the bullet-pitted wall 

He took his place with the resf, 
A button was lost from his ragged blouse, 

Which showed his soft, white breast. 

'' Now blaze away, my children ! 

With your little one — two — three!" 
The Cbassepots tore the stout young heart, 

And s.aved Society ! 



SIY CASTLE IN SPAIN. 

There was never a castle seen 

So fair .is mine in Spain : 
It stands embowered in green. 
Crowning the gentle slope 
Of a hill by the Xcuil's shore. 
And at eve its shade Haunts o'er 

The storied Vega plain, 
And its towers are hid in tlie mists of Hope ; 

And I toil through years of paiu 

Its gliunnering gates to gain. 

In visions wild and sweet 
Sometimes its courts I greet ; 

Sometimes in joy Its shining halls 
I tread with favored feet ; 
But never my eyes iu the light of day 

W^ere blessed with its ivied walls. 
Where the marble «hite and the granite gray 
Turn gold alike wlien tlie sunbeams play, 

When the soft day dimly falls. 

I know in its dusky rooms 
Are treasures rich and rare ; 



Tlie spoil of Eastern looms, 

And whatever of bright and fair 
Painters divine have won 

From the vault of Italy's air ; 
White gods iu Phidiau stone 

People the haunted glooms ; 
And the song of immortal singers 
Like a fragrant memory lingers, 

I know, in the echoing rooms. 

But nothing of these, my sonl ! 

Nor castle, nor treasures, nor skies, 
Nor the waves of the river that roll, 

W'ith a cadence faint and sweet, 

In jieace by its marble feet — 
Nothing of these is the goal 

For which my whole heart sighs. 
'Tis the pearl gives worth to the shell— 

The pearl I would die to gain ; 
For there does my Lady dwell, 
My love that I love so well — 

The Queen whose gracious reign 

Makes glad my Castle iu Si)aiu. 

Her face so purely fair 

Sheds light in the sh.aded places. 

And the spell of her maiden graces 
Holds charmed the happy air. 
A breath of purity 

Forever before her flies. 
And ill things cease to be 

In the glance of her honest ej-es. 
Around her pathway flutter. 

Where her dear feet wander free 

In youth's pure majesty. 

The wings of the vague desires; 
But the thought that love would utter 
In reverence expires. 

Not yet ! not yet shall I see 

That face, which .shines like a star 
O'er my storm-swept life afar, 

Trausligured with love for me. 

Toiling, forgetting, and learning. 
With labor and vigils and prayers, 
Pure heart and resolute will. 
At last I shall climb the Hill, 
And breathe the enchanted airs 

Where the light of my life is burning, 
Most lovely and fair and free; 

Where alone iu her youth and beauty, 

And bound by her fate's sweet dnty, 
Unconscious she waits for me. 



HELEX S. COXJXT. 



t)clcn 5. Coimnt. 

AMERICAN. 
Mi-s. C'onant was born in Metliucn, Mass., in 1830. Her 
first book, "The BulttTlly- hunters," was published in 
1860. She has since written " Tlie Primer of Gerinun Lit- 
erature" and "The Primer of Spanisli Literature," eaeh 
enriched with many oriijinal translations. Mrs. Couant is 
a frequent contributor to American periodical literature. 



FRO.\[ THE SPANISH OK CALDKKON. 

.\m iuieii'iit sago, once on a time, tbcy say, 
Who lived remote, away from mortal sight, 
Sustained Lis leeblo life as best lie might 
With herbs and berries gathered by the way. 
"Can any oilier one,'' said he, one day, 
"So poor, so destitute, as I be found f" 
And when lie turned Iii,"! head to look around 
He saw the answer; creeping slowly there 
Camo an old man whi> gathered np with caro 
The herbs whieh ho had cast upon the ground. 



alas: 

FnoM Tll£ SPAMSIl OF IIeredia. 

How many wait alone. 

Sighing for that sweet hour 
Wlieii love with subtle power 

Shall claim its own. 

And if the niaidon fair 
Her faithle.ssness discover, 
Then shall the hapless lover 

Cry in despair. 

Love, thou hast living feet! 

Thy hands are hot and burning. 
And few, unto theo turning. 

Shall find thee sweet ! 

Yet though thy iileasiires pass. 
The heart in sad seeliision 
Still guards its fond illusion. 

Alas! alas! 



SPANISH SONG. 

On lips of blooming youth 
There trembles many a sij;!], 

Which lives to breathe a truth. 
Then silently to die. 

Thou, who art my desire, 
Thy languishin<; sweet love 
III sighs upon thy li|i» shall oft expire. 



I love the sapphire glory 

Of those starry depths above. 

Where I read the old, old story 
Of human hope and love ; 

I love the shining star. 
But when I gaze on thee, 
The fire of thine eyes is blighter far. 

Tli(^ lleeting, fleeting hour.s, 

Whieh ne'er return again, 
Leave only faded flowers 

And weary days of pain ; 
Delight recedes from view. 

And never nion; may pass 
Sweet worils of tenderness between us two. 

The gentle breeze which plays 

On the water murmuringly. 
And the silvery, trembling ray.s 

Of the moon on the midnight sea — 
Ay ! all have passed away, 

Have faded far from me. 
Like the love which lasted only one sweet day. 



MEETING. 
FitoM THE Spanish of ICmilio Bello. 

Many years have floated by 
Since we parted, she and I. 
Now together here we stand. 
Eye to eye and hand to h.iiid. 

I can hear her trembling sighs. 
See the sweetness in her eyes. 
Silently I hold and press 
Her soft hand with tenderness. 

Silence, who shall fathom thee ? 
Who reveal the mystery 
Hidden between loving eyes. 
Burning hands, and answering sighs T 



GEUMAN LOVE SONG. 

Thou art the rest, the languor sweet! 
Thou my desire! thou my retreat! 
I consecrate my heart to thee, 
Thy home through all eternity ! 

Come in to mo. and shut the door 
So fast that none shall enli'r niiue; 
Fill all my soni with dear delight ; 
Oh, tarry with me day and night! 



696 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN FOETRT. 



Austin Pobson. 



Born in Euglaml in 1840, Dobson lias written "Vign- 
ettes in Rli}-me and Vers de Societe," wbicli readied 
a tliird edition in 1877. Tliat same j'ear be puWisbed 
"Proverbs in Porcelain, and otber Verses." An edition 
of his poems, edited by Edmund C. Stedman, was pub- 
lished (1880) in New York, and well deserves the editor's 
discriminating praise. Mr. Dobson is one of a recent 
class of English poets who have reproduced the old 
French foiTns of verse in the rondeau, virdai, villaiidlt', 
ballade, etc. Mark the ingenious multiplication of the 
rhymes in the flrst three poems we quote. 



"MORE POETS YET!" 

" More Poets yet !" — I hear liim say, 
Arming Lis beavy hand to slay ; — 

"Despite my skill and 'swashing blow,' 
Tlioy seem to sprout where'er I go ; — 
I killed a host but yesterday !" 

Sla.sh on, O Herenles ! You may: 
Your task 's at best a Hydra-fray ; 

And though you cut, not less will grow 
More Poets yet ! 

Too arrogant ! For who shall stay 
The first blind motions of the May ? 

Who shall out-blot the morning glow ? — 
Or stem the full heart's overflow ? 
Who ? There will rise, till Time decay, 
More Poets yet ! 



THE PEODIGALS. 

" Princes ! — and you, most valorous, 

Nobles and Barons of all degrees ! 
Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, — 

Prodigals driven of destinies ! 

Nothing wo ask or of gold or fees ; 
Harry us not with the hounds, we pray; 

Lo, — for the surcote's hem we seize ; — 
Give us — ah ! give us — but Yesterday !" 

" Dames most delicate, amorous ! 

Damosels blithe as the belted bees! 
Beggars are we that jiray thee thus, — 

Beggars outworn of miseries ! 

Nothing we ask of the things that please ; 
Weary are we, and old, and gray ; 

Lo, — for we clutch and we clasp your knees,- 
Givc us — ah! give ns — but Y'esterday !" 



"Damosels — Dames, be piteous!" 

(But the dames rode fast by the roadway trees.) 
"Hear us, Knights inagnanimous !" 

(But the knights pricked on in their panoplies.) 

Nothing they gat of hope or ease, 
But only to beat on the bjeast and say : — 

" Life we drank to the dregs and lees ; 
Give us — ah ! give us — but Y'esterday !" 

ENVOY. 

Youth, take heed to the prayer of these ! 

Many there be by the dusty way, — 
Many that cry to the rocks and seas, 

"Give us — ah! give lis — but Y'esterday I" 



YOU BID ME TEY. 



After Voiture. 



Y''ou bid me try, Blue-eyes, to write 

A Rondeau. What !— forthwith ?— to-night ? 

Reflect. Some skill I have, 'tis true ; 

But thirteen lines, — and rliymed on two, — 
"Refrain," as well. Ah, hapless iilight ! 

Still, there arc five lines, — ranged aright. 
These Gallic bouds, I feared, would fright 
My easy Mnse. They did till you — 
Ton bid me try ! 

Tli.at makes them nine. The port's iu sight ;- 
'Tis all because your eyes are bright ! 
Now just a pair to end with "oo," — 
When maids command, what can't we do ! 
Behold ! — the Rondeau, tasteful, liglit, 
You bid me try I 



A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS. 

When Spring comes laughing, by vale and hill. 
By wind-flower walking, and daft'odil, — 
Sing stars of morning, sing morning skies. 
Sing blue of speedwell, and my Love's eyes. 

When comes the Summer, fnll-lcaved and strong. 
And gay birds gossip, the orchard long,— 
Sing hid, sweet honey, that no bee sips; 
Sing red, red roses, and my Love's lips. 

When Autumn scatters the leaves again. 

And jiilcd sheaves bury the broad-wheeled wain, — 



.iCSrm DOBSOX.—HENRT AMES BLOOD. 



897 



Sing flutes of harvest, where men rejoice ; 
Sing rounds of reapers, and my Love's voice. 

Bnt when conies Winter, with hail and storm, 
And red (ire roaring, and inglo warm, — 
Sing first sad going of friends that part ; 
Tlien sing glad meeting, and my Love's heart. 



CUAXSOXETTE. 

Once at the angclus (ere I was dead), 
Angels all glorious came to my hed — 
-Vngels in bine and white, crowned on the head. 

One was the friend I left stark in the snow ; 
Ouo was the wife that died long, long ago; 
Due was the lovo I lost, — how conld she know ? 

One had my mother's eyes, wistful and mild ; 
One had my father's face; one was a child; 
All of them bent to me — bent down and smiled. 



THE CHILU MU.SICIAX. 

The Bonton Adcerttwr of Jnniinry 14th, 1874, mentions the 
cnse of a boy called "the baby violinist" who died "the other 
day at the age of sii." At a time when he fihould have been 
in bed he was made to play before Iar:;e audiences muyic which 
excited and thrilled him. lie looked cxhnnsted one day, and 
the manager told him to slny at home. That night as the lad 
lay in bed with his father the latter heard him say: "Mercifnl 
God, make room for a little fellow I'' — and with this strange 
and touching prayer the baby violinist died! The incident 
donbtless snggested Dobeon's poem. 

Ill' had plnyi'cl for his lord.sliip".s levl'e, 
lie had played for lior lailyship's whim, 

Till the poor little head was lioavy. 
And tlie poor little brain would swim. 

And the face grew peaked and eerie, 
And tlio largo eyes strange and bright. 

And they said — too late — '• He is weary ! 
He shall rest for at least to-night!" 

But at dawn, when the birds were waking, 
As tlipy watched in the silent room, 

With a sound of a strained curd breaking, 
A something snappeil in the gloom. 

'Twas a string of his violoncello, 
And they heard liini stir in bed — 

"Make room for a tired little fellow. 
Kind God!" was the last that he said. 



Cjcnni Klines Bloob. 



A native of Temple, N. li., born about 1S40, Mr. Blood 
graduated at Dartnioulh College, and, after a few years 
spent ill keeping school, accepted a situation in the State 
Department at Wasliiuglon. A volume of bis poems has 
been stereotyped, and the specimens we have seen show 
that our literature will gain by the publication. 



PRO MORTUIS. 

For ihe dead and for the dying; 

l'"or the dead that once were living. 
And the living that are dying. 

Pray I to the All-forgiving. 

l"or the dead wlio ycster journeyed ; 

I'or the living who to-morrow, 
Tlirongh the valley of the Shadow, 

Must all bear the world's great sorrow; 

For the immortal, who, in silence. 
Have already crossed the portal ; 

For tlie mortal who, in sadness. 
Soon sliall follow the immortal; — 

Keep thine arms round all, O Father! — 
Round lamenting and lamented; 

Round the living anil repenting, 

Round tlio dead who have repented. 

Keep thine arms round all, O Father! 

That are left or that are taken ; 
For they all are needy, whether 

The forsaking or forsaken. 



THE LAST VISITOR. 

"Who is it knocks tliis stormy night T 
Be very careful of the light !" 
Tlie good-man said to his wife. 

And the gooil-wife went to the door; 
But never again in all his life 
Will the good-man see her more. 

For ho who knocked that night was Death, 
And the light went out witli a little breath; 
And the good-man will miss his wife, 

Till he, too, goes to the door. 
When Death will carry him n]> to Life, 
To behold her face once more. 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMEEICAX POETllT. 



Robert Kclln lllccks. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of New York city (born in 1840), Weelis 
g-raduated from YmIb College in 1863, and from the Law 
School of Columbia College in 1864. He lias published 
"Poems" (1866); "Episodes and Lyric Pieces" (1870) 
— works full of high promise. 



WINTER SUNRISE. 

Wlieu I consider, as I'm fovced to do, 

The many causes of my discontent, 

And count my faiUires, and remember too 

How mauy Lopes the failures represent ; 

The hope of seeing what I have not seen, 

The hope of winning what I have not won, 

The hope of being what I have uot been, 

The hope of doing what I have not done ; 

When I remember and consider these — 

Against my Past, my Present seems to lie 

As bare and black as yonder barren trees 

Against the brightness of the morning sky, 

Whose gcddcn expectation puts to shame 

The hirkiug hopes to which they still lay claim. 



AD FINEM. 

I would not have believed it then, 

If any one had told me so, — 
"Ere you shall see his face again, 

A year and more shall go :" — 
And let them come again to-day 

To pity me and prophesy. 
And I will face them all, and say 

To all of them, Yon lie ; 

False prophets all, you lie, you lie ! 

I will believe no word hut his; 
Will say December is July, 

That autumu April is, — 
Rather than say he has forgot. 

Or will not come who hade me wait. 
Who wait him, and accnse him not 

Of being very late. 

He said that he would come in Spring, 
And I believed — believe him now. 

Though all the birds liave ceased to sin^ 
And bare is every hough ! 

For spring is not till he appear, 
Winter is not when ho is nigh — 



The only Lord of all my year, 
For whom I live — and die ! 



lUilliam Cljanning (f?aniutt. 

AMERICAN, 

Gannett, the son of a. clergyman, was born in Boston 
in 1840. He graduated at Harvard in 1860, and from the 
Theological School in 1868, having meanwhile taught 
school a year at Newport, R. I. For two years he was 
pastor of a church in Milwaukee, Wis. ; since which lie 
has resided chiefly in Boston. He has contributed ser- 
mons, lectures, and addresses to the magazines, and has 
written hymns and poems, showing an original vein. 



LISTENING FOR GOD. 

I hear it often in the dark, 

I hear it iu the light, — 
Where is the voice that calls to mo 

With such a quiet might ? 
It seems but echo to my thought. 

And yet bej-ond the stars : 
It seems a heart-beat iu a hush, 

And yet the plauet jars. 

Oh, may it be that far withiu 

My iuraost soul there lies 
A spirit-sky, that opens with 

Those voices of surprise? 
And can it be, by night and day. 

That firmament serene 
Is jnst the heaven where God himself, 

The Father, dwells unseen ? 

O God within, so close to me 

That every thought is plain. 
Be judge, he friend, be Father still. 

And iu thy heaven reign ! 
Thy heaven is mine, — my very .soul ! 

Thy words are sweet and strong ; 
They fill my inward silences 

With music and with song. 

They send me challenges to right, 

And loud rebnko my ill ; 
They ring my bells of victory. 

They breathe my " Peace, he still!'' 
They ever seera to say, " My child. 

Why seek me so all day ? 
Now jouruey inward to thyself. 

And listen by the way." 



GEORGE MCKXIGBT. 



899 



(Pcorgc UlcKiiicilit. 

AMERICAN. 

McKni^lit, a nntivc of Sterling;, Cayuga Comity, N. Y., 
was boin in 1H40, iinil has always ivsidoil in his native 
town, where he is a practisini; physician. In 18T" lie 
published on his own aeconnt a volume of 131 pa^es, 
entitled "Firm Ground: Thousthts on Life and Faith." 
In 1S7.S a revised edition, under the title of "Life and 
Faitli," was issued, with the imprint of Jlenry Holt & 
Co., New York. It consists chiefly of a series of son- 
net*, lofty in tone and sentiment, and artistic in struct- 
ure according to the Pelrarelian model. Each one is the 
embodiment of some richly suggestive thought, showing 
that the author's range of meditation is iu the higlier 
ethical and devotional region. With all its earnest grav- 
ity, the tone of these productions is always healthful, 
hopeful, and cheerful. 



"thoroit naught tufa' m.\y to otheus 
hi:." 

If in llie.se tlionghts of iiiiiic that now assuage 

The tedium of tlio tuilsoino life I live, 

Tlio few who cluince to iiotieo shonUl perceive 

Nothing tlieir lasting interest to engage, 

Ami quickly ceaso to turn tbo farther page, — 

It wore a shameful thing if I should grieve. 

For if kind Destiny lia.s cho.seu to give 

To other minds, in many a clime and age. 

Days brighter than my hours, should I repine ? 

And what if by i"i over-hasty glance 

Some import he uot heeded, or, perchance, 

Too dim a light upon the pages shine ? 

Would I he wronged, even though the wealth I own, 

And not tlu' less enjoy, were all niiknowii ? 



PERPETUAL YOUTH. 

"And ever beantirnl mid yonng remains 
Whom the divhio ambrusia sustains."' 

Tlio days of youth! The days of glad life-gain! 
How bright in retrospection tliey appear! 
Yet standing in my manhood's stature l;ere, 
I ask not Time his fleet hours to refrain. 
The joyance of tlio.se days may yet remain. 
F'ly on, swift seasons! Not with grief or fear 
I see your speed increase from year to year ; — 
The sonl may still its buoyant youth retain ! 
SLiy, if supplied with its celestial food. 
Forever keep so young it will not cease 
To grow in strength, in statmo to inereaso 
Through all its days, whate'er their multitude. 
And lo I amlirosia plenlifnlly grows [goes. 

Oil iiiaiiy a held through which thought, culling, 



SCORN. 

"Which Wisdom holds uulawfal ever." 

If on a child of Nature thou bestow 

A scornful thought, a grievous punishment 

Is thine; for now no longer evident 

Are loving looks Nature was wont to show : 

Y'et alters not her favor toward tlieo so ; — 

Not really does she thy scorn resent ; 

Her heart is too full of divine content 

To feel the troubling passions mortals know. 

'Tis tlioii, by harboring nii.jnst disdain 

AVitliiii thy sellisli bo.soin, who hast marred 

The beamiug tenderness of her regard. 

Thy sympathy with lior is less, iti vain 

Is MOW each kindly look of hers, each smile 

Of favor thou didst oft enjoy erewliile. 



OPPORTUNITY. 

Has thy pnrsnit of knowledge been eoiifinod 

Within a narrow range by penury. 

And by the hands' hard toil required of thee ? 

Oh, sorely tried! But if God had designed 

A strong, divinely gifted human mind 

Should in the world appear, and grow to be 

A grand exemplar of humanity. 

Perhaps His wisdom, provident anil kinil. 

Seeking a time and jdace njion the earth, 

Wherein such noble life might grow and bear 

Its perfect fruitage, beautiful and rare, 

Would choose and foreordain, tried sonl. a birlli 

Like that assigned to thee! Oh, squander not 

The opportnuily given in thy lot! 



TKir.MPH. 

Though hard siiiTonndings, like unsparing foes. 
Against thee have prevailed, a viefory 
May yet be thine, and noble life may be 
The trophy which thy triumph will disclose. 
The world's great prizes thou must yield to those 
Of better fortune! Yield them willingly: 
liy so much more thy virtue sIniU be free 
From trammels sellisli cares on it impose. 
Famed, far-otl' landscapes thou slialt never view : — 
Submit: the bliss denied thee do not crave: 
And thy attentive sonl n sight may Imvo 
Of the omnipre.sont Heautifiil and True, 
i>o chMr, 'twill bring thee iie;irer (o thy God, 
Than if tlum soiighl'st His woiidcrH far abroad. 



900 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



IN UNISON. 

May nevermore a selfish wish of luiiie 

Grow to a deed, iiuless a greater care 

For others' welfare in the incitement share. 

O Nature, let my jjurposes combine, 

Hcncefoi'tli, in conscious unison witli thine, — 

To spread abroad God's gladness, and declare 

In living form what is forever fair. 

Meekly to labor in thy great design. 

Oh, let my little life be given whole ! 

If so, by action or by suffering, 

Joy to my fellow-creatures I may bring. 

Or, in the lowly likeness of my soul. 

To beautiful creation's countless store 

One form of beauty may be added more. 



"THE GLORY OF THE LORD SHALL EN- 
DURE FOREVER." 

Tlie forces that prevail eternally, 

And those tliat seem to quickly vanish hence, 

Are emauatiiius from Omnipotence 

Of self-conserving, ceaseless energy : 

And whatso in tlie changeless entity 

Of God originates, partaketh thence 

Of the divine, essential permanence : — 

Whatever is because He is, shall be. 

Oh, then to strengthen trust, thyself assure. 

In every fearful, every doubting mood. 

From God came forth the Beautiful and Good ; 

And as the Eternal Glory shall endure, 

They in His ehangelessuess shall still abide 

Unwasted, 'mid destruction far and wide. 



THE TEST OF TRUTH. 

If ye have precious truths tluit yet remain 
Unknown to me, oh teach me them ! Each way 
Into my soul I open wide, that they 
May enter straightway, aud belief constrain. 
But urge not fear of loss nor hope of gain 
To rouse my will, and move it to essay 
To shape my soul's belief, or tinge one ray 
Of Nature's light! All wilful faith must pain 
The Genius of true Faith, who .asks assent. 
Not even to dearest truths, until the hour 
Arrives of their belief-compelling power ; 
In order that the force they will have spent 
In wrestling with our unbelief, at length 
May be transfornu'd into believing strength. 



EUTHANASIA. 

Seeing our lives by Nature now are led 

In an appointed way so tenderly ; 

So often lured by Hope's expectancy ; 

So seldom driven by scourging pain and dread ; 

And though by destiny still limited 

Insuperably, our pleasaut paths seem free : — 

May we not trust it ever thus shall be ? 

That when we come the lonely vale to tread, 

Leading away into the unknown night. 

Our Mother then, kindly persuasive still. 

Shall geutly temper the reluctant will ? 

So, haply, wo shall feel a str.ange delight, 

Even that dreary way to travel o'er. 

And the mysterious realm beyond explore. 



CONSUMMATION. 

" The grand results of Time." 

'Twas needful that with life of low degree, 
But slowly rising, long the earth should teem 
Ere man was born ; and still the guiding scheme 
Seemed not to rest in full maturity: 
For Nature siuce has so assiduously 
Cherished hi.s growth in spirit, it would seem 
That lofty human souls, in her esteem. 
Are the best trophies of hep husbandry. 
And now, as if she neared her linal aim, 
She sheds upon them with conspicuous care 
Each fruitful intlneuce, that they may bear 
Great and pure thoughts aud deeds of noble fame ; — 
As if her crowning joy were to transmute 
The sum of Time's results into soul-fruit. 



CLEAR ASSURANCE. 

Not as it looks will be thy coming state : 
It falsely looms to both tliy hopes aud fears. 
Unwise is he, with prying eye who peers 
'Neath the unturned pages of the book of fate. 
Yet whether good or evil hours await 
Thy coming in the far successive years, 
Thou may'st foreknow, by that which now appears, - 
It well may daunt thee, or with joy elate. 
For in thy heart's affections thou can'st see 
What thou beconiest as the days go by : 
Think not by skilled device to modify 
The strict fultilment of the high decree. 
That more and more like the sublime or low 
Ideals thou dost cherish, thou shalt grow. 



GEORGE MCKSIGIIT.—JOUS ini/TE CHADWICK. 



901 



I.lVi; WHILE YOU LIVE. 

A view of luesi'iit lito is all tUou hast ! 
01)livion"s cKiuil. like :i liigli-reacbiii;; wall, 
Conceals tliy foniiei' biinjt, and a pall 
Hangs o'er the '^Ma tlirongli wliiili thou'lt soon 

Iiavo i)asso(l. 
Uost cbafo, in tlieso close bounds iniiuisoncd last 7 
Perhaps tby spirit's memory needs, withal. 
Such limits, lest vague dimness should befall 
Its records of a life-duration vast; 
Aiul artfully thy sight may bo coutiued 
While tbon art dwelling on this earthly isle, 
That its exceeding beauty iiniy, the while, 
lufnso itself within thy growing mind, 
And fit thee, in some future state sublime, 
Haply, to grasp a wider range of time.' 



MEMENTO MORL 

Look, soul, how swiftly all things onward ti'ud I 

Such universal haste betokens need 

In Destiny's design of pressing speed : 

Speed thou, stay not until thou reach the cud ! 

Upon the ha.sto of Time there may depend 

Some far-olf good. Thou child of Time, give heed, 

That with a willing heart and ready deed. 

To Time's great liasto thy dole of speed thou leud! 

Though beauteous scenes thy onward steps would 

stay, 
Press forward toward the Ooal that beckons tbeo — 
The unimagiued possibility 
'If all the mighty future to a.ssay ! 
And when thou drawcst ue.ir thy hour to die, 
Kejoico that one accnraplishmcnt is nigh. 



f ; I K T S . 
"Who muketh ilice to differ?" 

Brother, my arm is weaker far than thine; 
And thou, my brother, in each coniuu>n view 
Of Nature canst discern scune beauteous hue 
Too delicate to thrill such brain as mine. 
Aud yet, O brothers both, by many a sign 
(iod shows for mo as warm love as for yon : 
Willi equal care His light and rain and dew 
Cherish the sturdy tree and clinging vine. 

* \Vc nre reniliidod l>y Uila soinict of n riMnnrk which the 
Chcvnlior Binir^eti ntadc at a piu'ty whurc ihcrt* hiid been iioinc 
aatonlt'biiig oxperiniontM in clnlrvoynnco. " Itut whiit, then, 
were our eye? civeii um fi>rP" nHked liliHitnfleld. "To liiiiU our 
visiuu, my lord," ]3nii»cii iiisiaully replied.— K. S. 



He thou not proud of thy more massive brawn ! 
Nor thou, because within thy brnin each thread. 
Through which the thought-pulsations pass and 

spread 
From cell to cell, has been more tensely drawn I 
God's forces made you what you are, why then 
Should you expect the reverence of men T 



KINSHIP. 

"So light, yet sure, the bond that binds the world." 

I found beside a meadow brooklet bright. 
Spring flowers whoso tranquil beauty seemed to give 
Glad answers as to whenco aud why we live. 
With pleased delay I lingered while I might. 
Because I thought when they were out of sight. 
No more of joy from them I shotild receive. 
But now I know absence cannot bereave 
Their loveliness of power to give delight. 
For still my soul with theirs sweet converse holds. 
Through sense more intimate and blessed than see- 

'"s ; 

A bond of kindred that includes all being. 
Our lives in conscious union now infolds. 
And oh, to me it is enough of bliss 
To know I am, and that such beauty is. 



.3oljii ll1l)itc crijiaDiuick. 

AMERICAN. 

Chadwick w.is born in 1840 in Marblehead, Mass. He 
studied at the Exeter, N. II., Academy, aiid graduated 
from the Cambridge Divinity School in IStH. He has 
contributed various papers to Harpefs and other mag- 
azines, and is the autlior of a volinnc of poems, published 
1874. He is settled, over a Unitarian eongicgatiou in 
Brooklyn, N. Y. As a controversial writer of radical 
tendencies he is well known. 



AULD LANG-S^'NE. 

It singeth low in every heart, 

We hear it each aiul all, — 
A song of those who answer not, 

However we may call ; 
They throng the silence of the breast, 

Wo see them as of yore, — 
The kind, the brave, the true, the sweet, 

Who walk with us no more. 

'Tis hard to take the burden up, 
Wheu these have laid it down ; 



902 



VYCLOPJEDIA OF BIIITISH AND AMEIIICJX POETHT. 



Tliey bi-igbteued all the joy of life, 

They softeueil every frown ; 
But oh, 'tis good to think of them, 

When we are tempted sore ! 
Thanks he to God that such have been, 

Althongh they are uo more ! 

More home-like seems the vast unknown. 

Since they have entered there ; 
To follow them were not so hard, 

Wherever they may fare ; 
Tliey cannot be where God is not, 

On any sea or shore ; 
Whate'er betides, Thy love abides. 

Our God, for evermore. 



BY THE SEA-SHORE. 

Tlie curv<kl strand 

Of cool, gray sand 
Lies like a sickle by the sea j 

The tide is low. 

But soft and slow 
Is creeping higher up the lea. 

The beach-birds fleet, 

With twinkling feet, 
Hurry and scurry to and fro, 

Aud sip, and chat 

Of this and that 
Whicb you and I may never know. 

The runlets gay 

That haste away 
To meet each snowy-bosomed crest. 

Enrich tlie shore 

With fleeting store 
Of art-defying arabesque. 

Each higher wave 

Doth touch and lave 
A million pebbles smooth and bright ; 

Straightway they grow 

A beauteous show, 
With hues unknown before bediglit. 

High np tlie beach. 

Far out of reach 
Of common tides that ebb and flow. 

The drift-wood's heap 

Dotli record Iceep 
Of storms tliat perished long ago. 



Nor storms alone : 

I hear the moan 
Of voices cholied by dashing brine, 

When sunken rock 

Or tempest shock 
Crushed the good vessel's oaken spine. 

Where ends the beach, 

The cliffs npreach 
Tlieir lichen-wrinkled foreheads old ; 

And here I rest 

While all tlie west 
Grows brighter with the sunset's gold. 

Far out at sea 

The ships that flee 
Along the dim horizon's line. 

Their sails unfold 

Like cloth of gold, 
Traustigured by that light diviue. 

A calm more deep. 

As 'twere asleep. 
Upon the weary ocean falls ; 

So low it sighs, 

Its nuirmur dies, 
While shrill the boding cricket calls. 

peace and rest ! 
Upon the breast 

Of God himself I seem to lean : 

No break, no bar 

Of sun or star : 
Just God and I, with naught between. 

Oh, when some day 
In vain I pray 
For days like this to come agaiu, 

1 shall rejoice 

With heart and voice 
That one such dav has ever been. 



CAEPE DIEM. 

O sonl of mine, how few and short the years 

Ere thou shalt go the way of all thy kiud, 

And here no more thy joy or sorrow find 

At any fount of happiness or tears! 

Yea, and how soon shall all that thee endears 

To any heart that beats with love for thee 

Be everywhere forgotten utterly, 

With all thy loves and joys, and hopes aud fears! 



I 



GEORGE WEyTZ.—MAHY MAPKS DODGE. 



903 



lint, O my soul, bevaiiso these tilings :iro su, 
Bo tbon not cheated of to-day "s delight, 
When the night conieth,it may well he night; 
Now it is day. See that no minute's glow 
Of nil the shining honis unheeded goes, 
Xo fount of rightl'nl joy hy theo untasted flows. 



(Dcoiac In cut?. 



AMERICAN. 

A native and resident of Baltimore, Wentz studied 
medicine, and became a practising physician. He is the 
author of'Tlic Lady of the Sea," a poem of some length, 
founded on an Orlcncy legend, and originally published 
in Tlte Southern Marjazine for KTi. His shorter lyrical 
pieces ore suggestive of a profound poetical sensibility, 
with the gift of giving utterance to it at times in con- 
densed and beautiful forms. 



"SWEET SPIRIT, Hi:.\U MY PK.WEK." 

Of all the hnman-hcli)ing .songs to fiod 
That swell upon the dim cathedral's air. 

Most helpful seems to mo this song of all : 
" Sweet Spirit, hear uiy prayer I" 

There is a supplication in the sound : 
And on a flight of Music's solemn sigh. 

My weary son), earth-sick and full of care, 
Mounts upward to the sky. 

A clear soprano, like a mounting bird, 

Soars o'er the organ's deep vibrating tone, 

To bear to Iier the lovinguoss I feel. 
But may not plead alone. 

For she, a .spirit, from her lofty place 
Doth oft her sympathetic ear incline, 

To hear a mortal's word, and stills her heart 
To hear the beat of mine. 

The temler pleading of the song remains. 
While priest and altar fade upon tlie air. 

And .ill the dome is worshipful with her 
Whose spirit hears my prayer. 



NO DEATH. 

There is no death ; the common end 
Of lifi' and growth we comprehend, 
Is not of forms that cease, hut mend: 
It is not death, but change. 



When wastes tho seed the sower sows 
Beneath the clog of winter snows. 
The antnmu harvest plainly shows 

It was uut death, but change. 

When .Science weighs and counts tho strands 

In economic Nature's band.s. 

She re-collects them in her hands 

To show no loss from change. 

Tliey do not die. our darling ones; 
rroni falling leaves to burning suns. 
Through worlds on worlds the legend runs, — 
It is not death, Imt change. 

When stills the lu'art, and dims the eye. 
And round our couch friends wonder why 
The signs have ceased they know us by. 
It is not death, but change. 



lllanj iUiapcG DoiJgc. 



.Mis. Dodge, a daughter of the late Professor Mapcs, 
has published various successful works for the young: 
also a volume of poems, entitled "Along the Way, and 
other Poems," from the press of Scribner & Co. (1879). 
Slie is widely known as editress of The SI. Xichola.i Mail- 
mine for youDi; persons, and resides iu the city of New 
York. ' " 

IN THE CASON. 

Intent the conscious mountains stood. 

The friendly blossoms nodded. 
As through tho canon's lonely wood 

We two iu silence plodded. 
A .something owned our presence good ; 

The very breeze that stirred our hair 
AVhispered a gentle greeting; 

A grand, free courtesy was there, 

A welcome, from the summit bare 
Down to tho brook's entreating. 

Stray warblers in the braocbcs dark 

Shot through the leafy pa-sses. 
While the long note of meadow-lark , 

Kose from the neighboring grasses; 
The yellow lupines, spark on spark, 

From tho more open woodland way. 
Flashed through tho sunlight faintly ; 

A wiiul-blown little flower, once g,iy. 

Looked up between its petals gray 
And smiled a message saintly. 



904 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BltlTISH AND AMERICAN FOETRT. 



The giaut ledges, red aud seamed, 

The clear, blue sky, tree-fretted ; 
The mottled light that roiuul us streamed, 

The brooklet, vexed and petted ; 
Tlie bees that buzzed, the guats that dreauied. 

The flitting, gauzy things of June ; 
TIio jilain, far-off, like misty ocean. 

Or, cloud-laud bound, a fair lagoon, — 

They sang withiu lis like a tunCj 

They swayed us like a dream of motion. 

The hours went loitering to the West, 

The shadows lengthened slowly ; 
The radiant snow on luountain-crest 

Made all the distance holy. 
Near by, the earth lay full of rest. 

The sleepy foot-hills, one by one. 
Dimpled their way to twilight ; 

And ere the perfect day was done 

There came long gleams of tinted sun, 
Through heaven's crimson skylight. 

Slowly crept on the listening night, 

Tlie sinking moon shone pale and slender; 

We hailed the cotton-woods, iu sight. 

The home-roof gleaming near and tender. 

Guiding our quickened steps aright. 
Soon darkened all the mighty hills. 

The gods were sitting there iu shadow ; 
Lulled were the noisy woodland rills, 
Silent the silvery woodland trill.s, — 
'Twas starlight over Colorado ! 



SHADOW EVIDENCE. 

Swift o'er the sunny grass, 
I saw a shadow pass 

With subtle charm ; 
So quick, so full of life, 
With thrilling joy so rife, 
I started, lest unknown, 
My stop — ere it was flown, — 

Had done it harm. 

Why look np to the blue ? 
The bird was gone, I knew. 
Far out of sight. 
Steady aud keen of wing, 
The slight, impassioned thing, 
Intent on a goal unknown. 
Had held its course alone 
In silent flight. 



Dear little bird, and fleet, 
Fliuging dowu at my feet 

Shadow for soug : 
More sure am I of thee — 
Unseen, nuheard by me — 
Than of some things felt and known, 
Aud guarded as my own. 

All mj' life long. 



THE TWO MYSTEKIES. 

"Iu the middle of the room, in its wliite cotEii, ]:iy the dead 
ctiild, a uepliew of tlie poet. Near it, in a great chair, sat Walt 
Whitniau, surrounded by little ones, and holdiug a beautiful lit- 
tle girl ou his lap. She looked wonderingly at the sj)ectacle of 
death, aud then inquiringly into the old mau's face. ' You don't 
kuow what it is, do you, my dear?' said he, and added, 'We dou't 
either.' " 

We know not what it is, dear, 

This sleep so deep and still ; 
The folded hands, the awful calm. 

The cheek so pale and chill ; 
The lids that will not lift again. 

Though wo may call aud call ; 
The strange white solitude of peace 

That settles over all. 

We know not what it means, dear. 

This desolate heart-pain ; 
This dread to take our daily way. 

And walk in it again ; 
We know not to what other sphere 

The loved who leave us go. 
Nor why we're left to wonder still, 

Nor why we do not know. 

But this we know : our loved aud dead. 

If they should come this day — 
Should come and ask us, " What is life ?" 

Not one of ns could say. 
Life is a mystery as deep 

As ever death can be ; 
Yet oh ! how dear it is to us, — 

This life we live and see ! 

Then might they say — these vanished ones — ■ 

And bless(^d is the thought! — 
" So death is sweet to us, beloved. 

Though we raay show you naught; 
We may not to the quick reveal 

The mystery of death — 
Te cannot tell us, if ye would, 

The mystery of breath." 



I 



MAiiy M.tri:s dodge.— kate pvtnam osgooik—xadel isahxes gustafsox. 



905 



The cliild who entei-s life comes not 

AVilh kiio«lcilne or intent, 
So those who cuter death must go 

As little children scut. 
Nothing is known. But I liolicve 

That CJod is overhead ; 
And as life is to the living, 

So death is to tlie dead. 



NOW THE NOISY WINDS ARE STILL. 

Now the noisy winds ai'e still ; 
April's coming up the hill ! 
All the spring is in her train, 
Led by shining ranks of rain ; 

Pit, pat, patter, clatter, 

SnddiMi snii, and clatter, patter ! — 
First the blue, and then the shower; 
Bui-stiug bud, aud sniiliug flower; 
Brooks set free with tinkling ring ; 
Birds too full of .song to sing : 
Crisp old leaves astir with pride, 
Where the timid violets hide, — 
All things ready with a will, — 
April's coming up the hill! 



Ktttc yutuain (Dsgooi). 



Born at Frycburg, Me., in 1840, Miss Osgood has con- 
tributed to the magazines a number of poems worthy 
of being collected into a volume. Her little ballad of 
"Driving Home tlie Cows" has a homely pathos that 
goes etraight to its mark. 



DKIVlNti IKJ.Mi: TllK COWS. 

Out of the clover and blue-eyed gi-a.ss 
He turned them into the river-lane; 

One after another ho let them pass. 
Then fastened the meadow bant again. 

1,'nder the willows, and over the hill. 
He patiently followed their .sober pace; 

The merry whistle for oneo was still, 

And something shadowed tbo sunny face. 

Only a boy! and his father bad saiil 
He never could let his youngest go: 

Two already Avere lying dead 

Under the feet of tbo trampling foo. 



But after the evening work was douo, 

And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamii. 

Over his shoulder he slung his gun 

Aud stealthily followed the foot-path damp. 

Across the clover, and through the wheat, 
With resolute heart and purpo.so grim, 

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet 
Anil the blind bat's flitting startled him. 

Thrice since then had the lanes been white. 

And the orchards sweet with apple-ldnoni ; 
And now, when the cows came back at night. 

The feeble father drove them home. 

For news had come to (he lonely farm 

That tliH'e were lying where two had lain ; 

Ami the old man's tremulous, palsied arm 
Couhl never lean on a .son's again. 

The summer day grew cool and 1,'ite. 

He went lor the cows when tbo work was done; 
But down the lane, as he opened the gate. 

He saw them comiiig one by one : 

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 

Shaking their horns in the evening wind; 

Cropping the Imtferenps out of the grass — 
lint who was it following close behind? 

Loosely swung in the idle air 

The empty sleeve of army bine ; 
And worn and pale, from th<^ crisping hair. 

Looked out a face that the father knew. 

For Southern prisons will .sometimes yawn, 
Aud yield their dead unto lifo again ; 

And the day that comes with a cloudy dawu 
In golden glory at last may wane. 

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes: 
For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb : 

Anil under the silent evening skies 

Together they followed the cattle home. 



^aiicl Sanies (!3u5tiif50ii. 

AMERICAN. 

The author ol " Meg: a Pustonil. ami other Poems" 
(Boston : Lee & .Shepliard, 1S7".I), is one of tlic youngest 
of our American poets (born March 'Jlli, 1S4I). The 
reader of her poems is impressed, in some of them by 



906 



CYCL0P2EDIA OF BRITISH A^D AMElilCAN I'OETRY. 



their idyllic charm, in others by their dramatic force, 
and in nil by their generous sympathy and nobility of 
sentiment. Simultaneously with her own volume above 
mentioned, there was issued by the same house, and ed- 
ited by her, the collected poems of Maria Brooks (" Maria 
delOeeidente"). 



ZLOBANE.' 

As swayeth in the summer winil 
The close and stalwart grain, 

So moved the serried Zulu shields 
That day on wild Zlobane ; 

The white shield of the husband, 
Who hath twice ueed of life. 

The black shield of the young chief, 
^Yho hath not yet a wife. 

Unrecking barm, the British lay. 

Secure as if they slept, 
While close on front and either flank 

The live black crescent crept ; 

Then burst their wild and frightful cry 

Upon the British cars. 
With wliir of bullets, glare of shields. 

And flash of Zulu spears. 

They gathered as a cloud, swift rolled, 
'Twixt sun and summer scene. 

They thiclvcued down as the locusts 
That leave no living green. 

Uprose tbo British ; in the shock 
Reeled but an instant; then, 

Shoulder to shoulder, faced the foe, 
And met their doom like men. 

But one was there whose heart was torn 

In a more awfnl strife ; 
He had the soldier's steady nerve. 

And calm disdain of life, — 

Yet now, half turning from the fray. 

Knee smiting agaiust kuee. 
He scanned the hills, if yet were left 

Au open way to flee. 



1 ZIobaue is the n.inie of the mountain which w.as taken by 
ptorni from tlie Zulus by 'the Bi'ilish forces on the morninj; of 
the 2Sth of March, 1870. On the top of this mountain the victo- 
rious English troops, who had unsaddled their horses and cast 
themselves down to rest, were surprised aud surrounded by the 
ZiiUis. Of the British corps only one captain and six men es- 
caped. This ballad relates an incident of the day. 



Not for Limself. His little son. 
Scarce thirteen summers born, 

With hair that shone upou his brows 
Like tassels of the corn, 

Aud lips yet curled in that sweet pout 
Shaped by the mother's breast, 

Stood by his side, and silently 
To his brave father pressed. 

The horse stood uigli ; the father kissed 

And tossed the boy astride. 
"Farewell!" he cried, "and for thy life, 

That way, my darling, ridel'' 

Scarce touched the Siiddle ore the boy 
Leaped lightly to the ground, 

Aud smote the horse u]ion its flank. 
That with a quivering bound 

It sprang aud galloped for the hills. 

With one sonorous neigh ; 
The fire flashed where its spurning feet 

Clanged o'er the stony way. 

So, shod with fear, fled like the wintl. 

From where in ancient fray 
Rome grappled Tnscnluni, the slain 

Mamilius' charger gray. 

" Father, I'll die with you !'' The sire, 

As this he saw aud heard. 
Turned, and stood breathless in the joy 

And Jiang that knows no word. 

Once each, as do long knitted friend.s, 

Upon the other smiled, 
And then — he Lad but time to give 

A weapon to the child 

Ere, leaping o'er the British dead. 

The supple Zulus drew 
The cruel assegais, aud first 

The younger Lero slew. 

Still grew the father's lieart, his eye 
Bright with uuflickering flame: 

Five Zulus bit the dust in death 
By his uublenching aim. 

Then, covered with nncountod woumls. 
He sauk beside his child, 



ZJDEL B.UI.XES GUSTJFSOX.— ROBERT BUCHAXJX. 



my 



Anil they wliu fouud tbem say, in death 

Each on the other smiled. 

« « « # # 

Thus Knjrhind, for thy lust of power! 

The lildod of striving meu, — 
Once more outpoured — cries unto God 

Fniin Zloliane's hei-rlit and glen ! 



THE FACTORY-BOY.' 

" Come, poor child !'' say the Flowers ; 

"We have made you a little bed; 
Come, lie with ns in the showers 

The summer clouds will sliril. 
Don't work for so many hours : 

Come hither aud play iustead!"' 
"Come!" whispers the waving Gra.«s : 
"I will cool your feet as you pass; 

The Daisies will cool yonr head." 

And " Come, come, come !" is sighing 

The River against the wall; 
But " Stay !'' iu grim replying, 

The whci-ls roar over all. 
By hill and lield and river, 

That hold the child in thrall, 
He sees the long light quiver. 

And hears faint voices call. 

Bright shapes flit near in nnmbcrs: 

They lead his soul away: 
"Oh, hush, husli, hn.sh ! he slnmbersl'' 

He dreams ho bears tbem say. 

Ami. just for one strained instant. 

He dreams ho hears the wheels, 
Bat smiles to feel the llowens, 

And down amoug them kneels. 
Over bis weary ankles 

A rippling mulct steals. 
And all .about his shoulders 

The daisies dance in reels. 

U)> to bis cheeks .and temjdes 

Sweet blossoms blush aud press, 
And softest summer zephyrs 

Lean o'er iu light caress. 
Sleep iu her mantli' fnlds him. 

As shadows fold the bill. 
Deep in her trance she holds him, 

Aud tbo great wheels are still I 

' From " Where is the Cliild ?" in tiarpcr't Uagcuinc 



Hobcrt 13iul)anan. 



A native of Scotland, Biieliunan was liorn in 1841, and 
uiliicatud at tlio High School and L'nivorsity of Glaegoiv. 
lie publislied a volume of poems c.iUed " Undertones" 
in IS«(); " Iilvls oflnverliurn " (lK(i."i); "London Poems" 
( ISiMj) ; " The Drama of Kings " (1871) ; " Celtic Mystics " 
(I8TT), etc. Fluent, versatile, and facile in his style, he 
has made his mark as a poet of no ordinary power. As 
he has youth on his side, ho may live to surpass all that 
he has yet done. His poems arc published by Roberts 
Brothers, Boston. 



DYING. 

" O bairn, when I am dead, 
How shall ye keep frac harm ? 

What hand will gie ye bread f 
What lire will keep ye warm t 
llow shall ye dwell on earth awa' frae me f" 
'' O niithcr, dinna dee!'' 

" O bairn, by night or day 

I bear nae sounds ava'. 
But voices of winds that blaw, 

And the voices of ghaists that say. 
Come awa' ! come awa' ! 
The Lord that made the wind and made the si'a, 
Is hard on my bairn and me, 
Aud I melt iu his breath like snaw." 
"O mither, dinna dee!" 

" O bairn, it is but closing up the ecu, 
Aud lying down never to rise again. 
Many a strong man's sleeping bae I seen, — 

There is nae pain ! 
I'm weary, weary, aud I scarce ken why ; 
My summer has gone by, 
And sweet were sleeji, but for the sake o' thee." 
" O niiiher, dinna dee!" 



HERMIONE ; OR, DIFFERENCES ADJUSTED. 

Wherever I wander, up and abcmt. 
This is the puzzle I can't make out — 
Bccanso I care little for books, no doubt : 

I have a wife, ami she is wi.se, 

Deep iu philosophy, stnuig iu Greek; 

Spectacles shadow her pretty eyes. 
Coteries rustle to bear her speak ; 

She writes a little — for love, not fame; 

Has pnldisbe<l a book with a dreary name; 
And yet (God bless her!) is mild and meek. 



908 



CrCLOP^DIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN FOETRY. 



And how I happened to woo and wed 

A wife so pretty and 'wise withal 
Is part of the puzzle that fills my head — 
Plagues me at daytime, racks me iu bed, 

Haunts rae and makes me appear so small. 
The only answer that I can see 
Is — I could uot have married Hermione 
(That is her fine wise name), but she 
Stooped iu her wisdom aud married inc. 

Fur I am a fellow of no degree, 

Given to romping aud jollity; 

Tlie Latiu they thrashed into me at school 

The ■world aud its fights have thrashed away; 
At iigures alone I am do fool, 

Aud iu city circles I say my say, 
But I am a dunce at tweuty-niue, 
Aud the kind of study that I think fine 
Is a chapter of Dickeus, a sheet of the Times, 

Wlien I lonuge, after work, in my easy chair ; 
Punch for humor, aud Praed for rhymes, 

Aud the butterfly mots blown here and there 

By the idle breath of the social air. 

A little French is my only gift. 
Wherewith at times I can make a shift. 
Guessing at meanings to flutter over 
A filagree tale iu a paper cover. 

Hermione, my Hermione! 

What could )-our wisdom perceive iu me ? 

Aud Hermione, my Hermione ! 

How docs it happen at all that we 

Love one another so utterly ? 

Well, I have a bright-eyed boy of two, 

A darling who cries with luug and tongue, about 
As fine a fellow, I swear to you. 

As ever poet of sentiment sung about I 
And my lady-wife, with serious eyes, 
Brightens and lightens wlien he is nigh. 
And looks, although .she is deep and wise, 
As foolish aud happy as he or I! 
Aud I have the courage just then, you see, 
To kiss the lips of Hermione — 
Tliose learned lips that tlio learned praise — 
x\nd to clasp her close as iu sillier days; 
To talk and jolco iu a frolic vein, 

To tell her my stories of things and men ; 
Aud it never strikes me that I'm profane, 
For she laughs, and blushes, and kisses again, 

Aud, presto! fly goes her wisdom then! 
For boy claps hands and is up on lier breast, 

Eoaring to see her so briglit with uiirth, 



Aud I know she deems me (oh, the jest !) 
The cleverest fellow on all the earth ! 

Aud Hermione, my Hermione, 

Nurses her boy aud defers to me ; 

Does uot seem to see I'm small — ' 

Eveu to think me a dunce at all! 

And wherever I wander, up and about. 

Here is the jjuzzle I can't make out — 

That Hermiouc, my Hermione, 

In spite of her Greek aud philosophy. 

When sporting at night with her boy and me, 

Seems sweeter and wiser, I assever — 

Sweeter and wiser, aud far more clever, 

And makes me feel more foolish than ever, 

Through her childish, girlish, joyous grace. 

And the silly pride iu her learui5d face ! 

That is the puzzle I can't make out- 
Because I care little for books, no donbt ; 
But the puzzle is pleasant, I know uot why ; 

For whenever I think of it, night or morn, 
I thank my God she is wise, aud I 

Tlie happiest fool that was ever horn ! 



LANGLEY LANE. 

In all the laud, range np, rauge down. 

Is there ever a jilace so pleasant and sweet 
As Laugley Lane in London towu, 

Just out of the bustle of square aud street ? 
Little white cottages all iu a row. 
Gardens where bachelors'-buttons grow, 

Swallows' nests iu roof aud wall, 
Aiul up above the still blue sky. 
Where the woolly white clouds go sailing by, — 

I seem to be able to see it all ! 

For now, in summer, I take uiy chair. 

And sit outside iu the sun, and hear 
The distant murmur of street aud square, 

Aud the swallows aud sparrows chirping near; 
And Fanny, who lives just over the way, 
Comes running many a time each day 

With her little hand's touch so warm aud kind. 
And I smile and talk, with the sun ou uiy 

cheek. 
And the little live baud seems to stir and speak — 

For Fanny is dumb and I am blind. 

Fanny is sweet thirteen, and slie 

Has lino black ringlets and dark eyes clear, 



ROBERT BVCBAXAX.—MIXOr JVDSON SAVAGE. 



909 



Anil I am older by siiiiinicrs tlireo — 

Wliy slioiiUl wc licilil one itiiollier so dear? 

Because slie eaiinut utter ;i word, 

Nor hear the music of bee or binl. 

The water-cart's splash or the iiiilkmairs call ! 

Because I have never seen the sky, 

Xiir the little sinj^ers that hum and fly — 
Vet know she is gazing niiou them all! 

For the snn is shining,tlie swallows lly, 

The bees anil the blueflies murinnr low, 
And I hear the water-cart go by, 

With its cool splash-splash down the dusty row; 
And the little one close at my side perceives 
Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves, 

'Where birds are chirping in summer shine, 
And I hear, though I cannot look, and she, 
Though she cannot hear, can the singers see — 

Aiul the little soft fingers flutter in mine! 

Hath not tlio dear little hand a tongue. 

When it stirs on my palm for the love of me? 
Do I not know she is pretty and young f 

Hath not my soul an eye to see f — 
Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir. 
To wonder how things appear to her. 

That I only bear as they pass around ; 
And as long as wo sit in the music and light, 
«S7ic is hajiiiy to keep God's sight, 

And / am happy to keep Ciod's souml. 

Why, I know her face, though I am blind — ■ 

I made it of music long ago : 
Strange large eyes and dark hair twined 

Kound the pensive light of a brow of snow : 
Ami when I sit by my lit lie (mk-. 
And hold her hand aud talk in the sun. 

And hear the music that hauuts the place, 
I know she is raising her eyes to me. 
And guessing how gentle my voice must be, 

Aud seeiiKj the uiusic u|ion my face. 

Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer, 

(I know the fancy is only vain,) 
I should pray, — ^just once, when the weather is 
fair, — 

To see little Fanny and Langley Lano ; 
Tliough Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear 
The voice of the friend that she holds so dear, 

The song of the birds, the hum of the street — 
It is better to be as we have been — 
Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen, 

To make God's heaven more strange and sweet ! 



Ah ! life is pleasant iu Langley Lano ! 

There is always something sweet to hear. 
Chirping of birds or patter of rain ! 

And Fanny, my little one, always near! 
And though I am weakly, and can't live long, 
And Fanny, my darling, is far from strong, 

And though we can never married be — 
W"hat then? — since we hold one another so dear. 
For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear, 

And the pleasure that only one can seof 



TO TKULKKS. 
From '' Faces on tde Wall." 

Go, triflers with God's secret. Far, oh far 

Be your thin monotone, your brows flower-crowned. 

Your backward-looking faces; for ye mar 

The pregnant time with silly sooth of sound, 

With flowers around the feverish temples bound. 

And withering iu the close air of the fea.st. 

Take all the summer pleasures ye have found. 

While Circe-charmed yc turn to bird and beast. 

Meantime I sit apart, a lonely wight 

On this bare rock amid this fitful Sea, 

And in the wind aud rain I try to light 

A little lamp that may a Beacon be, 

Whereby poor ship-folk, driving through the night, 

Mav gain the Ocean-course, and think of me ! 



illiuot JTutison Saoagc. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of Norridgewock, Me., Savage was born June 
lOtli, 1.^1, and irradnated at the Bangor Theological Scni- 
inaiy in l^iOl. Tnihicd in the Orthodox Church, he began 
to preach in October of that year in a sclioolhousc in 
San Mateo, Cal. In 1S7.3 he left ortli()do.\y, and was pas- 
tor over the Third Unitarian Churcli in Chicago, where 
he remained one year, when he was called to the pulpit 
in Boston, where he has presided (ISSO) six years. He is 
the author of "Cliristianity the Science of Manhood" 
(IST.'J); "Tlie Religion of Evolution "(1S70); "Light on 
the Cloud " (187'.)) ; '• Bhifl'ton : a Story of To-dny," " Life 
Questions," "The Mor.ds of Evolution," "Talks about 
Jesus " (1880), etc. There has been also for several years 
a weekly issue of his sermons. 



LIFE FROM DE.'VTH. 

Had one ne'er seen the miracle 
Of May-time from Di'cember born. 

Who would have darc'd the tale to tell 
That 'neatli ice-ridges slept the corn f 



910 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISB AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



White death lies deep upon the hills, 
And moauings through the tree-tops go ; 

The exulting wiud, with breath that chills, 
Shouts triumph to the unresting snow. 

M}' study window sliows me where 

Ou hard-fought fields the summer died ; 

Its banners now are stripped and bare 
Of even autumn's fading pride. 

Yet, on the gust that surges by, 
I read a pictured promise ; soou 

The storm of earth and frown of sky 
Will melt into luxuriant June. 



LIFE IN DEATH. 

New being is from being ceased ; 

No life is but by death ; 
Something's expiring everywhere 

To give some other breath. 

There's not a flower that glads the spring 

But blooms upon tlie grave 
Of its dead parent seed, o'er which 

Its forms of beauty wave. 

The oak, that like an ancient tower 

Stands massive on the heath, 
Loolcs out upon a living world, 

But strikes its roots in death. 

The cattle on a thousand hills 
Clip the sweet herbs that grow 

Rank from the soil enriched by herds 
Sleepiug long years below. 

To-day is but a structure built 

Upon dead yesterday ; 
And Progress hews her temple-stones 

From wrecks of old decaj-. 

Tlieu mourn not death : 'tis but a stair 

Built with divinest art, 
Up which the deathless footsteps climb 

Of loved ones who depart. 



LIGHT ON THE CLOUD. 

There's never au always cloudless sky, 
There's never a vale so fair, 



But over it sometimes shadows lie 
In a chill and songless air. 

But never a cloud o'erhung the day. 

And flung its shadows down. 
But on its heaven-side gleamed some ray, 

Forming a sunshine crown. 

It is dark ou ouly the downward side : 
Though rage the teriipest loud. 

And scatter its terrors far and wide, 
There's light ujion the cloud. 

And often, when it traileth low, 

Sliutting the landscape out. 
And only the chilly east-winds lilow 

From the foggy seas of doul)t. 

There'll come a time, near the setting sun. 
When the joys of life seem few, 

A rift will break in the evening dun. 
And the golden light stream through. 

And the soul a glorious bridge will nuike 

Out of the goldeu bars. 
And all its priceless treasures take 

Where shine the eternal stars. 



3ol]ii ^Hbiiinglon 5yiuouDs. 

One of the new Victorian poets, Symoncls Ikis written 
verses that show unquestionable power in dealing witli 
the great problems of life and death. He is the author 
of "Studies of the Greek Poetry, in Two Series," which 
appeared in 1876, and was republished by Harper & 
Brothers; "Sketches in Italy and Greece" (1879); 
"Sketches and Studies in Italy" (1879); "Sonnets of 
Michael Angelo Buonarotti and Tomaso Carapanella" 
(1878); "M.iny Moods, a Volume of Verse" (1878); 
"New and Old, a Volume of Verse" (1880). The poems 
have been republished by James R.Osgood & Co., Bos- 
ton. In the Preface to "Many Moods," Symonds speaks 
of himself as " condemned by ill-health to long exile, and 
deprived of the resources of serious study." The themes 
of the volume are Love, Friendship, Death, and Sleep ; 
and the fresh thoughtfulness with which they are treated 
distinguishes the book as one of the rare productions of 
the diiy. His poems on Greek themes in "New and 
Old" show high scholarly culture. 



IN THE MENTONE GRAVEYARD. 

Between the circling mountains and the sea 

Rest thou. — Pure spirit, spirit who.se worlv is done. 
Here to the eartli whate'er was left of theo 



JOUy JDDIXGTOX STMOXDS. 



911 



Mi)i't:i1, we reuder. lint beyond the 8iiu 
And utmost stars, who knowit what life beguu 
Eveu now, nor ever to l>o rndrd, bi'i-;ht 
With clearest ettliieuce of iini-loudud light, 

Oreets thee uudazzledf — Lo! this place of tombs 
With rose-wreaths and with clematis and vine, 

And violets that smile in winter, blooms: 

Sun, moon, and stars in sweet procession shine 
Above thy shadeless grave: the waves divine 

Gleam like a silver shield beneath ; the bare 

Broad hills o'crhead, detining the free air. 

Enclose a temple of the sheltering skies 

To roof thee. Noon and eve and Instrons night, 

The sunset thou didst love, the strong sunrise 
That tilled thy soul erewhile with strange delight. 
Still on thy sleeping clay shed kisses bright; 

But thon — oh, not for thee these waning powers 

Of morn and evening, these poor paling flowei's. 

These narrowing limits of sea, sky, and earth! 
For in thy tombless city of the dead 

Siiurising and sunsetting. and the mirth 
Of spring-time and of summer, and onr red 
Rose-n-reatlis are swallowed in the streams that 

Supreme of Light ineffable from Him, [spread 

Matched with whose least of ravs our sun is dim. 



The phantom world is woven: — Yet thrice praise 
For him who frees us ! Surely we shall gain, 

As guerdon for the exile of these days, 

Oneness with Thee; and as tlio drops of rain. 
Cast from the sobbiug cloud in summer's pain. 

Resume their rest in ocean, even so we. 

Lost for awhile, shall lind ourselves in Thee. 



FROM "SOXNETS OX THE THOUGHT OP 
DEATH.' 

III. 
Deep calleth unto deep : the Infinite 
Within us to the Infinite without 
Cries with an inextinguishable shout. 
In spite of all we do to stifle it. 
Therefore Death in the coming gloom hath lit 
A torch for Love to fly to. Dread and Doubt 
Vanish like broken armies in the rout 
When the swonls splinter and the hauberks split. 
But in the interval of crossing spc.irs 
There is a stagnant dark, where all things seem 
By frauds cncompasised and confused with fears: 
Herein we live our common lives, and dream ; 
Yet even here, remembering Love, we may 
Look with calm eyes for Death to summon day. 



Oh, blessed I It is for us, not thee, we grieve 1 
Yet even so, ye voices, and yon tide 

Of souls innnmerons that p.inting heave 

To rhythmic pulses of God's heart, and hide 
Beneath your niyri.ad booming breaUei-s wide 

The universal Life invisible. 

Give praise I Behold, the void that was so still 

Breaks into singing, and the desert cries — 

Praise, praise to Thee! praise for Thy servant 
Death, 

The healer and deliverer! from his eyes 

Flows life that cannot die ; yea, with his breath 
The dross of weary earth he winnoweth, 

Leaving all pure and perfect things to be 

Merged in the soul of Thine immensity! 

I'raise, Lord, yea, praise for this inir brother Death! 
Though also for the fair mysterious veil 

Of life that from Thy radiance scvereth 

Our mortal sight, for these faint blossoms frail 
Of joy on earth we cherish, for the |>ale 

Light of the circling years, we praise Thee too : — 

Since thug as in a web Thy spirit through 



Can dissolution build ? Sh.iU death amend 
Chaos on chaos hnrled of human hope, 
Co-ordinate onr efforts with our scope. 
And in white light the hues of conflict blend f — 
Alas! we know not where our footsteps tend; 
High overhead the aua.scended cope 
Is lost in ether, while we blindly grope 
'Mid mist-wreaths that the warring thunders rend. — 
Sotriehow, we know not how ; somewhere, but where 
We know not ; by some hand, we know not whose, 
Joy must absorb the whole wiile world's despair. 
This we call Faith : but if we dare impose 
Form on this faith, we shall but beat the air, 
Or build foundations on the baseless ooze. 



Onward forever flows the tide of Life, 
Still broadening, gathering to itself the rills 
That made dim music in the primal hills, 
.\nd tossing crested waves of joy and strife. 
We watch it rising where no seeds are rife, 
But tire the elemi'utal vortex tills ; 
Through plant and be.ast it streams, till human wills 
Unfold the sanctities of human life. 



912 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Further we see uot. But here faith joius hands 
With reason : life that ouward came to us 
From simi>le to more complex, still must flow 
Forward ami forward through far wider lands : — 
If thought begins with man, the luminous 
Kingdom of mind beyond him still must grow. 



Is there then hope that thou and I shall he 

Saved from the ruin of the ravenous years. 

And placed, though late, at last among our peers. 

On the firm heights of immortality ? 

Nay, not so. Thought may burn eterually, 

And beacon through ten thousand broadening 

splieres. 
Using our lives like wood that disappears 
In the fierce flame it feeds continually. 
Thus we may serve to buihl the cosmic soul 
As moments in its being : but to deem 
That wo shall therefore grow to grasp the whole, 
Or last as separate atoms iu the stream 
Of Life transcendent, were a beauteous dream, 
Too frail to bear stern reason's strong control. 



Yet Hope, cast back on Feeling, argues thus : — • 

If thought be highest iu the scale we see, 

That thought is also personality, 

Conscious of self, aspiring, emulous. 

Growth furthermore means goodness: naught in us 

Abides and flourishes, unless it be 

Tempered for life by love's vitality. 

Evil is cverywliere deciduous. 

Shall then the universal Thought, pure mind, 

Pure growth, pure good, be found impersonal ? 

And if a Person, dare we think or call 

Him cruel, to his members so unkind 

As to permit our .agony, nor bind 

Each flower Death plucks into Life's coronal ? 



One saith, "The world's a stage: I took my seat; 

I saw the show ; and now 'tis time to rise." 

Another saith, " I came with eager eyes 

Into life's banquet-hiiU to drink and eat ; 

The hour hath struck when I nmst shoe my feet. 

And gird me for the w.ay that deathward lies." 

Another saith, " Life is a bird that flies 

From dark tlirough light to darkness, arrowy-fleet." 

One show ; one feast ; one flight ; — must that be all 1 

Could we unle.arn this longing, could we cry, 

"Thanks for our part in life's fair festivjil ! 

We know not whence we came, we know not why 



We go, nor where ; but God is over all !" 
It would not then be terrible to die. 



Hush, heart of mine ! Nor jest, nor blasphemy 

Beseems the strengthless creature of au hour ! 

Wed resignation rather ; dread the power, 

Whate'er it be, that rules thy destiny. 

Nay, learn to love; love irresistibly! 

With obstinate reiteration shower 

Praises and prayers, thy spirit's dearest dower. 

On the mute altar of that deity! 

They work no wrong who worship: they are pure 

Who seek God even in the sightless blue : 

And they have hope of victory who endure. — 

This mortal life, like a dark avenue, 

Is leading thee perchance to light secure, 

And limitless horizons clear to view. 



THE WILL. 

Blame not the times in which we live. 
Nor Fortune frail and fugitive ; 
Blame uot thy jiareuts, nor the rule 
Of vice or wrong once learned at school ; 
But blame thyself, O man ! 

Although both hcaveu and earth conibiued 
To mould thy flesh and form thy mind. 
Though every thought, word, action, will. 
Was framed by powers beyond thee, still 
Thou art thyself, O man ! 

And self to take or leave is free. 
Feeling its own sufiflcieucy : 
In spite of science, spite of fate. 
The judge within thee soon or late 
Will blame but thee, man ! 

S,ay not, " I would, but could not — Ho 
Should bear the blame, who fashioned me - 
Call you mere change of motive choice f" 
Scorning such pleas, the inner voice 

Cries, " Thine the deed, man !" 



BEATI ILLI. 

Blessed is the man whose heart and hands aro pure! 
He hath no sickness that he shall not cure, 
No sorrow that he may not well eiulure : 
His feet are steadfast and his hope is sure. 



JOnS J. STMOXDS.— EDMUND ASMSTSONG.—MSS. AUGUSTA WEBSTEIl. 



913 



Ob, blessed is be wbo ne'er batb solil bis soul, 
WLoso will is iicrfect, and wboso word is whole, 
Who hath uot paid to comnion-senso tbo toll 
Uf self-disgrace, nor owned tho world's control ! 

Through clouds and shadows of the darkest night 
He will uot lose a glininicriug of the light. 
Nor, though tho sun of day be shrouded iniite. 
Swerve from the narrow path to left or right. 



(Plimuni» vlrmstrong. 

Armstroni; (l!>41-lS0."i) was a native of Ireland, and a 
graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, where he was Presi- 
dent of the Undergraduates' Philosophical Society. At 
one time an avowed holder of sceptical views in regard 
to immortality and the divine purpose of life, he lived to 
recant and disavow liis former opinions, but died at the 
early age of twenty-four. A volume of his poems was 
published by Edward Sloxon & Co., London, in 1806. 
They show that the poetical element in his nature was 
too strong for the sceptical. 



FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT. 

Friend of my soul, for us no nn)re 
The sea of dark negation booms 

Upon a strange and shadowy shore — 
An ocean vexed with glooms ; 

Whereon, in trembling barks forlorn, 
Wo tossed upon the waves of doubt, 
Our compass gone, our starlight out, 

Our shrouds and cord,ige torn. 

Our course is on another sea ; 

Beneath a radiant arch of day ; 
While bursts of noblo harmony 

Inspire us on our way ; 
Subduing to a trustful calm 

Our spirits amid surge and wiiul. 

And flowing on the anxious mind 
Like gusts of healing balm. 



fllrs. 'Augusta lUcbstcr. 

Mrs. Webster, bom in England about 1841, published 
in ISCG "A Woman Sold, and otliec Poems," also 
■• Dramatic Studies " and "The Auspicious Day" (1878). 
Tlierc are several other works from her pen. One of 
her critics says: "She has a dramatic faculty unusual 
with women, a versatile ranjje, much penetration of 
thought, and is remarkably free from the dangerous 
mannerisms of modem verse." 
08 



TO HLOO.M IS THICN TO WANE. 

Too soon so fair, fair lilies ; 
To bloom is then to wane; 

Tho folded bud has still 

To-morrows at its will, 
Blown tlowcrs can never blow again. 

Too soon so bright, bright noontide; 

The sun that now is high 
Will henceforth only sink 
Toward the western brink ; 

Day that's at prime begins to die. 

Too soon so rich, ripe summer, 
For autumn tracks theo fast; 

Lo, death-marks on the leaf! 

Sweet summer, and my grief; 
For summer come is summer p.ist. 

Too soon, loo soon, lost summer ; 

Some hours and thou art o'er. 
Ah ! death is i)art of birth : 
Summer leaves not the earth, 

But last year's summer lives no more. 



THE GIFT. 

happy glow ! O sun-bathed tree ! 
O golden-lighted river ! 

A love-gift has been given me, 
And which of you is giver? 

1 came upon you something sad, 
Musing a mournful measure. 

Now all my heart in me is glad 
Willi a quick sense of pleasure. 

I came upon you with a heart 
Half sick of life's vexed story, 

And now it grows of you a part, 
Steeped in your golden glory. 

A smile into my heart lias crept 
And laughs through all my being ; 

New joy into my life has leapt, 
A joy of only seeing! 

O happy glow ! O sun-bathed tree I 

O golden-lighted river! 
A love-gift has been given mo, 

And which of you is giver! 



914 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AXD AMERICAN POETRY. 



iJoaqiiin illUlcr. 



AMERICAN. 

Miller \yas born in 1841 in Indiana. When he was 
thirteen, his parents emigrated to Oregon overland, and 
settled in the Willamette Valley. After some rough ad- 
ventures in the mining districts of California, he studied 
law, was admitted to practice, and in 1SC6 was elected 
county judge. Having published a small volume of 
poems, one of which bore tlie title of "Joaquin," he 
adopted that name instead of his original one of Cincin- 
natus Heine Miller. In 1S70 he went to Europe, and in 
London found a publisher for his " Songs of tlie Sier- 
ras," which quickly gave him a reputation abroad and at 
home. He has since published " The ShiiJ in the Desert, 
a Poem," and " Songs of Italy " (1878). 



LONGINGS FOR HOME. 

Could I but return to my woO(l.s onco more, 

And dwell in their depths as I liave dwelt, 

Kueel in their mosses as I have knelt, 

Sit whei'o the cool white rivers run, 

Away from the world and half hid from the sun, 

Hear wind in the woods of my storm-torn shore, 

Glad to the heart with listening, — 

It seems to mo that I then could sing. 

And sing as I never have snug before. 

I miss, how wholly I miss my wood, 

My matchless, magnificent, dark-leaved firs, 

That climb up the terrible heights of Hood, 

Where only the breath of white heaven stirs! 

These Alps they are barreu ; wrapped in storms, 

Formless masses of Titan forms, 

They loom like ruins of a grandeur gone. 

And lonesome as death to look upon. 

O God ! once more in my life to hear 

The voice of a wood that is loud and alive. 

That stirs with its being like a vast bee-hive ! 

And oh, once more in my life to see 

The great bright eyes of the antlered deer ; 

To sing with the birds that sing for nic, 

To tread where only the red man trod. 

To say no word, but listen to God ! 



PALATINE HILL. 

A wolf-like stream without a sound 
Steals by and hides beneath the shore. 
Its awful secrets evermore 

Within its sullen bosom bound. 



And this was Eome, that shrieked for room 
To stretch her limbs ! A hill of caves 
For half-wild beasts and hairy slaves ; 

And gypsies tent within her tomb ! 

Two lone palms on the Palatine, 
Two rows of cypress black aud tall, 
With white roots set in Caesar's Hall, — 

A garden, convent, aud s\veet shriue. 

Tall cedars on a broken wall. 
That look away toward Lebanon, 
And seem to mourn for grandeur goue : 

A wolf, an owl, — and that is all. 



LOVE ME, LOVE. 

Love me, love, but breathe it low. 

Soft as summer weather ; 
If you love me, tell me so. 

As we sit together. 
Sweet and still as roses blow — 
Love me, love, but breathe it low. 

Tell me only with your eyes. 
Words are clieap as water. 
If you love me, looks and sighs 

Toll my mother's daughter 
Slore than all the world may know- 
Love me, love, but breathe it low. 

Words for others, storm and snow, 
Wind and changeful weather — 

Let the shallow waters flow 
Foaming on together ; 

But love is still and deep, .and oh! 

Love me, love, but breathe it low. 



ilUuic U. £ncostc. 

Miss Lacostc,born about the year 1843, was a resident 
of Savannah, Ga. (18B3),at the time she wrote the charm- 
ing little poem of" Somebody's Darling." Without her 
consent, it was first published, with her name attached, 
in the Southern Churchman. It has since been copied 
into American and English collections, school-books, 
and newspapers, with her name; so that her wish to re- 
main anonymous seems to be now impracticable. Her 
residence (1880) was Baltimore, and her occupation that 
of a teacher. In a letter to us (1880), she writes: "I 
am thoroughly French, and desire always to be identi- 
fied with France; to be known and considered ever as a 
Frenchwoman. » * * I cannot be considered an authoress 



MARIE 11. LACOSTE.—M.i Y lUl.ET SMITH. 



915 



nt all, and rcsipi all claim to the title.'' Tlic patriotism 
of Miss Lacostc is worthy of all praise; but if she did 
not wish to be regarded as au authoress, and a mueh 
esteemed one, she ou;;lit uevcr to have written "Some- 
body's Darling.'' The marvel is that the vein from 
which came this felicitous little poem has not been 
more productively worked. 



SOMEUOUY'S DARLIXO. 

Into a ward of tho whitewashed walls, 

Where tho dead and dying lay, 
AVonnded by bayonets, shells, and balls. 

Somebody's Darlin;; was boruo one day — 
Sonieboily's Darling, so young and so brave, 

Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face. 
Soon to be bid by tho dust of the grave, 

Tho lingering light of his boyhood's grace. 

Matted and damp are the curls of gold, 

Kissing the snow of that fair young brow ; 
I'alo are the lips of delicate mould — 

Somebody's Darling is dying now. 
liack from his beautiful blue-veined brow 

Hru.'ih all the wandering waves of gold, 
X/'ross his hands on his bosom now, 

Somebody's Darling is still and culd. 

Kiss him once for somebody's sake. 

Murmur a prayer soft and low ; 
One bright curl from its fair mates take, 

'J'licy were somebody's pride, you know : 
Somebody's hand liad rested there, — 

Was it a mother's soft and white T 
And have the lips of a sister fair 

Been baptized in those waves of light f 

God knows best ; he has somebody's love ; 

Somebody's heart enshrined hira there ; 
Somebody wafted his name above 

Night and morn on the wings of prayer. 
Somebody wept when ho marched away, 

Looking so hand.sonie, brave, and grand ; 
Somebody's ki.ss on his forehead lay, 

Somebody clung to his parting hand. 

Somebody's waiting and watching for him — 

Yearning to hold him again to tho heart; 
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim. 

And tho smiling childlike lips apart. 
Tenderly bury the fair young dead. 

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; 
t'arvo on tho wooden slab at his head, — 

" Somebody's Darling slumbers here." 



Itlaji Hilfg Siiiitl). 

AMERICAN. 

May Louise Riley was born in Brighton, a suburb of 
Rochester, N. Y., in 1843, and became by marriage Mrs. 
Albert Smith, and a resident of Chicago. She has been 
a writer from her youth, and a fre(|utnt contributor to 
newspaper and magazines. She excels in homely and 
pathetic themes, and some of her poems have been wide- 
ly copied. 



IF. 



If, sitting w itli Ibis little, worn-out shoo 
And scarlet stocking lying on my knee, 

I knew tho little feet had pattered through 
The pearl-set gates that lie 'twist Heaven and nic, 

I could be reconciled and happy, too. 

And look with glad eyes toward tho jasper sea. 

If in the nKniiing, when the song of birds 
Reminds mo of a music far more sweet, 

I listen for his pretty, broken words, 
And for the music of his dimpled feet, 

I could bo almost happy, though I heard 
No answer, and but saw his vacant seat. 

I could be glad if, when the day is done, 
And all its cares and heartaches laid away, 

I could look westward to tho hidden sun, 

And, with a heart full of sweet yearnings, .say — 

'•To-night I'm nearer to my little one 
By just tho travel of a single day." 

If I could know those little feet were shod 
In sandals wrought of light in better lands. 

And that tho foot|)rints of a tender God 

Kan siilo by side with him, in golden sands, 

I could bow cheerfully and kiss the rod. 
Since Benny was in wiser, safer hands. 

If he wore dead, I would not sit to-day 

And stain with tears tho wee sock ou my knee ; 

I would not kiss the tiny shoe and say — 
"Bring back again my little boy to me!'' 

I would bo patient, knowing 'twjjs God's way. 
And wait to meet him o'er death's silent sea. 

But oh I to know the feet, once pure and white, 
Tho haunts of vice had boldly ventured in ! 

The hands that should have battled for the right 
Had been wrung crimson in the clasp of sin! 

Antl should be knock at Heaven's gate to-night. 
To fear my boy could hardly enter in ! 



916 



CrCLOPMDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



|3ljilip 33ottrke JlTarston. 

Marston, one of the young English poets of tljc latter 
lialf of the nineteenth century, is the son of John West- 
land Marston (born 1830), author of "The Patrician's 
Daughter," and other plays; whose dramatic and poet- 
ical works were published in a collected form in 1876. 
Philip is said to he blind, though not from birth. He 
has published " Song-tide, and other Poems " (1871), and 
"All in All: Poems and Sonnets" (1874). He has also 
contributed to LijyphieolVs and other American maga- 
zines. His poems, artistic in construction, tender and 
emotional in sentiment, have found an enlarging circle 
of admirers. 

FROM FAR. 

O Love, como back, aci'os.s the -weary way 
Thou didst go yesterday — 

Dear Love, come back ! 

" I am too far upon my way to turn : 
I5e sileut, hearts that yearii 
Upon iny track." 

O Love! Love! Love! sweet Love! we are undone 
If thou indeed bo gone 

Where lost things are. 

" Beyond the extrcmest sea's waste light and noi.sc, 
As from Ghostlaud, thy voice 
Is borne afar." 

Love, wliat was our sin that we should be 
Forsaken thus by thee ? 
So hard a lot ! 

" Upon your hearts my bauds aud lips were set — 
My lips of tire — aud yet 

Ye knew me not." 

Nay, surely, Love ! We know thee well, sweet Love ! 
Did we not breathe aud move 
Withiu thy light? 

"Yo did reject my thorns who wore my roses: 
Now darkness closes 

Upon your sight." 

Love ! stern Lovo ! be not implacable : 
Wo loved thee. Love, so well ! 
Come back to us ! 

"To whom, and where, aud by what weary way 
That I went yesterday, 

Shall I come thus?" 



Oh weep, weep, weep ! for Love, who tarried loug, 

With many a kiss aud song, 
Has takou wing. 

No more he lightens in our eyes like fire : 
He heeds not our desire, 

Or songs we sing. 



Sibncn £anier. 

AMERICAN. 

Born in Macon, Ga., in 1843, Lanier took up his resi- 
dence in Baltimore, where he became lecturer on Eng- 
lish Literature in the Johns Hopkins University. In 
1876 he published a small collection of poems from the 
press of Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia ; and a new vol- 
ume was to appear in 1881. His prose works are " Flor- 
ida" (1875), and "The Science of English Verse" (1880) 
— a volume of much original merit, in which he seems 
to have been nnindehted to any predecessor. He is also 
the author of some approved books for boys. Lanier 
is a proficient in music, and a member of the Peabody 
Orchestra, an organization for the cultivation of classic 
music, maintained in connection with the Peabody In- 
stitute. 

A ROSE-MORAL. 

Soul, get theo to the heart 

Of yonder tuberose ; hide thee there, 
Thero' breathe the meditations of thine art 
Snil'used with prayer. 

Of spirit grave yet liglit, 

How fervent fragrances uprise 
Pure-born from these most rich aud yet most white 
Virginities ! 

Mulched with unsavory death, 

Reach, Soul ! yon rose's wliite estate : 
Give off thine art as she doth issue breath, 
And wait, — and wait. 



EVENING SONG. 

Look otf, dear Love, across the sallow sands. 

And mark yon niectir>g of the snu aud sea; 
How loug they ki.ss, in sight of all the lauds! 
Ah, longer, longer we. 

Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun. 

As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine. 
And Cleopatra Night drinks all. 'Tis done ! 
Love, lay thy hand in mine. 



SIDNEY LASlElL—rnOMAS STEPHEXS COLLIER. 



917 



Come forth, sweet stai-s, ami comfort Heaven's heart ; 
Glimmer, yo waves, roiiml else-uiilighled sauils ; 
O Night, divorce our sun ami sky apait — 
Never our lips, our liamls. 



THE HARLEQUIN OF DREAMS. 

Swift through some trap mine eyes have never 

found, 
Dim-puDollcd in the paint«d scene of sleep. 
Thou, giant Harlequin of Dreams, dost leap 
I'pon my siiiril's stage. Then sight and sound. 
Then space and time, then language, mete and bound, 
And all familiar forma that lirmly keep 
Man's ri'ason iu the road, change faces, peep 
Betwixt the legs, and mock the daily round. 
Yet thou canst more than mock : sometimes my tears 
At midnight break thningh bonnden lids — a sign 
Thou hast a heart; and oft thy little leaven 
Of dream-taught wisdom works me bettered years. 
In one night witch, saint, trickster, fool divine, 
1 think thou'rt Jester at the Court of Heaven ! 



FROM THE FLATS. 

AVhat heartache — ne'er a hill I 
Inexorable, vapid, vague, and chill 
The drear sand-levels drain my spirit low. 
With one poor wonl they tell mo all they know; 
Whereat their stupid tongues, to tease my pain. 
Do drawl it o'er again and o'er again. 
They hurt my heart with griefs I cannot name: 
Always the same, the same. 

Nature hath no snrpri.se. 
No ambuscade of beauty, 'gainst mine eyes 
From br.tke or lurking dell or deep defile ; 
No humors, frolic forms— this mile, that mile; 
No rich reserves or h.-ippy-valley hopes 
Beyond the bends of roads, the distant slopes. 
Iler fancy fails, her wild' is all run tame : 
Ever the same, the same. 

Oh, might I through these fears 
But glimpse some hill my Georgia high nprears. 
Where white the quartz and pink the pebbles shine. 
The hickory heavenward strives, the muscadine 
Swings o'er the slope, the oak's far-falling shade 
Darkens the dog-wood in the bottom glade, 
And down the hollow from a ferny nook 
Bright leai>s a living brook! 



(ri)onmG Stcpljcns (Hcllicr. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of New York city, born in 1S13, Collier was 
left au orphan at six yeais of age. He took to the sea, 
and before he was sixteen had visited Africa, Cliina, and 
Japan. He was in tlie United Stales Naval Service dur- 
ing the Rebellion, and visited China and the East a sec- 
ond time. On his return he became a resident of New 
London, Conn. His poems are marked by a progressive 
improvement, indicative of reserved power, yet undevel- 
oped. 



spray 



A WINDY EVENING. 

The sun sank low; beyond the harbor bar 

The waves ran white and high ; 
The reefed sails of a vessel showed afar 

Against the gray-blue sky. 

Sharp called the gulls, as 'mid the tossing 

They circled swift ; and loud 
The north wind roared, as it rushed down the bay. 

And rent the seaward cloud. 

Past the old light-house, risiug white and tall, 

Like birds the wind deceives. 
Swept from the forest by the surging squall. 

Sail the sear autumn leaves. 

Fast o'er the dark and foam-capped waves they fly, 

Brown ghosts of May and .June, 
Seeking the ship tossed up along the sky 

Beneath a thin, white moon. 

Then as they sped on to the shadows gray, 

The sun sank lower down, 
Sending a golden light across the bay, 

And through the dark old town. 

It made the church spires glow with shifting light. 

That slow grew faint and pale. 
As it was borne into the coming night 



The shadows darkened, and along the sea 

The swaying ship had flown ; 
Th(! sun was gone ; one bright star, glistcningly. 

Near to the moon ontshonc. 

Through crimson, flame, amber, and paling gold, 

Fadird the day's sweet light ; 
And on the sea anil land gathered the cold 

Gray shadows of the night. 



918 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BlilTISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



A SEA ECHO. 

The waves came raoaniug up the shore, 

Came ivliite with foam close to her feet, 
And saug, "Your love will come uo more 

To give you kisses sweet." 
The low wiud sighed among the trees, 

" Your love is sailiug far away. 
Where over bright, suu-lighted seas 

Soft summer breezes play." 

"O sighing wind! O moaning sea! 

You have no knowledge of my love ; 
Where'er his ship doth sail, still he 

To mo will faithful prove : 
While skies are bine, while stars are bright, 

And waves come singing up the shore, 
I know my lover will delight 

In me, and love me more." 

"And if yonr lover silent lies. 

Where coral flowers around him grow, 
The love-light faded from his eyes, 

That once they used to know — 
If ho no more can come to you. 

Where will your soul find joy and rest ? 
What is your gain, if he is true 

And loves you still the best ?" 

"Ah, sea and wind, if he no more 

Can come to me, I still shall hold 
His love more precious than before ; 

No death can make love cold. 
AVhy moan or cry ? what use of tears ? 

Though long days make my eyes grow dim, 
There comes an end to all the years — 

And I can go to him." 



jJoljn JJawnc. 



Payne, born in England in 1843, h-is won some dis- 
tinction by his graculiil axvX musical but highly elaborati' 
imitations of French forms of verse. He has published 
"The Masque of Shadows, and other Poems" (1870); 
"Intaglios: Sonnets" (1871); "Songs of Life and 
Death" (1873); "The Poems of Francis Villon done into 
English Verse in the Original Forms" (printed for pri- 
vate circulation); "Lautrec, a Poem;" "New Poems" 
(1880). The Westminster lievkw says of Payne: "He has 
succeeded in wedding tlionsht to new music. He may 
not be popular witli tlic 'blind multitude,' but he is sure 
to be so with all lovers of poetry both to-day and to- 
morrow." Some of the best of his imitations of French 
forms appeared in the London Athcnaum. 



RONDEAU REDOUBLE. 

My day and night are in my lady's baud ; 

I have no other sunrise thau her sight : 
For me her favor glorifies the land ; 

Her auger darkens all the cheerful light; 
Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white, 

When all a-flower in May the hedge-rows stand : 
Whilst she is kind I know of noue affright ; 

My day and night are in my lady's hand. 

All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned : 

Her smile is softer thau the Summer night. 
Gladder than d.aybreak on the I'aery sti'and : 

I have no other sunrise thau her sight. 

Her silver speech is like the singing flight 
Of rnnnels rippling o'er the jewelled saud, 

Her kiss a dream of delicate delight ; 
For me her favor glorifies the laud. 

What if the Winter slay the Summer bland! 

The gold suu in her hair burns ever bright : 
If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned; 

Her auger darlcens all thp cheerful light. 

Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knight. 
And in her surface every ill withstand ; 

Love is my lord, in all the world's despite. 
And holdeth in the hollow of his hand 
My day and night. 



VILLANELLE. 

The air is white with snow-flakes clinging ; 

Between the gusts that come aiul go 
Methiuks I hear the woodlark singing. 

Methinks I see the primrose springing 

On many a bank and hedge, although 
The air is white with snow-flakes clinging. 

Surely the hands of Spring are flinging 

Wood-scents to all the winds that blow : 
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. 

Methinks I see the swallow winging 

Across the woodlands sad with snow ; 
The air is white with snow-flakes clinging. 

Was that the cuckoo's wood-chime swinging? 

Was that the linnet fluting low ? 
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. 



JOHX PATXE.—HARIilET W. PnESTOX.—XORA PEliliT. 



919 



Or can it be the breeze is bringing 

The breath of violets f Ah uo! 
The air is white with suow-t]akes clinging. 

It is my lady's voice that's stringing 
Its beads of gold to song ; and so 
Mcthinks I hear the woodlark singing. 

The violets I see npspringing 

Are in my lady's eyes, I trow : 
The air is white with snow-flakes clinging. 

Dear, whilst thy tender notes are ringing, 

Even whilst amidst the wintei^'s woo 
The air is white with snow-flakes clinging, 
Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. 



fjarrict 111. JJicston. 

AMERICAN. 

Miss Preston is a native of Danvcrs, Muss. She has 
won distinction by her excellent translations of Proven- 
cal poetry, and is the author of " Aspcndale," " Love in 
llie Nineteenth Century," and several attractive maga- 
zine papers. She is also the translator of Frederick Mis- 
tral's ".Mireio" (1S72) ; and in ISTG published a volume 
entitled "Troubadours and Trouveres, Xcw and Old," 
from whieh we extract "Thirteen," after Theodore Aii- 
bancl, a modern Provcnfal poet — the poem being found- 
ed on the old superstition that in a dinner-party of thir- 
teen one will die before a year is ended. In her original 
verses she 1ms been equally successful. 



THIRTEEN. 

"Touch, for yonr life, no .single viand costly! 

Taste not a drop of liquor where it shines! 
He lioro but as the cat wlio lingers ghostly 

About the llesU upon the spit and whines; 
Ay, let the banqnet freeze or perish wholly 

Or ever a morsel pass j'our lips between ! 
I'or I have counted you, uiy comrades jolly, 

Yo are thirteen, all told, — I say thirteen !'' 

"Well, what of that f" the messmates answered, 
lightly, 

"So bo it then! Wo are as well content! 
The longer table means, if we guess rightly, 

Space for more je.sters, broader merriment." 
"Tis I will wake the wit and spice the folly I 

The haughtiest answer when I speak, I ween. 
And I have counted yon, my comrades jolly ! 

Ye are thirteen, all told,^I say thirteen .'" 



" So ho ! thou thinkest then to qnench our laughter f 

Thou art a gloomy presence, verily ! 
We wager that we know what thou art after! 

Come, then, a drink ! and bid thy vapors fly ! 
Thou shalt not taint us with thy melancholy" — 

"Nay, 'tis not thirst gives me this haggard mien. 
Laugh to yonr hearts' content, my comrades jolly ; 

Still I have counted, and yo are thirteen!" 

"Who art thou then, thou kill-joy? What's thy 
nature, 

And what thy name, and what thy business here f" 
"My name is Death! Observe my every featnre! 

I waken longing and I carry fear. 
Sovereign am I of mourners and of jesters ; 

Behind the living still I walk unseen. 
And evermore make one among the feasters 

AVhcn all their tale, is tuld, and they thirteen." 

" Ha ! art thou Death f I am well pleased to know 
thee," 
A gallant cried, and held his glass aloft ; 
"Their scarecrow tales, O Death, small justice do 
thee; 
Where are the terrors thou hast vaunted oft ? 
Come, feast with me as often as they bid thee! 

Our friendly plates be laid with none between." 
"Silence," cried Death, "and follow where I lead 
thee, 
Foi! thou art ho who makest ns thirteen." 

Snddeu, as a grape-clnster, when dissevered 

By the sharp knife, drops from the parent bongh. 
The crimson wine-glass of the gallant wavered 

And fell ; chill moisture started to his brow. 
Death, crying, "Thou canst not walk, but I can carry," 

Shouldered his burden with a ghastly grin, 
And to the stricken feasters said, " Be wary ! 

I make my count oft as ye make thirteen." 



^'ora ycrrn. 



A native and resident of Providence, R. I., Miss Perry 
has published two volumes of poems: "After the Ball, 
and other Poems" (ISTfi), and "Her Lover's Friend, 
and other Poems." David A. Wasson, a good critical 
judjc, says of the last-named volume: "I recognize in 
some of these jmcccs a quality of literary production 
which is very uncommon, if it lie not quite unique, in 
this country." Harriet Prcscott Spotford, herself a poet, 
writes: "There is little art in Nora Perry's songs ; they 
are as natural as a bird's. There are very few figures. 



920 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



metaphors, startling phrases, and no affectations of pliil- 
osophic thought, in tlie lines ; but tliey lilt aloni;' in a 
perpetual sweet cantabile, and one realizes that there is 
no knack or effort about it, hut that it is the voice and 
breath of simple genius. With its music there is to be 
felt in all her verse the spirit of purity, of innocence, 
and youth." 



IN THE DAKK. 

This is my little svreetbeart dead. 
Blue were her eyes, and her cheek was red 
And warm at my touch when I saw her last, 
When she smiled on me and held me fast 

With the light, soft clasp of her .slender hand : 
And now besule her I may stand and stand 
Hour after hour, and no hlush would rise 
On her dead white cheek; and her shut blue eyes 

AVill never unclose at my kiss or call. — 
If this is the end ; if this he all 
That I am to know of this woman dear; 
If the beautiful spirit I knew, lies here. 

With the beautiful body cold and still; 
If, while I stand here now, and thrill 
With my yearning memories sore at heart 
For a token or sign to rend apart 

The pitiless veil, — there is noMiuj beyond ; 

If this woman, so fair, so fine, so fond 

A week ago — fond, fine, and fair 

With the life, the soul that shoue out there. 

In her eyes, her voice, which made her iu truth 
The woman I loved ; if this woman for.sootli 
Is dead as this dead clay that lies 
Under my gaze with close-shut eyes, 

Then what is the meaning of life, when death 
Can break it all, as breaks at a breath 
The child's blown bubble afloat iu the sun ? 
What is the meaning, if all is done 

When this breath goes out into empty air, 
Like this childish plaything flimsy and fair? 
What is the meaning of love's long pain, 
The yearning memories that love and strain 

The living heart or the living soul. 
If this is the end, if this is the whole 
Of life aud death, — this little span 
That drops iu the dark before the span 



Which the brain conceives is half complete, 
Making life but the empty bubble's cheat I 
When, a year ago, through all the maze 
Of speculation's fai'-hung haze, 

I followed on with careless tread, 
/ had not looJced then on my dead — 
My dead so infinitely dear. 
My dead that coldly lying here 

Mocks my fond heart with semblance fair, 
Chills me with measureless despair. 
Then I could calmly measure fate 
With Nature's laws, aud speculate 

Ou all the doubts that science brings ; 
Now, stauding here, what is it springs 
Within my soul, that makes despair 
Not quite despair? O fond, O fair, 

O little sweetheart, dead to me, 
Somewhere or other thou must wait for me ; 
Somewhere, somewhere, I shall not look in vain 
To find thy living face, thy living love again ! 



IN JUNE. 

So sweet, so sweet the roses iu their blowing. 
So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see ; 

So blithe aud gay the humming-bird agoing 
From flower to flower, a-huntiug with the bee. 

So sweet, so sweet the calliug of the thrushes. 
The calliug, cooiug, wooing everywhere; 

So sweet the water's song through reeds and rushes, 
The plover's piping note, now here, now there. 

So sweet, so sweet from oft" the fields of clover 
The west wind blowing, blowing up the hill ; 

So sweet, so sweet with news of some one's lover, 
Fleet footsteps, ringing nearer, nearer still. 

So near, so near, now listen, listen, tliru.shes; 

Now plover, blackbird, cease, and let me hear; 
Aud water, hush yonr song through reeds aud 
rushes. 

That I may know whose lover cometh near. 

So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their calling. 
Plover or blackbird never heediug nie ; 

So loud the mill-stream too kept fretting, falling. 
O'er bar aud bank, iu brawling, boisterous glee. 



XOBA PERUT. 



921 



So loud, so loud ; yet blackbird, thrush, nor plover, 
Nor noisy mill-stream iu its fret and fall, 

Could drown tlio voice, the low voice of my lover. 
My lover calliug through the thrushes' call. 

"Come down, come down !" ho called, and straight 

the thrushes [down !" 

From mate to mate sang all at once, " Come 

And while the water laughed through reeds and 

rushes, [down !" 

The blackbird chirped, the plover piped, " Come 

Then down and off, and through the fields of clover, 
I followed, followed, at my lover's call, 

Listening no more to blaclibird, thrush, or plover, 
The water's laugh, the mill-stream's fret and fall. 



RIDING DOWN. 

Oh, did you see him riding down, 
And riding down, while all the town 
Came out to see, came out to see. 
And all the bells rang mad with glee f 

Oh, did you hear those bells ring out, 
The bells ring out, the people shout. 
And did you hear that cheer on cheer 
That over all tlie bells rang clearT 



And did you sec the waving 

The fluttering Hags, the tattered rags, 

Red, white, and blue, shot through and through, 

Baptized with battle's deadly dew I 

And did yon hear the drums' gay beat, 
The drums' gay beat, the bugles sweet. 
The cymbals' clash, the cannons' cra.sh. 
That rent the sky with sound and flash f 

And did yon see me waiting there. 
Just waiting tliere, .ind watching there, 
One little lass, amid the ma.ss 
That pressed to see the hero pass T 

And did you see him smiling down, 
And smiling down, .is riding down 
With slowest pace, with stately gr.ice. 
Ho caught the vision of a face, — 

My face uplifted red and white, 
Turned red and white with sheer delight, 
To meet the eyes, the smiling eyes, 
Outflashiug in their swift surprise f 



Oh, did you see how swift it came, 
How swift it came like sudden flame. 
That smile to me, to only me. 
The little lass who blushed to see T 

And at the windows all along, 
Oh all along, a lovely throng 
Of faces fair, beyond compare. 
Beamed out upon him riding there! 

Each face was .like a radiant gem, 
A sparkling gem, and yet for them 
No swift smile came, like sudden flame, 
No arrowy glance took certain aim. 

Ho turned away from all their grace. 
From all that grace of perfect face, 
He turned to me, to only me. 
The little lass who blushed to see. 



SOME DAY OF DAYS, 

Some day, some day of days, thrc.iding the street 

With idle, heedless pace, 

Unlooking for such grace, 

I shall behold your face ! 
Some day, some day of days, tlms may we meet. 

Perchance the sun may shine from skies of May, 

Or winter's icy chill 

Touch whitely vale and hill. 

Wh.at matter! I shall thrill 
Through every vein with summer on that day. 

Once more life's perfect youth will all come back. 

And for a moment there 

I shall stand fresh and fair, 

And drop the garment care ; 
Once more ray perfect youth will nothing lack. 

I slint my eyes now, thinking how 'twill be — 

How face to face each soul 

Will slip its long control, 

Forget the dismal dole 
Of dreary Fate's dark separating sea ; 

And glance to glance, and hand to hand in greetiu", 

The past with all its fears. 

Its silences and tears. 

Its lonely, yearning years. 
Shall vanish in the moment of that meeting. 

1871. 



922 



CrCLOFJSDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



3o\)n Sotjle ©'Ucillt). 

O'Reilly was boru in 1S44 in Dowth Castle, County 
Meatli, Ireland. He was educated by his father, and be- 
came a journalist. In 1S63 he engaged in the revolution- 
ary movement for a republic. Entering the English army 
in a cavalry regiment, he made no secret of his republi- 
can sentiments among his fellow-soldiers. In 1866 he 
was arrested, tried, and senteuced to imprisonment for 
life, which was commuted to imprisonment for twenty 
years. He was sent in chains to the penal colony of West 
Australia in 1807, and escaped thence in 1869, through the 
devoted aid of an American whaling captain, David R. 
Gifford, of New Bedford, to whom he dedicated his first 
book. O'Reilly fixed his residence in Boston, where he 
became editor of y^e /■(?()<. In 1878 he published "Songs, 
Legends, and Ballads," by which he placed himself in the 
front rank of the Irish poets of the day. His poem of 
"The Patriot's Grave," read at the Robert Emmet Cen- 
tennial in Boston, March 4th, 1878, seems to pulsate at 
times with the intense emotion made to throb in words 
by the "faculty divine." 

WESTERN AUSTRALIA. 

O beauteou.s Southhiud ! land of yellow air 

That hangeth o'er thee slumbering, and cloth hold 

The ]novele.s3 foliage of tliy valleys fair 
And wooded hills, like aureole of gold ! 

O thon, discovered ere the fitting time, 

Ere Nature iu comjiletion turned thee forth ! 

Ere aught was finished but thy peerless clime, 
Thy virgin breath allured the amorous North. 

O land, God made thee woudrous to the eye. 
But His sweet singers thou hast never heard ; 

He left thee, meauiug to come by-aud-by, 

And give rich voice to every bright-winged bird. 

He painted ivitb fresh hues thy myriad flowers, 
But left them scentless: ah, their woful dole, 

Like sad reproach of their Creator's powers, — 
To make so sweet fair bodies, void of soul. 

He gave thee trees of odorous, precious wood ; 

But 'mid them all bloomed not one tree of fruit : 
He looked, but said not that His work was good, 

When leaving thee all perfumeless and mute. 

He blessed thy flowers with honey : evciy bell 
Looks earthward, snnw.ard, with a yearning wist ; 

But no bee-.lover ever notes the swell 

Of hearts, like lips, a-liungering to be kissed. 

O strange land, thou art virgin! tliou art more 
Than fig-tree barren ! Would that I could paint 



For others' eyes the glory of the shore 

Where last I saw thee ; but the senses faint 

In soft, delicious dreaming when they drain 
Thy wine of color. Virgin fair thou art, 

All sweetly fruitful, waiting with soft pain 

The spouse who comes to wake thy sleeping heart. 



FOREVER. 

Those we love truly never die, 
Though year by year the sad memorial wreath, 
A ring and flowers, types of life and death. 

Are laid upon their graves. 

For death the pure life saves, 
And life all pure is love; and loyo can reach 
From heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach 

Than those by mortals read. 

Well blessed is he who has a dear one dead : 
A friend he has whose face will never change — 
A dear communion that will not grow strange; 

The anchor of a love is death. 

The blessed sweetness of a loving breath 
Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary years. 
For her who died long since, ah ! waste not tears, 

She's thine unto the end. 

Tliauk God for one dear friend, 
With face still radiant with the light of truth, 
Who.se love comes laden with the scent of youth, 

Through twenty years of death. 



AT KEST. 

The faithful helm commands the keel. 
From port to port fair breezes blow ; 

But the ship must sail the convex sea. 
Nor may she straighter go. 

So, iiian to man ; in fair accord. 

On thought and will the winds may wait ; 
But the world will bend the passing word, 

Though its shortest course be straight. 

From soul to soul the shortest line 

At best will bended be : 
The ship that holds the straightest course 

Still sails the convex sea. 



CHARLOTTE FISKE HATES. 



OiT 



Cljailottc Jiskc Dates. 

AMERICAN. 

Miss Bates was born in tlie city of New York, but has 
spent most of ber life in C'anibiidjre, Mass., where she has 
long been engaged in teaching. Her first poems appear- 
ed in Our Young Eulkx, a juvenile magazine, which was 
incorporated in the St. Xic/iolas. Her first volume ap- 
peared in 1879, under tlie title of "Risk, and other Po- 
ems." It includes more than two-thirds of what she 
has written for various periodicals during the last fifteen 
years. It is a book of genuine poetical utterances, as 
the few extracts we give will show. 



SATISFIED. 

Life is unntterably dear, 

God makes to-ilay so fair ; 
Though Heaven is better, — being here 

I long not to be there. 

The weights of life arc pressing still, 

Not one of them may fall ; 
Yet snch strong joys my spirit fill, 

That I can bear them all. 

Thongh Care and Grief are at my side, 
There would I let tlieni stay. 

And still bo ever satisfied 
With beautiful To-day! 



AFTER READIXG LONGFELLOW'S "MORITUEI 
SALUTAMUS." 

"Ye agninst whose familiar names not yet 
The fatal asterisk of death is set." 

Be that sad year, O poet ! very far 

That proves thee mortal by the little star. 

Yet since thy thoughts live daily in onr own, 

And leave no heart to weep or smile alone ; 

Since they are rooted in onr souls, and so 

AVill live forever whither those shall go. 

Though some late asterisk may mark thy name, 

It never will be .set against thy fame! 

For the world's fervent love and praise of thee 

Have starred it first with inimortalitv. 



\V00nBIXES IN OCTOBER. 

As dyed in blood the streaming vines appear, 
\Vhile long and low the wind about them grieves, — 

The heart of Autumn must have broken here. 
And ponred its treasure out upon the leaves. 



EVIL THOUGHT. 

A form not always dark but ever dread, 
That sometimes haunts the holiest of all, — 

God's audience-room, the chamber of the dead, 
Ho ventures here, to woo or to appall ! 

AVlien the soul sits witii every portal wide, 
Joyful to drink the air and light of God, 

This Dark One rushes through with rapid stridi'. 
Leaving the print of evil where he trod. 

Sometimes he enters like a thief at night ; 

And breaking in upon the stillest hour 
Startles the soul to tremble with alTright 

Lest she bo pinioned by so foul a power. 

Again we see his shadow, feel his tread, 

And just escape that strange and captive touch ; 

Perhaps by some tran.stixing wonder led, 
\Ve look till drawn within his very clutch. 

O valorous souls! so strong to meet the foe, 
O timid souls ! yet brave in flight of wing, 

Secure and happy ones who seldom know 
The agony this visitant can bring, — 

Have mercy on your brothers housed so ill, 
Too weak or blinded any force to wield; 

Judging their deeds, tliis fiend remember still : 
Christ pity those who cannot use His shield! 



THE PO\VER OF MUSIC. 

How high those tones are beating, and how strong 
Against these frail and tottering walls of clay ! 

Can they withstand those mighty d.ishings lougT 
Do I not feel them even now give way T 

What if they should T That soon or late must be : 
The broken wall lets forth the soul to light: — 

O Heaven! what fitter passage into thee ^^^j 

Than on the waves of music's conquering ^ight ! 



SONNET: TO C. F. 

O friend! whose name is closely bound with mine. 
How often when thy soul its body wore. 
We spake of those who spake with us no more, 
And eager sought their nearucs,s to divine. 
Today I stand with just this grave of thine 



924 



CrCLOPJEDlA OF BRITISH JXD AMEUICAN POETRY. 



Aud the remembrance of the days before, 
Which time aud place so vividly restore 
That sense of death aud dust I can resign. 
Once it was here thy fancy used to seeli, 
lu Nature's simple play midst flower and tree, 
In sudden tremor of a dear grave's grass, 
Some subtile recognition : — thus then speak, 
O soul that knowest all, and now art free. 
To her who still can only guess and pass. 



THE TELEPHONE. 

Oh ! what a marvel of electric might, 

Tliat makes the ear the conqueror of space. 

And gives us all of presence but the sight. 

When miles of dark aud distance hide the face. 

Soul ! is not this thy very analogue ? 

Do not strange thoughts come soundiug through 
thee thus ? 
Ay, clear sometimes, as if there were no clog 

To shut remotest being out from us ! 

Low notes are said through this strange instrument 
To reach the listener with distiuctest tone : 

So inmost thoughts, from man or angel sent, 
Strike through the soul's aiirial telephone ! 



HOPES AND MEMORIES. 

As little children riinuing ou before, 

To those who follow, backward glances throw. 
And ever as they near the household door. 

With ever watchful smile, more eager grow, — 

So do young hopes before fond memories run. 
Looking behind their parent smiles to meet ; 

Bounding with bolder step at every one. 
But oft returning for assurance sweet. 



Huljavb lllatsou (&ilbcr. 

AMERICAN. 

Born in Borilentown, N. J., Feb. Stli, 1844, Gilder has 
become well known as a joui'n.ilist and man of letters. 
lie has published "The New Day, a Poem in Songs and 
Sonnets" (1876); "The Poet and his Master" (1878). 
A new and revised edition of "The New Day" appeared 
in 1880. The author is associated in tlie editorship of 
Saibner^s Monthly Magazine. His poems partake largely 
of the modern spirit and style. 



THE EIVEE. 

I know thou art not that brown mountain-side. 
Nor the pale mist that lies along the hills. 
And with white joy the deepening valley fills; 
Nor yet the solemn river moving wide 
Into that valley, where the hills abide. 
But whence those morning clouds on noiseless wheels 
Shall lingering lift, and, as the moonlight steals 
From out the heavens, so into the heavens shall 

glide. 
I know thou art not th.at gray rock that looms 
Above the water, fringed with scarlet vine ; 
Nor flame of burning meadow ; nor the sedge 
That swiiys and trembles at the river's edge. 
But through all these, dear heart, to me there comes 
Some melancholy absent look of thine. 



A THOUGHT. 

Ouce, looking from a window on a land 
That lay in silence underneath the sun : 
A land of broad, green meadows, through which 

poured 
Two rivers, slowly widening to the sea, — 
Thus, as I looked, I know not how or whence, 
Was borne into my unexpectant soul 
That thought, late learned by anxious-witted man, 
The infiuite patience of the Eternal Mind. 



SONG. 



Through love to light ! Oh, wonderful the way 
That leads from darkness to the perfect day ! 
From darkness and from sorrow of the night 
To morning that comes singing o'er the sea. 
Through love to light! Through light, O God! to 

Thee, 
W^ho art the love of love, the eternal light of light ! 



O SWEET WILD ROSES THAT BUD AND 
BLOW. 

O sweet wild roses that bud and blow 
Along the way th.at my Love may go ; 
O moss-green rocks that touch her dress. 
And grass that her dear feet may press ; 

O maple-tree, whose brooding shade 

For her a summer teut has made ; 



niCnjRD WATSON GILDER.— ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. 



02o 



O golden-rod and bravo snnflower 
Tljat llauie betoie my maiden's bower ; 

O butterfly, on wliose light wings 
Tbo golden snnimer snnsbino clings ; 
O birds tbat flit o'er wlieat and wall, 
And from cool hollows pipe and call ; 

O falling water, whose distant roar 
Sounds like tbo waves upon tbo shore ; 
O winds that down tbo valley sweep, 
And lightnings from tbo clouds that leap; 

O skies tbat bend above the hills, 
O gentle rains and babbling rills, 
O moon and sun tbat beam and burn — 
Keep safe my Lovo till I return ! 



C.VLL ME NOT DEAD. 

Call me not dead when I, indeed, have gone 
Into the company of the ever-living 
High and most glorious poets! Let thanksgiving 
l.'atber be made. Say — "He at last hath won 
liL-lease and rest, converse supreme and wise, 
Music and song and light of immortal faces : 
To-day, perhaps, wandering in starry ]>laccs. 
He hath met Keats, and known hint by bis eyes. 
To-morrow (who can say) Shakspeare may pass, — 
And our lost friend just catch one syllable 
or that three-ccuturicd wit that kept so well, — 
Or Milton, — or Dante, looking ou the grass 
Thinking of Beatrice, and listening still 
To cb.anted hymns tbat sound from the heavenly 
hUl." 



MY SOXGS ARE ALL OF THEE. 

My Bonga are all of thoo; what though I sing 

Of morning when the stars are yet in sight. 

Of evening, or the melancholy night, 

Of birds tbat o'er the reddening waters wing; 

Of song, of tire, of winds, or mists that cling 

To mountain-tops, of winter all in white. 

Of rivers that toward ocean take their flight. 

Of summer when the rose is blos.soming. 

I think no thought tbat is not thine, no breath 

Of life I breathe beyond thy sanctity ; 

Thou art the voice that silence utterctb, 

And of all sound thou art the sense. From thee 

The music of my song and what it saith 

Is but the beat of thy heart, throbbed through me. 



(Pli^abctl) Stuart ^Oljclps 



The daughter of Professor Austin Phelps, Elizabeth 
was born in Boston, Mass., Aug. 31st, 1844, and educated 
at Andover. lu 18C8 she published "Tlie Gates Ajur," 
which had a great sale; in 1809, " Men, Women, and 
Gliosts," a collection of her stories from IIarj>cr's and 
other magazines; in 1871, "The Silent Partner." Shu 
has also published a volume of poems. 



APPLE BLOSSOMS. 

I sit beneath the apple-tree, 

I see uor sky nor sun ; 
I only know tho apple-buds 

Are opening one by one. 

You asked me once a little thing — 

A lecture or a song 
To hear with yon ; and yet I thought 

To fnid my whole life long 

Too short to bear tho happiness 
That bounded through tho day, 

Tbat made the look of apple blooms, 
And yon and nio and Slay ! 

For long between ns there had hung 
The mist of love's young doubt ; 

Sweet, shy, uncertain, all tho world 
Of trust and May burst out. 

I wore tho flower in my hair. 

Their color on my dress ; 
Dear love ! whenever apples bloom 

lu heaven do they bless 

Y'our heart with memories so small. 

So strong, so cruel glad ? 
If ever .apples bloom in heaven, 

I wonder are you sad f 

Heart! yield up thy fruilless quest. 

Beneath the apple-tree ; 
Youth comes but once, love only once, 

And May but once to thee ! 



OX THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

It chancetb ouce to every soul, 

Within a narrow hour of d(Uibt and dole. 



926 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISS AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Upon Life's Bridge of Sighs to stand — 
A palace and a prison on each hand. 

O palace of the rose-heart's hue ! 

How like a flower the warm light falls from yon ! 

O prison with the hollow eyes ! 

Beneath your stouy stare no flowers arise. 

palace of the rose-sweet siu ! 

How safe the heart that does not enter in ! 

O blessdd prison walls ! how true 

The freedom of the soul that chooseth you ! 



(!5milij ^Jfciffcr. 



Born in England, Miss PfeiB'er has written sonnets and 
poems, wliich have attracted the attention ol'sorae of the 
best critics. We find nothing more noteworthy in the 
list, however, than tlie following graceful little effusion 
constructed in imitation of the old French form of verse, 
called the " Villanelle ;" which, we are told, was in truth 
a "Shepherd's Song;" and, according to rule, "the 
thoughts should be full of sweetness and simplicity." 
The recurrence of the rhymes is worthy of note. 



SUMMER-TIME. 

V1LL.\NELLE. 

O Summer-time, so passing sweet, 

But heavy with the breath of flowers, 
But languid with the fervent heat, 

They chide amiss who call thee fleet, — 

Thee with thy weight of daylight hours, 
O Summer-time, so passing sweet ! 

Young Summer, thou art too replete, 

Too rich in choice of joys and powers. 
But languid with the ferveut heat. 

Adieu ! my face is set to meet 

Bleak Winter, with his pallid showers — 
O Summer-time, so iiassing sweet! 

Old Wiuter steps with swifter feet. 

He lingers not in wayside bowers, 
He is not languid with the heat ; 

Hia rounded day, a pearl eomiilete. 

Gleams on the unknown night that lowers ; 
O Summer-time, so passing sweet, 
But languid with the fervent heat ! 



(Tljcopljilc ilTar^iaU 



One of the " Victorian poets," Marzials is noted for his 
imitations of Frenen forms of verse. Some of his po- 
ems are the result of his studies in Provenjal literature. 
He is the author of "The Gallery of Pigeons, and other 
Poems," a work laughed at by some of his critics and 
praised by others. Poetic license can hardly justify a 
metaphor like this : 

"I'd like to be the lavender 
That makes her lineu sweet." 



CAEPE DIEM. 

KONDE.iU. 

To-day, what is there in the air 

That makes December seem sweet May ! 

There are no swallows anywhere. 

Nor crocuses to crown your hair, 
And hail you down my garden way. 

Last night the full-moon's frozen stare 
Struck me, perhaps ; or did yon say, 
Keally, you'd come, sweet friend and fair, 
To-day ? 

To-day is here ; — come, crown to-day 

With Spring's delight or Spring's despair! 
Love cannot bide old Time's delay — 
Down my glad gardens light winds play. 
And my whole life shall bloom and bear 
To-day. 



©bmunb lH. ®ossc. 

One of the younger tribe of Victorian poets, Gosse has 
published " On Viol and Flute," " King Erie," and other 
works. He is one of the revivers of the old French forms 
of rhyming verses, and we give specimens of his skill in 
these beautiful but somewhat artificial productions. The 
"Chant Royal " has been defined as a ballad of five stan- 
zas of eleven lines with an "Envoi" of five. Gosse has 
given the first example in English, and with brilliant 
success. Here, too, the rhymes, running through all the 
divisions, play an important part. It originally appear- 
ed in his article on the peculiarities of Freuch verse in 
the Cornhill Marjazine, 



VILLANELLE. 

Would.st thou not be content to die 

When low-hung fruit is hardly clinging. 
And golden Autumn passes bj' ? 



EDMUXD IT. GOSSE. 



927 



If wo could vauisb, tbou niul I, 

Wliilo the last woodland bird is singing, 
Woiildst tbou uot bo content to die f 

Deep drifts of leaves in tbe forest lie, 

Ked vintage tbat tbo frost is liiuging, 
And golden Autninn passes by. 

Ueneatb tliis delicate, rose-gray sky. 

While sunset bells are faiutly ringing, 
Wonldst tbou not be content to die f 

For wintry webs of mist on high 

Out of the ninflled earth is springing, 
And golden Autumn passes by. 

Ob now, when pleasures fade and fly, 

And Hope her southward flight is winging, 
Wonldst thou not bo content to diet 

Lest Winter come, with wailing cry, 

His cruel icy bondage bringing. 
When golden Antiinm bath passed by. 

And thou with many a tear and sigh. 

Wliilo Life her wasted hands is wringing, 
.'ihalt jiray in vain for leave to dio 
When golden Autumn bath passed by. 



THE GOD OF AVIXE. 

CHANT ROYAL. 
I. 
Heboid, above the mountains there is light, 

A streak of gold, a line of galhi'ring fire, 
And the dim east hath suddenly grqwn bright 

With pale aerial flame, that drives up higher 
The Iniid airs tbat all the long night were 
JSreasting the dark ravines and coverts bare; 

Behold, behold .' the granite gates unclose, 

And down the vales a lyric jieoplo flows. 
Who danco to music, and in dancing fling 

Their frantic robes to every wind tbat blows. 
And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing. 



Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight. 
Still dancing blithely in a seemly choir ; 

Tossing on high the symbol of their rite, 
The cone-tipped thyrsus of a god's desire; 

Nearer they come, tall damsels flushed and fair, 

With ivy circling their abundant hair. 



Onward, with even pace, in stately rows. 

With eye that flashes, and with cheek that glows. 

And all the while their tribute-songs they bring, 
Aiul newer glories of the pivst disclose. 

And deathless imiises to tbo Vine-god sing. 



Tlie pure luxuriance of tluir limbs is white. 
And flashes clearer as they draw tho uigher, 

Bathed in an air of infinite delight. 

Smooth without wonnd of thorn or fleck of mire, 

Borne up by song as by a trumpet's blare. 

Leading the van to conquest, on they fare. 
Fearless and bold, whoever comes and goes 
These sbiuing cohorts of Bacchantes close. 

Shouting and shouting till tho mountains ring, 
And forests grim forget their ancient woes, 

And deathless i)raises to tho Vine-god sing. 



And youths are there for whom full many a night 
Brought dreams of bliss, vague dreams that haunt 
and tire. 

Who rose in their own ecstasy bedight. 

And wandered forth tlirougb many a scourging 
brier, 

And waited shivering in the icy air, 

And wrapped tho leopard-skin about them there. 
Knowing for all the bitter air that froze, 
Tho time must come that every poet knows. 

When he shall rise and feel himself a king, 
And follow, follow where the ivy grows, 

And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing. 

V. 

But oh ! within the heart of this great flight. 
Whose ivory arms hold up tbe golden lyre. 

What form is this of more than mortal height 1 
What m.atchless beauty, what inspired ire f 

The brindled panthers know tho prize they bear, 

And harmonize their steps with stately earo ; 
Bent to tho morning, like a living rose, 
Tho immortal splendor of bis face ho shows. 

And, where ho glances, leaf, and flower, and wing 
Tremble with rapture, stirred in their repose, 

And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing. 



Prince of the fluto and ivy, all thy foes 
Record tho bounty that thy grace bestows. 

But we, thy servants, to thy glory cling, 
And with no frigid lips our songs compose. 

And deathless praises to tbo Vine-god sing. 



928 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



UTill (Harkton. 



Carleton, author of " Fann Ballads," etc., was born in 
Hudson, Lenawee County, Mich., in 1S45. His fathei' was 
a pioneer settler from New Hampshire. For four years 
of his youth he divided his time between attending school, 
teaching, and assisting his father on the farm. He was 
graduated from Hillsdale College, Mich., in 1869. Since 
then he has been engaged in literary and jourualistic 
work, and in lecturing. In 1872 appeared his ballad of 
"Betsy and I Are Out," which was reprinted with il- 
lustrations in Harper's IVirkli/, and gave tlie author an 
extended reputation. His "Farm Ballads" and "Farm 
Legends," published by Harper & Brothers, attained 
great popularity. 



OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. 

Over the liill to the iioor-housc I'm tnidgin' my 

weary way — 
I, a woman of .seventy, and only a trifle gray — 
I, who am smart au' chipper, for all the years I've 

told, 
As many anotlier woman that's only half as old. 

Over the liill to the poor-house — I can't quite make 
it clear! 

Over the hill to the iioor-house — it seems so hor- 
rid queer! 

Many a step I've taken a-toiliu' to and fro. 

But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go. 

What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame? 
Am I lazy or crazy ? am I blind or lame ? 
True, I am uot so supple, nor yet so awful stout; 
But charity ain't no favor, if cue can live without. 

I am willin' and auxion.s an' ready any day 

To work for a decent liviu', an' pay my honest way ; 

For I can earn ray victuals, an' more too, I'll he 

hound. 
If anybody only is willin' to have me round. 

Once I was young and han'some — I was, upon my 

soul — 
Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal ; 
And X can't remember, iu them days, of heariu' peo- 

]>Ie say, 
For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way. 

'Taint no use of hoa.stin', or talkin' over-free, 
But many a house an' home was open then to mc ; 
Many a han'some offer I had from likely men. 
And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then. 



And when to John I was married, sure he was good 

and smart ; 
But ho and all the neighbors would own I done 

my part ; [strong, 

For life was all before me, an' I was young an' 
And I worked the best that I could iu tryin' to get 

along. 

And so we worked together ; and life was hard, hut 
gay, [way; 

With now and theu a baby for to cheer us on our 

Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean and 
neat, [eat. 

An' weut to school like others, an' had enough to 

So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every 

one ; 
Worked for 'em summer and winter, jnst as we ought 

to 've done ; 
Only perhaps we humored 'om, which some good 

folks condemn ; [them. 

But every couple's child'ru's a heap the best to 

Strange how much we think of our blessed little 

ones ! — 
I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for 

my sous ; 
And God he made that rule of love ; bnt when we're 

old and gray, 
I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the 

other way. , 

Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was 

grown. 
And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left ns there 

alone ; 
W^hen John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer 

seemed to be, 
The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him 

away from nie. 

Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe 

or fall- 
Still I worked for Charley; for Charley was now 

my all ; 
And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a 

word or frown, 
Till at last ho went a-courtin', and brought a wife 

from town. 

She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant 

smile — 
She was quite coneeity, and carried a heap o' style; 



WILL CARLETOX.—JULIJy HAWTHORNE. 



92a 



l!iit if ever I tried to be friends, I did wifli Iier, I I But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much 



know ; 



put down, 



Hut sbo was liaiil and pioud, an' I coiililii'l luaUe Till I'liarlcy wont to tbo poor-master, au' put me 



It go. 

Sill! bad au edication, an' that was '^»m\ for licr: 
I!ut wbcn she twitted nic on mine, 'twas carryiu' 

tilings too fur: 
An" I told ber once, 'fore ccnnpany (an' it almost 

made ber sick). 
That I never swallowed a giaiuinar, or'i't a'ritliiiietic. 

So 'twas only a few days befon- lln' tiling was done — 
Tliey was a family of themselves, and I another one; 
And a very little cottage one family will do. 
Hut I never have seen a house that was big enough 
for two. 

An' I never could speak to suit ber, never could 

please her eye, 
.\W it made me indeiiendeut, an' then I didn't try; 
Hut I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, 
W'licu Charley turned ag'iu me, an' told mo I could 

g»- 

I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was 

small. 
And she was always a-hintin' bow snug it was for 

US all : 
And what with her husband's sisters, and what with 

child'ru three, 
"Th as ea.sy to discover that there wasn't room for me. 

An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got, 
Tor Thomas's buildings 'd cover the half of au 

acre lot ; 
Hut all the child'ru was on me — I couldn't stand 

their sauce — 
And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there 

to boss. 

Au' then I wrote to HiOiecca, my girl who lives out 

West, 
And to Isaac, not far from her — some twenty miles 

at best ; 
And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any 

one so old. 
And t'other had au opinion the climate was too cold. 

So they have shirked and slighted nie, an' shifted 

me about — 
So they have well-nigh soared me, an' wore my old 

heart out ; 

59 



on till' towu. 

Over the bill In (lie poiii-liouse — my cliiUl'm dear, 

good -bye ! 
Many a night I've watched yon w In-n only God was 

nigh ; 
And God '11 judge between us ; but I will al'ays pray 
That you shall never sulfur the half I do to-dav. 



iFulian (jauitljonu. 

AMERICAN. 

Hawthorne, a son of the eminent Ameiican author, 
Nathaniel Ilawtliorue, has distinguished himself mure in 
prose tliun verse. He is the author of several novels, 
showing that he has inherited much of his father's pe- 
culiar genius. He was born June '22d, 1846, in Salem, 
Mass. ; studied at Harvard College, and at the SeieutiDe 
School ; also studied engineering in (lerniany. He took 
up literature as a profession in 1871, since which time 
he has resided in Germany and England. The subjoin- 
ed poem, which appeared originally in the Kcm Jeruxalcm 
Messenger, is a vigorous exposition of ouc of the leading 
doctrines of Swedeuborg's thcosophy. 



FREK-WILL. 

Strength of the beautiful day, green and bine and 
white! 

Voice of leaf and of bird ; [shore ; 

Low voice of mellow surf far down the curving 
Strong white clouds and gray, slow and calm in 
your flight. 

Aimless, majestic, unheard, — 
Yon walk in air and dissolve and vanish for 
e\cruioro ! 
Lying hero 'midst poppies and maize, tired of the 
loss and the gain, 

Dre.'iining of rest, all I fain 
Would I, like yo, trausiuiito the terror of fate into 
prai.se. 

Yet thou, O earth, art a slave, orderly without care, 
Perfect thou know'st not why, 
I'or lie whose Word is thy life has spared tine 
the gift of Will ! 
We iiien aro not so brave, onr lives arc not so fair, 
Our law is an eye for an eye ; 
And the light that shines for our good we use 
to our ill. 



930 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Fails boyhood's hope ere loug, for the deed still 
mocks the i^lan, 

Aud the kuave is the honest man, 
And thus we grow weak iu a world created to 
make ns strong. 

lint woe to the man who quails before that which 
makes him man ! 

Though heaven be sweet to win, 
One thing is sweeter yet — freedona to side with 
hell! 
In man succeeds or fails this great creative plan ; 
Man's liberty to sin 
Makes worth God's winning the love even God 
may not con]~pel. 
Shall I then uinrniur aud be wroth at Nature's 
peace ? 

Though I be ill at ease, 
I hold one link of the chain of his happiness in 
my hand. 



(Strgar Jaiucett. 



AMERICAN. 
Fawcett, a native of the city of New Tork, was born 
in 1847, and graduated at Columbia College in 1867. He 
has been a frequent coutributor to the magazines, and a 
volume of his poems appeared in Boston in 1878. Iu 
1880 he made a dramatic venture iu his play of " A False 
Friend," which was effectively produced at some of the 
principal theatres. Since then he has produced a comic 
drama, also successful. 



CRITICISM. 

" Crude, pompous, turgid," the reviewers said ; 

" Sham iiassion aud sham power to turn one sick ! 
Piu-wheels of verse that sputtered as we read — 

Rockets of rhyme that showed the falling stick !" 

But while, assaulted of this buzzing band, 
The poet quivered at their little stings. 

White doves of sympathy o'er all the laud 

Went flying with his fame beneath their wings ! 

Aud every fresh year brought him love that cheers, 
As Caspian waves briug amber to their shore. 

And it befell that after many years, 

Being now no longer young, he wrote once more. 

" Cold, classic, polLshed," the reviewers said ; 

" A book yon scarce can love, howe'er you praise. 
We missed the old careless grandeur as we read. 

The power and passion of his younger days!" 



Cjcnrg ^uoiuslin 33ccrs. 



Beers was born in Buffalo, N. T., July 2d, 1847. His 
family were residents of Litchfield, Conn. He was grad- 
uated at Tale College in 1869, and after spending two 
years in New York in the study of the law, was appoint- 
ed tutor in English at Yale, and in 187.5 chosen Assistant- 
professor of English. Iu 1878 he published " Odds and 
Ends," a volume of poems; and the same year, "A Cen- 
tury of American Literature." His " Caryamon " has 
been translated into the Czech language, aud printed in 
a Prague newspaper. Of liis poetical volume, including 
some comic pieces, he remarks : " It may be right to add, 
tbat at least half the pieces can lay claim to whatever 
indulgence, if any, is usually given to juvenilia, or the 
work of writers under ai;e." 



PSYCHE. 

At evening iu the port she laj-, 

A lifeless block with canvas furled ; 

But silently at peep of day 

Spread her white wings aud skimmed away, 

And, rosy in the dawn's first ray, 

Sank down behind the roundiug world. 

So hast thou vanished from our side. 

Dear bark, that from some far, bright strand, 

Anchored awhile on life's dull tide ; 

Then, lifting spirit pinions wide. 

In heaven's own orient glorified. 

Steered outward seeking Holy Land. 



CARgAMON. 

His steed was old, his armor worn, 
And ho was old and worn aud gray ; 

The light that lit his patient eyes 
It shone from very far away. 

Through gay Provence he journeyed on, 
To one high quest his life was true. 

And so they called him Car?amon — 

The knight who seeketh the world through. 

A pansy blossomed on his shield ; 

" A token 'tis," the people say, 
" That still across the world's wide field 

He seeks la dame de ses pensees." 

For somewhere on a painted wall. 
Or in the city's shifting crowd, 



HESJiT AVGVSTIX BEERS.— EDWAKD DOWDEX. 



<J31 



Or looking from a casement t:ill, 

Or shaped of dream or evening cloud — 

Forgotten when, forgotten where — 
llcr face liad tilled his careless eyo 

A moment ere he turned and passed, 
Nor knew it was his destiny. 

But ever in his dreams it came 
Divine and passionless and strong, 

A smile npou the imperial lips 

No lover's kiss had dared to wrong. 

lie took his armor from the wall — 
Ah ! gone since then was many a day — 

He led his steed from out the stall 
And sought /<( dame de sen pcnaeet. 

The ladies of the Troubadours 

Came riding through the chestnut grove : 
" Sir Minstrel, string that lute of yours. 

And sing us a gay song of love." 

" O ladies of the Troubadours, 
My lute has but a single string ; 

Sirventes (it for paramours. 

My heart is not in tunc to sing. 

" The flower that blooms upon my shield 

It has another soil and spring 
Than that wherein the gaudy rose 

Of light Provence is blossoming. 

"The lady of my dreams doth Imld 
Such royal state within my mind, 

No thought that cuines unclad in gold 
To that high court may entrance find." 

So through the chestnut groves he passed, 
And through the land and far away ; 

Nor know I whether in the world 
He found la dame de ae» j>ens&3. 

Only I know that in the South, 

Long to the harp his tale was told ; 

Sweet as new wine within the month 
The small, choice words and music old. 

To scorn the promise of the Real ; 

To seek and seek and not to find ; 
Yet cherihh still tiie fair Ideal — 

It is thy fate, O restless Mind! 



Criiuiarii Douibcu. 



One of the youni;ii- tril)e uf Kn','lish poets, Dowden 
was born about 1848. lie has published "Shakspearc's 
Mind and Art" (1875); and "Poems" (1870), a second 
edition of which appeared in 1877. He shows the iuHu- 
cnce of Tennyson, Clougli, and Heine ; but his poems do 
not lack a saving orii;inal grace. They show a profound- 
ly meditative all'ection foi' Nature, with occasional sug- 
gestions of the new Pantheism. At times they are some- 
what obscure, as if their meaning were that of a mo- 
mentary mood, which the poet himself might not always 
be able to explain. Dowden has produced some sixty 
sonnets, several of them of rare beauty. 



ABOARD THE "SEA-SWALLOW." 

The gloom of the sea-fronting elifl's 

Lay on the water, violet-dark. 
The pennon drooped, the sail fell in. 

And slowly moved our bark. 

A golden day ; the summer dreamed 
In heaven and on the whispering sea. 

Within our hearts the summer dreamed. 
The hours had ceased to be. 

Then rose the girls with bonnets loosed, 
And shining tres.ses lightly blown, 

Alice and Adda, and sang 
A song of Mendelssohn. 

Oh sweet, and sad, and wildly clear. 
Through summer air it sinks and swells, 

Wild with a, measureless desire, 
Aud sad with all farewells. 



OASIS. 



Let them go by — the heats, the doubts, the strife ; 

I can sit here and care not for them now. 
Dreaming beside the glittering wave of life 
Ouce more, — I know uot how. 

There is a murmur in my heart, I hear 

Faint, oh so faint, some air I used to sing; 
It stirs my sense ; and odors dim and dear 
The meadow-breezes bring. 

Just this way did the quiet twilights fade 
Over the fields aud happy homes of men. 
While one bird sang as now, piercing the shade. 
Long since, — I know uot when. 



932 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



WISE PASSIVENESS. 

Think you I choose or that or this to sing ? 

1 lie as iiatient as yon wealthy stream 

Dreaming among green fields its summer dream, 

Which takes whato'er the gracious hours will bring 

luto its quiet bosom ; not a thing 

Too common, since perhaps you see it there 

WIio else had never seeu it, though as fair 

As on the world's first morn ; a fluttering 

Of idle butterflies ; or the deft seeds 

Blown flora a thistle-head ; a silver dove 

As faultlessly ; or the large, yearning eyes 

Of pale Narcissus : or beside the reeds 

A shepherd seeking lilies fur his love, 

And evermore tlie all-encirclinsr skies. 



THE INNER LIFE. 

Master, they argued fast concerning Thee, 

Proved what Thou art, denied what Thou art not 

Till brow.s were on the fret, and eyes grew hot. 

And lip and chin were thrust out eagerly; 

Then through the temple-door I slipped to free 

My soul from secret ache in solitude, 

And sought this brook ; and by the brookfeido stood 

The world's Light, and the Light and Life of me. 

It is enough, O Master, speak no word ! 

The stream speaks, and the endurance of the sky 

Outpasscs speech : I seek not to discern 

Even what smiles for me Thy lips have stirred ; 

Only iu Thy hand still let my hand lie. 

And let the musing soul within me burn. 



TWO INFINITIES. 

A lonely way, and as I went my eyes 
Could not unfasten from the Spring's sweet things: 
Liish-sproiited grass, and all that climbs and clings 
In loose, deep hedges, where the primrose lies 
In her own fairness, — buried blooms surprise 
Tlie plunderer Iiee and stop his murmurings, — 
And the glad flutter of a finch's wings 
Ontstavtles small blue-speckled butterflies. 
Blissfully did one speedwell plot beguile 
My whole heart long ; I loved each separate flower. 
Kneeling. I looked up suddenly — Dear God ! 
There stretched the shining plain for many a mile, 
The mountains rose witli what invincible power ! 
And how the sliy was fathomless and broad I 



Samuel lllillcr €)a(\cinan. 



Hageraan, a grandson of Dr. Samuel Miller, Professor 
in the Princeton, N. J., Theological Seminary, and son 
of John Frclinghuysen Hageman, a well-known lawyer, 
and author of "Princeton and its Institulious," was 
born in that city in 1848. He began to write verses be- 
fore he was fifteen years old ; and his poem of " Silence " 
was originally published in the Princetonian when he 
was eighteen. It was issued in a volume in 1876. He 
was pastor of the L^nion Tabernacle, Brooklyn, N. Y. 
(1880), with a large congregation. In reference to " Si- 
lence," Miss Jean Ingelow writes : " I have read the 
poem more than once with interest and admiration. I 
congratulate the author on the beauty of his work." 
Hageman is the author of "Veiled," a novel ; also of a 
volume entitled "Protestant Paganism ; or, The Capital 
Errors of Christianity." 



STANZAS FROM "SILENCE." 

Earth is but the frozen echo of the silent voice of 
God, 

Like a dew-drop iu a crystal throbbing iu the sense- 
less clod : 

Silence is the heart of all things, sound the flutter- 
ing of its pulse, [vulsc. 

Which the fever and the spasm of the universe con- 

Every sound that breaks the silence only makes it 
more profound. 

Like a crash of deafening thunder iu the sweel blue 
stillness drowned; 

Let thy soul walk softly in thee, as a saint in 
heaven unshod, 

For to be alone with silence is to be alone with God. 
y. -jf ^ * * * 

Thus it was that as I wandered, often, on the yel- 
low beach. 

Day to day was uttering knowledge, night to niglit 
was showing speech : 

Till the stillness grew oppressive, so that when I 
left the spot, [heai'd it not. 

On the sounding shore the ocean thundered ; but I 

Scunewhere on this moving planet, in the mist of 

years to be, 
In the silence, iu the shadow, waits a loving heart 

for thee : 
Somewhere in the beckoning heavens, where they 

know as they are known. 
Are the empty arms above thee that shall clasp thee 

for their own. 



SAMUEL MILLER SAG EM AX.— CHARLES DE KAT. 



9:{3 



Somewhere in the far-oft" silcuco I shall lerl a vau- 
ishcd liuud, 

Somewhere I sliall know a voice that now I cannot 
nnderstand ; 

Somewhere! Where art tlion, O spectre of illimit- 
able space ? 

Silent scene withont a sliadow ! silent sphere with- 
out a, place ! 

• * • -• . # 
Comes (hero back no koiukI beyond ns where the 

trackless snnbeam calls ? 
Comes there back uo wraith of music, melting 

through the crystal walls? 
Comes there back no bird to lisp us of the great 

for evermore, 
Willi a leaf of Life, unwithered, plucked upon the 

farther shore f 

(io to Silence : win her secret, she shall teach thee 

how to speak, 
Shape to which all else is shadow grows within thee 

clear and bleak ; 
do to Silence: she shall teach thee; ripe fruit 

hangs within thy reach ; 
lie alone hath clearly spoken, who lialh learned 

this: Thought is Speech. 

• «»*«« 

O thou strong and sacred Silence, self-contained in 

self-control, 
O thon palliating Silence, Sabbath art thou of the 

sonl : 
Lie like snow ujion my virtues, lie like dust upon 

my faults, 
Silent when the world detlnones me, silent when 

the world exalts! 

• • • * • • 
Wisdom ripens unto Silence as she grows more truly 

wise, 
And she wears a mellow sadness in lii^r heart and 

in her eyes: [teach. 

Wisdom ripens unto Silence, and the lesson she doth 
Is that life is more than language, ami that thought 

is more than speecii. 



(EljixilcG i)c Han. 

AMERICAN. 

Charles de Kay was born in Washinirton, D. C, in the 
year 1S48. He graduated from Vale College In 1S08. lie 
published a short novel entitled "The Bolicmlan : a 
Tragedy of Modern Life," in lS7b; and " Hesperus, and 
other Poems," in 18S0. 



THE ULUSH. 

If fragrances were colors, I would liken 
A blush that deepens in her thoughtful face 
To that aroma which pervades the place 
Where woodmen cedars to the heart have stricken ; 
If tastes were hues, the blissful dye I'd trace 
In upland strawberries, or winter-green; 
If sound, why thon, to shy and nu-llow bass 
Of mouutaiu thrushes, beard, yet seldom seen. 
Or say that hues are felt : then would it seem 
Most like to cobwebs borne on Southern gales 
Against a spray of jasmine. Hut the glow 
Itself is found where swcetbrier petals gleam 
Through tenderest hoar-frost, or upon the snow 
Of steadfast hills when shadows brim the vales. 



FINGKRS. 

Who will tell me the .secret, the ean.so 

For the life in her swift-flying hands ? 
How weaves she the shuttle with never a pause, 

With keys of the octavo for strands f 
Have they eyes, tlio.se soft fingers of her 

That they kiss in the darkness the keys, 
As in darkness the poets aver 

Lover's lips will find lips by degrees 7 

Ay, marvels tliey are in their shadowy dance. 
But who is the god that has given them soul T 

Where learned they the spell other souls to entrance. 
Where the heart other hearts to control ? 

'Twas the noise of the wave at the prow, 

The musical lapse on the beaches, 
"Twas the surf in the night when the laud-breezes 
blow, 

The song of the tide in the reaches: 

She has drawn their sweet influence home 
To a sonl not yet clear but prcifound, 

Where it blows like the Persian sea-foam 
Into pciirls — 
Into pearls of melodious sound. 



OX REVISITINU STATEN ISLAND. 

Again ye fields, again yo woods and farms, 
Slowly approach and fold mo in yonr arms ! 
The .scent of .Inne buds wraps me once again. 
The breath of grasses sighs along the plain. 



934 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Ye elms and oaks tliat comforted of yore, 

I hear your welcome as I heard hcfore ; 

The night-blue sky is etched with dusky boughs, 

And at your feet the white and huddled cowi> 

Ai'e hreathiug deeply still. Is all a dream, 

Or does the hill-side with a welcome gleam ? 

Ye lofty trees, know ye your worshipper 1 

Know ye a wanderer, ready to aver 

Yon branch leans downward to his eager face, 

ion bush seems following on his happy trace? 

The cedars gossip softly, one by one. 

Leaning their heads in secret ; on and on 

The whisper spreads from new-born larch to fir. 

Thence to the chestnut tender yet of burr, 

And now the fragrant blackberry on the moor 

Says the same word the white beech mutters o'er. 

A spice-birch on the fringes of tlie wood 

Has lain in wait, has heard and understood ; 

The piny phalanx nods, and np, away, 

Tree-tops have sped the uame to Prince's Bay 1 



Cljoiics ^. Nones. 

AMERICAN. 

In the summer of 1878 a little volume of poetry was 
publislictl in Philadelphia, entitled "Studies in Vci-so, by 
Charles Quiet." This was the pseudonyme of Charles 
H. Noyes, a young lawyer of Wai-ren, Pa., and a native 
of Marshall, Calhoun County, Mich., where he was born 
in 1849. While some of his verses bear the marks of im- 
maturity, others are fervid with the true afflatus, and full 
of promise. 

THE PRODIGAL SON TO THE EARTH. 

O mother, wait until my work is done! 

Loose thy strong arms that draw me to thy breast 

Till I am ready to lie down and rest ; 
Grudge not to me the kisses of the sun. 

Fear not, fond earth, thy .strong love holds me fast ; 

Thou art mine heir — I .shall be thine at last. 

O cousin ro.ses! thirst not for my blood 

To dye your paling checks. O rank, wild grass, 
Clutch not with greedy fingers as I pass. 

And you, great hungry giants of the wood ! 
Let not your roots for my rich juices yearn. 
Mine shall be yours, but you must wait your turn. 

O roses, grasses, trees ! I am your kin — 

Your prodigal blood-cousin, now grown strange 
With many wanderings through the lauds of 
change ; 

You lent me of your substance, and I've been 



A wasteful steward ; yet I shall bring back 
My whole inheritance — you shall not lack. 

Divide my all among you ! 'twas but lent 

To me a while to use. Part heart and brain. 
Matter and force, until there shall remain 

Of rae no shadow ; I am well content. 
Order and chaos wage eternal strife ; 
The end of living is to bring forth life. 

Guardian of thoughts, immortal memory ! 

Keep thou immortal some good thought of mine. 
Which, iu oblivion's dark, may softly shine 

Like the pale fox-fire of a rotting tree. 
If thou do keep but oue song-child alive. 
In its sweet body shall my soul survive. 



MY SOLDIER. 

The day still linger.s, though the sun is down. 
Kissing the earth, and loath to say good-bye ; 

While night, impatient, shows her starry crown 
Just glintiug through the curtains of the sky. 

I sit within the door and try to knit; 

Some sadness of the sky provokes my tears ; 
And memory finds some subtle charm iu it 

To lead me back tlirough melancholy years. 

Until she brings me to that summer's day, 
When a tall sh.adow fell across the floor, 

Lingered a. moment, alid then stole away. 

Following my soldier through tho open door. 

My soldier ! He was all tho war to me ; 

His safety all the victory I craved ; 
Morn, noon, and night I prayed that I might see 

My soldier — I forgot my country — saved. 

When came a letter full of love and cheer, 
Telling of victory with proud delight, 

The mother's jiride o'ercame the mother's fear. 
And I was happy in my dreams that night. 

But when none came, and news of battles fell 
Around me like hot flakes of fire instead — 

O God ! if I have loved my boy too well, 
Put against that those days of awful dread. 

My soldier ! and it seems but yesterday 

His baby gums were mumbliug at my brea.st. 

I'm half persuaded now he's out at play. 

And I have slept within and dreamed the rest ; 



CHARLES 11. yOYES.—MES. liOSA U. THORP K. 



935 



For it does seem so strange to mo that he, 
My baby, rosy-checked and aziire-eycd — 

The cbciiib boy I dandli'il on my knee — 
Should have become a hero and hare died. 

My chubby baby, prattling to his toys ! 

My stalwart soldier kissing nio good-bye! 
My licart will have it she hath lost two boys, 

Aud lends to grief a twofold agony. 

And day by day, as the dear form I miss, 
Fierce longing burns within nio like a flame. 

Till all the world I'd barter for a kiss. 

And walk through fire to hear him call my name. 

"Twero not so sad could I have watched his face, 
Soothed his last hours, and closed his dear, dead 

And it would comfort me to mark tlie place [eyes; 
With a wild rose-bush where my darling lies. 

But, knowing nothing, save that ho is dead, 
I long 'neath yonder daisy-dotted knoll 

To rest in peace uiy old, grief-whitened head; 
Karth hath no crumb of comfort for my soul. 



flTrs. Rosa Cj. (illjorpc. 

AMERICAN. 

Rosa Hartwiek, by marringc Thorpe, was born .Inly 
18tU, 1830, In Mishawak.i, Ind. After her marriaj^c in 
1871 she went to reside in Fremont, Ind., but subsciiucnt- 
ly removed to Mtchfield, Mich. She wrote her popular 
ballad of " Curfew must not Ring To-night " when she 
was sixteen years old, but it was not till 1870 that it 
was published: then it lirst appeared in the Detroit 
Commercial Adperlincr. It has since repeatedly under- 
gone revision. Mrs. Thorjie has much of the spirit and 
simplicity of the old ballad-writers, and excels in realis- 
tic narrative Illumined with poetical Hashes. It may be 
that her best work Is to come. 



DOWN llli: TR.VCK. 

AN ACTUAL INCIDENT. 

In the deepening shades of twilight 

Stood a maiden young and fair ; 
Rain-drops gleamed on cheek and forehead, 

Rain-drops glistened in lier hair. 
Where the bridge had stood at morning 

Yawned a chasm deep and black ; 
Faintly came the distant rumbling 

From the train far down the track. 

Paler grew each marble feature. 

Faster came her frightened breath, — 



Charlie kissed her lips at morning, — 
Now was ru.shing down to death ! 

Must she stand and see him perish t 
Angry waters answer back : 

Louder comes the distant rumbling 
From the train far down the track. 

At death's door f.iint liearts grow fearless: 

Miracles are sometimes wrought, 
Springing from the heart's devotion 

In the forming of a thought. 
From her waist she tears her apron. 

Flings lier tangled tresses back, 
Working f;ist, and praying ever 

For the tniin far down the track. 

Sec! a lurid spark is kindled, 

Eight and left she Dings the flame. 
Turns and glides with airy flcetness 

Downward toward tlie coming train ; 
Sees afar the red eye gleaming 

Through the shadows still and black : 
Hark ! a shriek prolonged and deafening, — 

Tliey have seen lur ilown the track! 

Onward comes the train — now slower, 

But the maiden, where is shot 
Flaming torch aud flying footsteps 

Fond eyes gaze in vain to see. 
With a white face turned to Heaven, 

All the sunny hair thrown back, 
There they found her, one hand lying 

Crushed and bleeding on the track. 

Eager faces bent above her, 

Wet eyes pitied, kind lips blessed; 
IJut she saw no face save Charlie'.s — 

'Twas for him she saved the rest. 
Gold they gave her from their bounty ; 

But her sweet eyes wandered back 
To the face whoso love will .scatter 

Roses all along life's track ! 



'CURFEW JIUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. 

Slowly England's sun was setting 

O'er the hill-tops far away, 
Filling all the laud with beauty 

At tho close of one sad day ; 
And the last rays kis.sed the forehead 

Of a man and maiden fair- 
He with footsteps slow and weary, 

She with sunny, floating hair; 



936 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



He with bowed head, sad and tbougbtful, 
Sbe with lips all cold aud white, 

Struggling to keep back tlie niurmnr, 
" Cnrfew must not ring to-night !" 

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, 

Pointing to the prison old, 
With its turrets tall and gloomy. 

With its walls, dark, damp, and cold, — 
" I've a lover in that prison, 

Doomed this very night to die 
At the ringing of the Curfew, 

And no earthly help is nigh : 
Cromwell will not come till suuset," 

And her face grew strangely white 
As sho breathed the husky whisper : 

" Curfew must not ring to-night !" 

" Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton — 

And his accents pierced her heart 
Like the piercing of an arrow. 

Like a deadly poisoned dart, — 
"Long, long years I've rung the Curfew 

From tliat gloomy shadowed tower ; 
Every evening, just at sunset. 

It has told the twilight hour ; 
I have done my duty ever. 

Tried to do it just and right; 
Now I'm old, I still must do it: 

Curfew, gill, must ring to-night!" 

Wild her eyes and pale her features, 

Stern and white her thoughtful brow, 
And within her secret bosom 

Bessie made a solenm vow ; 
She had listened while the judges 

Kead, without a tear or sigh, 
" At the ringing of the Curfew, 

Basil Underwood must die !" 
And her breath came fast and faster. 

And her ej'es grew large and bright — 
As in undertone she murmured : 

"Cnrfew must not ring to-night!" 

Witli quick step she bounded forward, 

Sprang within the old church door. 
Left the old man threading .slowly 

Paths he'd trod so oft before ; 
Not one moment paused the maiden. 

But with eye and cheek aglow, 
Mounted up the gloomy tower, 

Where the bell swung to aud fro ; 
As she climbed the dusty ladder. 

On which fell no ray of light, 



Up and up, her white lips saying, 
"Cnrfew shall not ring to-night!" 

She has reached the topmost ladder. 

O'er her hangs the great dark bell. 
Awful is the gloom beneath her. 

Like the pathway down to hell ; 
Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 

'Tis the hour of Curfew now, 
Aud the sight has chilled her bosom, 

Stopped her breath and paled her brow. 
Shall she let it ring? No, never! 

Flash her eyes with sudden light. 
And sho springs and grasps it tirmly: 

" Curfew shall not ring to-night '." 

Out she swung, far out, the city 

Seemed a speck of light below ; 
She, 'twixt heaven aud earth suspended. 

As the bell swung to aud fro! 
And the sexton at the bell-rope. 

Old and deaf, heard not the bell. 
But he thought it still was ringing 

Fair young Basil's funeral knell. 
Still the maiden clung more firndy, 

And with trembling lips and white. 
Said, to hush her heart's wild beating, 

" Curfew shall not ring to-night !" 

It was o'er : the bell ceased swaying. 

And the maiden stepped once more 
Firndy on the dark old ladder, 

W'here, for hundred years before, 
Hnnian foot had not been planted; 

But the brave deed she had done 
Should be told long ages after : — 

Often as the setting sun 
Sliould illume the sky with beauty, — 

Agdd sires, with heads of white, 
Long should tell the little children, 

Curfew did not ring that night. 

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; 

Bessie sees him, and her brow, 
Full of hope and full of gladness, 

Has uo anxious traces now. 
At his feet she tells her story. 

Shows her hands all bruised and toru ; 
And her face so sweet aud pleading. 

Yet with sorrow pale and worn, 
Touched his heart with sudden pity, — 

Lit his eye with misty light : — 
" Go, your lover lives," said Cromwell : 

" Curfew shall not ring to-night !" 



F. WXriLLE HOME.— GEORGE PARSOXS LATHROP. 



937 



f. lllnuille tjoiiic. 



" Songs of A WajTarcr," is the title of ii volume by 
Uoinc, piiblisliecl by Piplicring ifc Co., London, in 187!). 
The followini; is tlic Dedieation : "To my fiitber, in ac- 
knowlcdfimcnt that tlic best work I can do is owed to 
him." Home belongs to the modern school of poetry, 
to the shaping of whose strains Tennyson has contrib- 
uted so much. 



A CHOICE. 

IJUESTIOX. 

Answer nir : IVacc or Love f 

Which do you take for your part ? 

Chooso one or tUe other hereof, 
Von cannot liavo botli,0 heart I 

l"or I'eaco is passion's decease, 
Her blood is pallid and ashen ; 

Hnt Love is a, breaker of Peace, 

His pnlso is tho licart-bcat of i>assioii. 

ItKPl.Y. 

Let Love and Passion be rife. 
So loiif; as I draw my breatb : 

For Love is tho leaven of life, 
But Peace the eudearer of death. 



FKOM •'GUI-; TO Till-: VINE." 

Again, O Vine, I turn to thee and take 

Assurance from thy deathless loveliness, 
That Love and Beauty ever are awake 

At Life's veiled foniitain-liead : and who would 
press [twain: 

Tow'rd Truth must go* with guidance of these 
To whom with faith made whole 
I dedicate my soul, 
Trusting to them to lay a silver skein 

Bctwecu my hands to guide me to tho goal 
Where dawn shall break, and from mine eyes the 
darkness roll. 



([?covcic yarsous i!atl)rop. 

AMERICAN. 

The son ofa physician and citizen of the United States, 
T.uthrop was bom Ang. iitli, 18.51, at Honolulu, Oaliu, 
Hawaiian Islands. He received his education in New 
York and Gcrmanv. In lS75-"77 he was assistant edi- 



tor of the Allaiilic Monl/ily. His first volume of poems, 
"Rose and Roof-tree," appeared in 1S7.5; "A Study of 
Hawthorne" (1870). He is the author of two published 
uovels. His occupation is that of a journalist. In 187H 
he assumed the editorship of the Boston Courier. As a 
lecturer, and a contributor to our best magazines, he is 
also favorably known. His wife is a daughter of Na- 
thaniel Hawthorne (1804-1804). 



MUSIC OK GROWTH. 

Music is iu all growing things; 
And underneath the silky wings 

Of smallest insects there is stirred 
A pulse of air that must be heard ; 
Earth's silence lives, and throbs, and siiig-s. 

If poet from the vibrant strings 
Of his poor heart a measure flings. 

Laugh not, that he uo trumpet blows: 
It may be that lleavcu hears and knows 
His language of low listenings. 



SONNLT: TUE LOVLK.S VEAK. 

Thou art my morning, twilight, noon, and eve, 
My Summer and my Winter, Spring and Fall ; 
For Nature left ou thee a touch of all 
The moods that come to gladden or to grieve 
Tho heart of Time, with purpose to relievo 
From lagging sameness. So do these forcst;ill 
In thee such o'erheaped sweetnesses as pall 
Too swiftly, and the taster tasteless leave. 
Scenes that I love, to me always remaiu 
Beautiful, whether under snmmcr'S sun 
Beheld, or, storm-dark, stricken across with rain. 
So, through all humors thou'rt the same, sweet one : 
Donbt not I love thee well iu each, who see 
Thy constant change is changeful constancy. 



THE SLTS'SHINE OF THINE EVES. 

Tho sunshine of thine eyes, 

(O still, celestial beam!) 
Whatever it touches it fdls 

With the life of its lambeut gleam. 

The sunshine of thine eyes, 

Oh, let it fall on mo! 
Though I be but a mote of tho air, 

I could turn to gold for thee! 



938 



CYCLnr^DIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Jramis lH. Uourbillou. 

BourdiUon, one of the younger English poets, was born 
iu 1853. While yet an undergraduate at Worcester Col- 
lege, Oxford, he won reputation as a poet by two grace- 
ful stanzas, eight lines in all, entitled "Light." They 
were speedily translated into the principal languages of 
Europe. Rarely has a poet won his spurs on so small a 
venture in verse. BourdiUon is the author of "Among 
the Flowers, and other Poems," a volume of 176 pages, 
published in London, in 1878, by Marcus Ward & Co. 
A native of Woolhedding, in Sussex, he dedicates his 
poems to it as enihracing " the influences, memories, and 
affections that for all men haunt the name of home." 



LIGHT. 



The niglit has a thousaml eyes, 

And the day but one ; 
Yet the light of the bright world dies 

With the dying sun. 

The niiud has a thousand eyes, 

And the heart but one ; 
Yet the light of a whole life dies 

When i ts da y is done. 



CvELI. 



If stars were really watching eyes 
Of angel armies in the skies, 
I should forget all watchers there, 
And only for your glances care. 

And if your eyes were really stars, 
AVith leagues, that none can mete, for bars 
To keep me from their louged-for day, 
I conld not feel more far away. 



THE HOME OF MY HEART. 

Not here, in the populous town. 

In the playhouse or mart, 
Not here, in the ways gray and brown, 
But afar, on the green swelling down, 

Is the liome of my heart. 

There the Lill-side slopes down to a dell. 

Whence a streamlet has start, 
There are woods and sweet grass on the swell, 
And the south winds and west know it well; 

There's the home of my heart. 



There's a cottage o'ershadowed by leaves, 

Growing fairer than art, 
Where, under the low sloping eaves 
No false hand the swallow bereaves ; 

'Tis the home of my heart. 

And there, on the slant of the lea, 

Where the trees stand apart, 
Over grassland and woodland, maybe 
You will catch the faint gleam of the sea 

From the borne of my heart. 

And there iu the rapturous spring. 

When the morning rays dart 
O'er the plain, and the morning birds sing. 
You may see the most beautiful thing 

In the bome of my heart ; 

For there at the casement above. 

Where the rose-bushes part. 
Will blush the fair face of my love : — 
Ah, yes! it is this that will prove 

'Tis the homo of my heart. 



THE DIFFERENCE. 

Sweeter than voices in the scented hay, 
Or laughing cbildren gleaning ears that stray, 
Or Christmas songs that shake the snows above, 
Is the first cuckoo, when he conies with love. 

Sadder than birds on sunless summer eves, 

Or drip of rain-drops ou the fallen leaves. 

Or wail of wintry waves on frozen shore. 

Is Spring that comes, but brings us love no more. 



LET US LOVE. 

Love, let us love ! What have we else to do ? 

Who cannot count one hour of life to come ; 
Who only know the present to be true. 

The voice that now we hear to be not dumb ; 
To whom, as on a barren beach we stand. 
The past and future are the tide-whelmed sand. 

Love, let us love! For love and life and death — 
What else ? — we know are real ; and as we must 

By nature's force both hold and yield our breath, 
So let us take, not forced, but as iu trust. 

Upon ourselves the third reality. 

And love so long as love, life, death shall be. 



MAEY A. BARB. 



939 



illavi) n. Uarr. 

Born ill Glasgow, Scotlnnd, Miss Barr was brousrlit to 
this country in cliiliilioixi, and Iht training and intellect- 
ual development have beiii (li^tinctivel\■ American. Her 
poems are full of thouijht and tenderness. They have 
been contributed to our principal mai^uzincs, and are 
worthy to be gathered into a volume. 



WHITE POPPIES. 

O mystic, niigUty flower, wliose frail vvliite leaves, 
Silky nuil criiiiipled like a bniincr furled. 

Shadow the black inysterions seed that giveo 
The drop that Koothes and lulls a restless world; 

Nepenthes for our woe, yet swift to kill. 

Holding the knowledge of both good and ill. 

The rose for beauty may ontshiuo tliee far, 
The lily hold herself like some sweet saint 

Apart from earthly srief, .is is .1 star 
Apart from any fear of earthly taint; 

The snowy poppy like an angel stands. 

With consolation in her open bauds. 

Ere History was born, the poets snug 

How godlike Thone knew thy compelling power, 

Aiul nncieut Ceres, by strange sorrows wrung, 
Sought sweet oblivion from thy healing flower. 

Giver of Sleep ! Lord of the Laud of Dreams! 

siuiplo weed, thou art not what man deems. 

The clear-eyed Greeks saw oft their Ciod of Sleep 
Wandering about tbrougU the black midnight 
bonrs, 

Soothing the restless coucli with slumbers deep, 
And scattering thy medicated flowers, 

Till hands were folded for their linal rest, 

Cla.sping White Poppies o'er a pulseless breast. 

We have a clearer vision ; every hour 

Kiiul hearts and hands the poppy juices raeto. 

And panting suflerers bless its kindly power. 
And weary ones invoke its peaceful sleep. 

Health has its Kose and Grape and joyful Pabn, 

The Poppy to the siek is wine and balm. 

1 sing the Poppy! The frail snowy weed! 
The flower of Mercy ! that within its heart 

Uoth keep " a drop serene " for human need, 

A drowsy balm for every bitter smart. 
For happy boura the Kose will idly blow — 
The Poppy hath a charm for jiain and woe. 



OUT OF THE DEEP. 

Under the stormy skies, whose wan, white light 
Fell slant anil cold upon the surging wave — 
I'pon the sad road of the cruel wave — 
There was a little boat which day aud night 
Had held its dead nn<l dying in the sight 
Of Him who dwelletli in Eternity. 

Out of the shuddering cold, out of the deep. 
Into the warmth of life, and love, and rest — 
Into the sweet content of grateful rest — 
They came. The watchful angels did not sleep 
Who had a charge concerning .souls to keep : 
The saving ship had followed their behest. 

Poor weary souls! If their I'yes could have seeu 
The shining footsteps on the deep, wet ways — 
Making so stilMlie deep and perilous ways — 

Ah, then how calm their troubled hearts had been! 

The chafing surge and winds h:id heard between 
Their hideous roar a sigh of human praise. 

Dear soul, this is a parable. Thou hast 

Been shipwrecked oft upon life's stormy sea — 
Left all alone npon life's stormy sea — 
And yet some saving vessel always passed. 
And to thy trembling hands the life-line cast : 
And as it has been, so it still shall be. 



A HAKVKST-HOME. 

It is not long since we with happy feet 

Stood ankle-deep in grasses, fresh and green j 

While in the apple-blossoms, pink and sweet. 
The singing birds, with flashing wings, were seen. 

It is not long ago — not long ago — 

Since the glad winds ran through the tasselled 
corn : 
This way aud that way, swaying to and fro, 

The golden wheat waited the harvest morn. 

Now all the silent fields are brown and bare, 
Aud all the singing birds are gone away : 

But peaceful calm is in the liaxy air. 

And we, cimtent, can watch the sweet decay. 

For so the hay is saved, the corn, the wheat, 
The honey from a thousand scented bowers. 

While russet apples, delicately sweet, [flowers. 
Hang where once hung the pink - white apple- 



940 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



So ■n'e iu our life's autumn stilly muse 
Upon tUe harvest of our gathered years, 

Finding the hopes that once we feared to lose 
Grown perfect through our toil and love and tears, 

And saying, gratefully, "Although their flower 
Was strangely fair and sweet, from cup to root, 

'Twas best they changed with us from hour to hour, 
For better than the Blossom is — the Fruit." 



Illarg OF. "Daubiinc. 



Miss Vandyue is a native of Bi'oolilyu, L. I., and a frc- 
qnent contributor to our periodical literature. 



WHEN I WENT FISHmdtNviTH DAD. 

When I was a boy — I'm an old man now ; 
Look at the lines across my brow ; 

Old Time has furrowed them there. 
My back is bent and my eyes are dim ; 
He has placed his finger on every limb. 
And pulled out most of my hair. 
But if life has reached December, 
I'm not too old to remember 
When I went fishing with dad. 

We would each of us .shoulder his part of the load. 
And joyfully start along the road — 
But dad's was the heaviest share. 
Out of the village about a mile, 
Over a meadow, across a stile. 
And then we were almost there. 
Dear old brook, I can see it still. 
The mossy bank and the old gray mill. 
Where I went fishing with dad. 

We would wander about for a little space 
To find the cosiest, shadiest place, 

Before we went to work. 
Then dad would arrange his rod and line. 
And tell me just how to manage mine 
When the fish began to jerk. 

If I only could feel as I used to then ! 
If the days could only come back again. 
When I went fishing with dad! 

We armed our hooks with the wriggling bait. 
Then seated ourselves on the bank to wait 
Aud see if the fish would bite. 



Sometimes they would only take a look. 
As if they thought there might be a hook, 
But couldn't be certain quite. 

There was one old perch that I used to thiuk 
Would always look at the line and wink. 
When I went fishing with dad. 

And so we fished till the sun was high, 
And the morning hours were all gone by, 

Aud the village clock struck one. 
'• I am hungry, Jim," then dad would say ; ' 
"Let's give the fishes a chance to play 
Until our Innch is done." 

Oil, nothing has ever tasted so sweet 

As the big sandwiches I used to cat 

When I went fishing with dad. 

Then dad and I wonld lie on the grass 
And wait for the heat of the day to pass : 

How happy I used to feel ! 
And what wonderful stories be would tell 
To the eager boy that he loved so well, 
After our mid-day meal ! 

And how I would nestle close to his side 
To hear of the world so big and wide. 
When I went fishing with dad! 

For I eagerly listened to every word ; 
And then among men of whom I heard 

How I longed to play a part ! 
What wonderful dreams of the future came. 
What visions of wealth and an honored name, 
To fill my boyish heart ! 

There is no dream like the old dream. 
There is no stream like the old stream 
Where I went fishing with dad. 

Then back again to our sport we'd go, 
And fish till the sunset's crimson glow 

Lit np the dying day; 
Then dad would call to me, "Jim, we'll stop; 
The basket is full to the very top ; 
It's time we were on our way." 

There are no ways like the old ways. 
There are no days like the old days 
When I went fishing with dad. 

Then we took our way through the meadow-laud. 
And I clung so tight to his wrinkled hand. 

As happy as I conld be. 
Aud when the old house came iu sight. 
The smile on his old face grew so bright 

As ho looked down at me. 



MJRT E. rjXDTNE.—HLAIXE ANV DORA GOODALE. 



941 



And no one smiles as Iio used to smile ; 
And, oil, it seems such a. lon^, long wliilo 
Since I went fisliiiij; witli dad. 

It is 'way, 'way back in tlie weary years 
That with aching heart aud falling tears 

I watched dad go away. 
His aged head lay on my breast 
When the angels called him home to rest — 
Ho wa.s too old to stay. 

And I dng a grave 'neath the very sod 
That my boyish feet so often trod 
When I went fishing with dad. 

The world has given me we.ilth and fame, 
FnlfiUed my dreams of an honored name, 

Aud now I am weak and old ; 
The land is mine wherever I look ; 
' I can catch my fish with a silver hook; 
But my days arc almost told. 

UucheiTcd by the love of child or wife, 
I would spend the end of my lonely life 
Where I went fishing with dad. 

My limbs are weary, my eyes are dim; 
I shall toll them to lay mo close by him, 

Whenever I como to die; 
And sido by side, it will bo my wish, 
That there by the stream where they used to fish. 
They will let the old men lie. 
Close by him I would like to be, 
Buried beneath the old oak-tree 
Where I sat and fished with dad. 



Crliu^bctlj fjciiri) iUillcr. 

AMERICAN. 

Bom in Lexinffton, V.n., Dec. 2d, 18.59, Miss MlUcr can 
count among her ancestry sonic historic names : on lii-r 
father's sido, tliat of Jonatlian Dickinson, founder niid 
first President of Princeton College; wliile lier niollier, 
a daughter of Governor McDowell of Virginia, and niece 
of William C. Preston, the eloquent South Carolina Sen- 
ator, had for gmudfalher tlic gallant Gen. William Camp- 
bell, who won the battle of King's Mountain in ITSi; and 
for grandmother, Elizabeth lleury, a sister of Patrick 
Henry, of whom every school-boy knows. Miss Ileury 
was quite as remarkable in intellectual respects as her 
illustrious brother, whom she resembled in many of her 
traits. Thus Miss Miller, who was named oflcr her, may 
be said to be entitled to her intellectual endowments by 
the law of heredity. The specimen of her poems which 
we subjoin was written by her before she had reached 
her twelfth year. 



NOW AND EVKR. 

Ask what you will, my own and only love ; 

For to love's service true, 
Your least wish sways me as from worlds above, 

And I yield all to you 

Who art the only she. 
And in ono girl all womanhood to me. 

Yet some things e'en to thco I cannot yield, ^ 

As that one gift by which 
On the still morning on the woodside field 

Thou mad'st existence rich, — 

Who wast the only she, 
Aud in one girl all womanhood to me. 

We li.id talked long, aud then a silence came ; 

And iu the topmost firs 
To his nest a white dove floated like a liame. 

And my lips closed on hers 

Who was the only she, 
And in one girl all womanhood to me. 

Since when, my heart lies by her heart^nor now 

Could I, 'twixt hers and mine. 
Nor the most love-skilled angel choo.se; so thou 

In vain wonldst ask for thiue, 

Who art the only she, 
And in one girl all womanhood to me. 



tflaiiic anil Dora (!^co^alc. 

AMERICANS. 

Among the precocious poets, Elaine Goodale (born 
Oct. 9tli, 1803), aud Dora Read Goodale (born Oct. 29tli, 
18CC), will long be remembered. Their home, which bears 
the appropriate name of "Sky Farm," is iu South Egrc- 
mont, Mass., ou the very summit of the highest of the 
Berkshire Hills. Both mollicr and father have the poet- 
ical gift ; but the songs of tlie chiUlrcn have been as un- 
prompted as those of the young thrush. Their flret vol- 
ume, "Apple-blossoms: Verses of Two Children," was 
published in 1878 by G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. In 
the Preface, the parents say: "These verses are, obove 
all else, fresh and spontaneous, the almost unconscious 
outflow of two simple, wholesome lives, in their curliest 
youth." 

PAPA'S BIRTHDAY. 
Elaine Goodale. 
O dear Sky Fami ! O rare Sky Farm ! 

Rejoice, to-day, rejoice ! 
I'nite your many tongues to ours 
In one harmonious voice; 



942 



CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. 



Yo wiiisoiiio warblers of the wood, 
Pour forth your clarion lays, 

Anil welconie to the happy earth 
This happiest of days ! 

For 'tis the anniversary 

Of his auspicious birth. 
Who singled out from all the world 

This clierished spot of earth ; 
Who brought a loved and loving wife 

To grace its haunts so wild, 
And, with its blessing, thrice became 

The father of a child. 

It is his birthday who has tilled 

Its acres broad and fair. 
Has reaped its golden harvest-fields. 

And breathed its balmy air; 
Whose holy, happy home it is, 

With mother, children, wife. 
Whose vine-clad cottage crowns the hill, 

Brimful of health and life. 

O dear Sky Farm ! O rare Sky Farm ! 

Break out in brighter bloom. 
And waft o'er all the emerald fields 

Your incense of perfume ! 
Deep heavens of celestial blue, 

Watch o'er him, guard and bless 
Through many a sunlit birthday more 

Of love and happiness! 

May warmer union bind onr hearts 

Together from this hour, 
And draw us closer to our farm 

With deep and .sacred power! 
Grant every highest, imrest joy. 

Protect from every harm. 
The planter of our precious home, 

The founder of Sky Farm ! 



ASHES OF ROSES. 
Elaine Goodale. 

Soft on the sunset .sky 
Bright daylight closes. 
Leaving, when light doth die. 
Pale hues that mingling lie, — ■ 
A.shes of rcses. 

When Love's wai'm sun is set, 
Love's brightness closes; 



Eyes with hot tears are wet, 
In hearts there liuger yet 
Ashes of roses. 



RIPE GRAIN. 

Dora Read Goodale. 

O still, white face of perfect peace. 

Untouched by passion, freed from paiu,- 

He who ordained that work should cease 
Took to Himself the riiiened grain. 

O noble face ! your beauty bears 

The glory that is wrung from pain, — - 

The high, celestial beauty wears 
Of fiuished work, of ripened grain. 

Of hnman care you left no trace. 
No lightest trace of grief or pain, — 

On earth an empty form and face — 
In Heaven stands the ripened grain. 



APRIL! APRIL! ARE YOU HERE? 

Dora P.ead Goodale. 

April ! April ! are you here ? 

Oh, how fresh the wind is blowing! 
See! the sky is bright and clear, 

Oh, how green tlie grass is growing! 
April! April! are you here? 

April! April! is it you? 

See how fair the flowers are springing ! 
Sun is warm and brooks are clear. 

Oh, how glad the birds are singing! 
April! April! is it you? 

April! April! you are here! 

Though your smiling turn to weeping, 
Though yonr skies grow cold and drear. 

Though your gentle winds are sleeping, 
April! April! you are here! 



WHAT IS LEFT? 

Dora Head Goodale. 

Tlie trees are barren, cold and brown, 
The snow is white on vale and hill, 

The gentian, aster too, are gone. 
Is there no blossom with us still? 



DOHA READ GOODALE.— HESTER M. POOLE. 



9-13 



Oil, look upon the liazrl lioii'^li .' 

The llowers tbcro arc bright as gold, 

Tboiigli all is cold and ■wintry now, 
Tliuir littlo jictals still unfold. 

Tho apjili'S red have fallen down, 

And silent is the joyons rill; 
The robin and tho thrush have flown, — 

Is there no liird to glad us still f 

Hark ! don't you hear a gladsome song, 
A merry chirp from tiny throat? — 

The snow-bird all the winter long 
Will cheer us with bis happy note. 

(jCStlT ill. tJoolc. 

AMERICAN. 

A native of Georsria, Vt., Miss Hunt was married to 
C. B. Poole, of New York city ; but her present home is 
Metuchen, N. J. From a child she has had literary tastes, 
but it is only reccully that her poems have appeared in 
print. As a prose writer she is favorably known. 



Gleans now in fairer fields and loves theo still, — 

Grim Death triumphant o'er! 
And when the spring breaks o'er that mystic sea 
That flows so wintiy cold beyond earth's strand, 
There shall thy loved one wait to welcome thee 
In that blessed Summer-land ! 



AN OCTOBER SCEXE. 

An azure sky, a .soft, transparent mist 

Veiling the distance, glimmering in the sheen 
Of an October day : low winds that kissed 

Tho tender, fading green ; [sheaves, 

The wheat fields brown and sero without their 

The loitering kine that seek the sunny shed. 
The idly falling drift of withered leaves, 
Their gold and crimson dead ; — 

Tho cricket's plaintive chirp; a warning hush 

O'er all the teiuler sadness of the scene, — 
Proclaim throughout our beauteous land the death 

Of summer's glorious sheen. 

Soon nunddng winter stills tho bounding life 

Now llowing free, and holds in deadly chill 

The steady upward beat, the march, tho strife 

Which Nature's (tulscs thrill. 

O wondrous change! Tho spring shall come again. 

The blood shall course through man and plant and 

A rest, a pause, a seeming death, — and then [tree: 

The joyous earth shall see 
Its soul awaken to a fresher day : 

A fuller, richer dawn shall surely come. 
Take heart, O monrner! Leave the pulseless clay. 
Look upward to thy home. 

Tlie heart that beat, tho brain that ranged at will 
O'er fields of thought and garnered plenteous store. 



A LITTLE WHILE. 

A littlo while, my friend, a little while. 

And sullen winter yields his frigid sway. 
Though now there comes a long and dreary file 

Of leaden days, and o'er our heads no smile 
Of the pale, sickly suu lights up our way, 
Sometime, to you and me 
Come houre so bright and free 
That we can wait, and waiting, sing ahvay! 

Dear heart! bo patient but a little while. 

For uow all things take their long night of rest : 
Without, the snow is stretching many a mile 

O'er desolate hills, whose rocky, ice-bound crest 
Hold no warm nook, no flowers, nor feathery nest 
Of gladsome singing-bird, 
■Whose trills, whenever heard, 
Awoke in us such youthful, jocund zest. 

A little while, dear one, a littlo while! 

We only wait tho coming of oiir spring ; 
Aud though the path be long, let us beguile 

Tlie way with hope; let Faith bear us on wing 
So strong she falters not, until she bring, 
With love's compulsion sweet, 
A life so full, 'tis meet [ding. 

That, ■watching for that hour, we care to glad wiugs 

A littlo while, my friend, a little while 

Tho earth bears seeds deep in her faithful heart. 
In tho dark mould they lonely wait, meanwhile, 

For the glad sun, through tho long weeks apart; 
Tben, when they feel the swift, electric smart 
Of the God's rapturous kiss. 
That wakes to life and bliss, 
Each softly, slowly climbs tho otiier's heart. 

A littlo while, de.ar one, and we shall l)loom : 

Our lives will find their fulness in tho spring 
Which nature gives to all. Is there not room 

In the eternities above, for gloom 
Somewhat to shadow with its darkling wing 
The rajiturous flood of joy which love shall bring, 
When Death has lost his sting, 
As on victorious wing 
Wo soar to find, in Heaven, perpetual spring f 



INDEX OF FIPiST LINES, Etc. 



PACE 

A bnby wns sleeping? Lover. 5»T 

A bird i^angr sweet and slroip^ Curtin. 7'J4 

A brace of sinners for ni» jrmid Wolcot. 221 

A chieftain, to the Uighlandb bonnd Campbell. Z'.\5 

A ctotid lay cradled uear the eelting mm J. \Vitnon. 375 

A flawless peail T. li\ llifjffinson. 7Itl 

A flock of ^heep iliat leisurely pass by Wordmrorth. 292 

A form nut always dark MtHH llaten. Q2.i 

A good man llieie was uf rcli;:ioiin Chaucer. 2 

A pM»d bword and a Iriisty haiid llawkfr. ;>S4 

A j;ood thai never falisfles the mind Dntvnnond. 50 

A jTracc ihouL'h ineianchoty, manly loo //. Tat/lor. !H<!i 

A hainile.<s fellow wanling useless days G. A rnohl. sr>S 

A life on the ocean wave I''. Sargent, 71C 

A little bird flew E.Sargmt. 717 

A liltic while, my friend, a litile while Poole. 943 

A lonely wanderer npon earth am I //. Coleridge, 498 

A lonely way, and a-» I went my eye? Dowden. 'J[>2 

A lovely sky, a cloudless sun Street, 701 

A man must perve his lime to every trade. liyro^u 4n3 

A man there came, whence none could tell AVinrfUam. S2.'i 

'"A New Way to I'ay Old Dcbia," fciceiie from.. ..Maasingcr. 4S 

A nook within the forest, Street. 701 

A place in lliy memory, dearest Griffin, f>SG 

.1 poet I— We hath put bid heart tu school M'ordmeorth. 293 

A rhyme, n rhyme Ma/iony. M)S 

A snhiier of the Legimi J//-*i. Xortou. MG 

A i-on<; for the oak Chorfey. Mi 

A Fquad of regular infantry Hai/. S'Xt 

A steed, a steed of matchless Hpecd Mot/terirell. 4U9 

A [-tilliie^s crept about (he house Sirs. Knox. S4ri 

A street there Is in Paris famous Thackerat/. C96 

A sun-l)ni>t on the bay Sir Aubrey de Vere. 394 

A thinij of beauty is a joy forever KeatM. 491 

A view of present life is all thou hast StcKnight, 901 

A volant tribe of bards M'urdmcorth. 292 

A weary weed tos^ed to and fro Fenner. 7*50 

A wee bird cam' to our hu' door Gien. 411 

A wet (ihcet and a flow ini' sea Cunningham. 2<iC, 

A wild wet iirgbt I the drtvin;: Bleet 637 

A winter night ! the stormy wind Barton. 309 

A wi-h to my lips never fprung Sfoipatt-Iiitefiic. 770 

A wolf-like stream without a i^onnd /. Jllitler. 914 

Abide not iu the land of dreams liurlcigh. 7n5 

Abide with me ! fast falls thcevcn-tidc Lyte. 44.'< 

Abou lieu Adhem Hunt. 371 

Above the city uf Derlin 3frM. IltHiprr. 877 

Abram and ZJmri owned a field together Ctarnuu^ Cook. S23 

Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint King. ^>'^ 

Across the narrow beach we flit Mrn. Thaxter. S*J2 

Ae day a cli>ck w ad brag a dial lianutay. 139 

Ae fond kiss, atid then \vc sever liurtui. 2iiO 

Afar in the desert I love to ride Pringte. 407 

Afloat; wc move Clough. 7.Vi 

Again, again she comes Jiertey. flOl 

Again has come the spring-time S. Long/cHow. 706 

Again, how can she but immortal be Dacies. 45 

60 



PAOK 

Again, O Vine, I turn to thee and take Home. 937 

Again the flowers we loved to twine Dale. 499 

Again the Lord of life and light Mm. Barbauld. 22S 

Agaiu the violet of our early days Elliott. 361 

Again to the battle, Achaians Campbell. 334 

Again ye fields, again ye woods and farms Dc Kay. 933 

Ages have rolled Blanco White. 325 

Ah, lien 1 say, how or when Ilerrick. 54 

All, Freedom is a noble thing. Harbour. 3 

Ah ! friend, to dazxlc let the vain design Poj)€. 149 

Ah, happy day, refuse to go. SIrit. Spofford, SC3 

Ah, I remember well— and how can I Daniel, 21 

Ah, Jennie dear, 'tis half a year Mrn. Woolnon. SS3 

Ah, many a time we look 11'. Alexander, 797 

Ah mc ! full sorely i-s my heart. Shenntone. ISl 

Ah I my heart is weary walling , McCarthy. 749 

Ah ! sweet Kitiy Neil Waller. C74 

Ah ! what a weary race , T. Warton. 204 

v\b, what avails the sceptred race Landor, 329 

Alas I and alas, my sorrow 53S 

Alas, good friend, what profit can yon see Shelley. 430 

Alas I 'tis true I have gone here aud there Sha!:ii})eare. 31 

Alfred, I would that yon ilallam. 095 

All beftire us lies the way Emerson. 593 

All day the stormy wind has blown Minn Proctor. S39 

All hail ! thou noble laud Allsfon. 3.%0 

All houses wherein men have lived and died Longfellow. 033 

All 1 am sure of IJcaven is this Pat more. 790 

All iu the Downs the fleet was moored Gay. 151 

All moveless stand G. Arnold. 85S 

All praise to thee, my God, this night Ken. 120 

All quiet almig the Potomac, Mri*. liecnt. Sis 

All round us lie H. lira//. SOO 

All things once are things forever Milne^i. Cr-9 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights Coleridge. 306 

All IhrouL'h the afternoon A.P.Miller. SSfi 

All travellers at fii-st incline - Stri/t. 125 

All victory is struggle, using chance 530 

Alh-n-a-Dalu has no fagot for burning Sco't, 299 

Aloft upon an old basaltic crag O^Urien. 832 

Ahme I walk the moruiug etrcel Piatt, 864 

Alone with God Minn Clemmer. S9I 

Although I enter not Thackeray. 090 

All) I in Italy? Is this the Mfncias? llogers. 268 

Am I the slave they say fianim. 504 

An ancient sage once on a lime Mrs, Conani, 995 

An a/nre >ky, a soft, transparent mist Poole. 943 

An' U I may I never live single again Laing. SS2 

And are ye sure the news is iruc Mickle. 217 

And is there care iu heaven, and is there love .^jtcuMcr, 13 

And is this life. Mr/t. E. O. Smith. 619 

And now la-hcd on by destiny severe Falconer. 205 

And now unveiled the toilet stauds displayed /*.)/«•, 145 

And, oh beloved voices Mrs, Urotming. 670 

And.nh the longing, burning eyes Inland. 796 

And one there wa" a dreamer born Whittier, CSS 

And shall we never see each other Tal/ourd. 470 



946 



IXDEX OF FIRST LINES, ETC. 



FACE 

And thon fivt gone, most loved AUston. 350 

And thou hast walked about U. Srtu'fk. 352 

And thou, too, gone Jilacku'. OilT 

And, though fur her sake Wither. 50 

And what is so rare us n diiy in June Lowell. 703 

And where have yon been, my Mary IlowUt. 5'Mi 

And where is he? Mot by the side yee/e. 533 

And ye ehall walk iu silk attiic Miss Illamire. 233 

Angels of light ■ Miss Procter. Sfl5 

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky Emerson. 592 

Answer me, buruiug stars of uight 3[rs. llemans. 443 

Answer me: Peace or Love Home. 937 

April! April! are yon here D. Ji. Goodale. 942 

Arievelde and Elena H. Taylor. 5G7 

Asa fond mother Lonn/ellow. 632 

As a twig trembles wliich n bird Lowell, 704 

As at their work two weavers sat H. More. 229 

Ab die the embers on the hefirth Jackson. 770 

As dyed in blood the streaming vines appear Miss liatcs. 923 

As fearless as a cherub's rest Clare. 452 

As I came doAvn through Cannobie 527 

As I was walking all alanc 15C 

As I went forth to take the air 1G2 

As little children running ou before Miss Batss. 924 

As near Porto-Bello lying Glover. 179 

As one arranges in a single vase Sethune. GIO 

As one who, destined from his friends to part lioscoe. 244 

As one who leaves a prison cell Conant. SSO 

As on my bed at dawn C.T. Turner. 049 

As Rochefoucault hismasinis drew Swi/t. 124 

As ships becalmed at eve that hiy Clovgh. 754 

As swayeth in the summer wind Mrs. Gitsta/iton. 906 

As sweet as the breath that goes Aldrich. SOS 

As when a Utile child A. P. Miller. SS5 

As when on Caimel's sterile steep J. U. Dri/ant. C27 

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night Pope. 150 

Ascent of Being, The Akensiile. 1S7 

Ask me no more Teniii/.son. CSl 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows Carcw. 53 

Ask me why I send yon here Ucrrick. 57 

Ask what yon will, my own and only love Miss Miller. 941 

At dead of night a south-west breeze T. Hill. 751 

At evening in the port she lay licerit. 930 

At last she chanced by good hnp to meet Spenser. 12 

At midnight, from the sullen sleep .' Martin. 739 

At midnight in his guarded lent Halleck. 470 

At the gate of old Granada Lockhart. 455 

At the stent o' my string .Ainnlie. 441 

Attend, all ye who list to hear Macaulay. 502 

Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful treasure yash. 38 

y Ave Slaria ! blessed be the hour liyron. SOS 

Awake, my St. John, leave all meaner tilings Pope. 143 

Awake, ye saints, and raise your eyes Doddridge. 172 

Away ! let naught to love displeasing 15S 

Awful power! whose birthplace lies Greg. 600 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ....Holmes, 653 

Ay, there ye shine, and there have eh. me 544 

Bachelor's Hall ! what a qnare-lookin' place Finleij. 503 

Backward, turn backward Mrs. A lien. S50 

Baids of passion and of mirth Keats. 490 

Be it riglit or wrong, these men among 71 

Be patient, oh be putieut. Trench. C40 

Be that sad year, O poet, very far Miss Bates. 923 

Be this our trust , Davtj. 343 

Beautiful, beautiful youth GaVagher. 051 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead Browning. 710 

Beautiful realm beyond the western main De Vcre, 393 

Beautiful river, goldeuly shining Elliott. 300 

Beautiful world Blackie. 006 

Begone, dull care, I prithee begone from me Gosse. SO 

Behave yonrsel' before folk Rodger. 303 

Behold, above the mountains there is light Gosse. 927 

Behold men's judgments Townshend. 587 

Beliold the rocky wall ; Holmes. 655 

Behold the western evening light Peabody. 522 

Behold! the wintry rains are past De Vere. 72S 



PAGB 

Behold this ruin ! 'Twas a skull 540 

Believe me if all those Moore. 345 

Believe not tliat your inner eye Milnes. 059 

Beloved friend, they say C.A.Dana. 757 

Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote Home. 192 

Beneath the sheltering walls, Mrs. Jackson. 843 

Beside that mile-?tone where the level sun Whittier. 037 

Between the circling mountains and the sea Symonds. 910 

Bewai-e of doubt Mrs. E. O. Smith. 619 

Bird of the wilderness Hogg. 281 

Blame not the times Symojids. 912 

Blest as the immortal gods is he Philips. 120 

Blessed is he who hath not trod De Vere. 728 

Blessed is the man whose heart Sgmonds. 912 

Blow, blow thou winter wind Shak.^peare. 2S "7^ 

Blue Gulf all around us Brownell. 775 

Bobolink ! that in the meadow Uill. 751 

Bonny Kilmeny gned up the glen Hogg. 277 

Bowing adorers of the gale Clare. 452 

Breathe, trumpets, breathe G. Lunt. 622 

Bright star! would I were steadfast Keats. 493 

Bright things can never die 536 

Brightest and be;^t of the sons of the morning Heher. 364 

Brother, my arm is weaker McKnight. 901 

Bruised and bleeding, pale and weary Brooks. 712 

Buckingham delineated as Zimri Dryden. 113 

Busk ye, busk ye, my bouny, bonny bride Hamilton. 173 

But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue Landor. 323 

But most by numbers judge a poet's song Pope. 143 

But one short week ago J. Todhunter. 556 

But two events dispel ennui Mrs. Osgood. 70S 

But who the melodies of morn can tell Beattie. 219 

But yonder c<nnes the i)owerful king of day Thomson. 107 

By cool Siloam's shady rill Heber. 304 

By Logan's streams that riu sae deep Mayne. 2G2 

By Nebo's lonely mountain Mrs. Alexander. S36 

By the brink of the river 543 

By the rude bridge Emerson. 594 

By turns transformed Churchill. 209 

CiBsar's Lamentation over ron^\)t;y..ncaiimont and Fletcher. 40 

"Caius Gracchus," Passages from Mrs. McCord. 076 

Culanthe, here ! lianim. 505 

Call for the robin-redbi cast and the wren Webster. 34 

Call me not dead when I indeed have gone Gilder. 925 

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm Uonar. 050 

Calm on llie listening ear t)f night Sears. 679 

Can any mortal mix I are of earth's mould Milton. 06 

Can dissolution build :Symond.^. 911 

Can I see another's woe Blake. 250 

Captive King, The James I. 5 

Care-chnrming Sleep Beaumont and Fletcher. 47 

"Catiline," Scene from Croly's 353 

Celebrity by some great accident Kinney. 810 

Change not, change not to me, my God 547 

Chatham, Lord, Character of. Cowper. 214 

Child of my heart J?. IK. Procter. 336 

Christ, whose glory fills the skies C:We.'ih'y. 177 

Christmas is here Thackeray. 697 

Clang, clang I the massive anvils ring , ... 540 

Clasp closer, arms ; piess closer, lips Mrs. Hooper. S76 

Close his eyes ; his work is done Boker. 791 

Columbus, Three Sonnets on Sir A.dc Wre. 393 

Come a little nearer, Doctor Willson. S74 

Come, dear old ctnnrade, you and I Holmes. 653 

Come, Evening, once again Cowper. 211 

Come, follow, follow me, yon fairy elves 159 

Come from my First, ay, come Praed. 576 

Come, gentle sleep, a I tend thy votary's prayer H'olcot. 221 

Come hither, c<mie hither Joyce. SS2 

C(mie iu the evening, or come iu the morning Davis. 719 

Come into the garden, Maud Tenuymn. 682 

Come, let us anew our journey pursue C. Wesley. ITO 

Come, listen to another song Aytoun. 713 

Come, listen to me, you gallants so free 81 

Come live with me, and be my love Marlowe, 26 

Come, oh thou traveller nukuowu C. Wen^-ey. 175 



IXOEX OF l-IItST LIXES, ETC. 



947 



FAOK 

** Come, poor child," eay the Flowers .Vr«. Giuta/aon, 907 

Come, see ilie Voiphiii'M aiicbor forjjed FertjuAon, 611 

Come, Sleep, niul with Ihy Iteanmont aiid Fletcher. 41 

Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace Sidnei/. 17 

Come, Suushine, come ! thee Nature culls Vincent. 542 

Come, sweep tbe liarp Mr*, J. O. lirook«. 5tiS 

Come, then, with nil Ihy jiriive bealitudes Munby. SS4 

Come to me, cuine lo me, O my God Mardunald. 798 

Come to the sunset tree ifrn. Ilemans. 450 

Come, ancles and cousins //. Ware. 459 

Come, while the bhiesoms W.U. Clark. 690 

Come, ye difC<»usoljUe Moore. 349 

Comes someihin:; down with cven-lidc Uurbidge. 748 

Comfort thee, O thou moiiruer Landor. 329 

Commit Ihou nil Iby i^rieH* J. M'eMey. 173 

Companioiiii-hip of the Muse Wither. &» 

Condemned to Ilop«'» delusive mine S.Johnnon. 17S 

Conrtde ye aye in l*rovjdeuce liallantine. C42 

Consiider the lilies .Mistt ItoiMetti. SS4 

Could 1 but relnrn Joaquin Miller, 914 

Conid then the babes I'rom yon uusheltered cot Rtumelt. 2t>7 

Could this ill warld ha'e been contrived liogtr, 563 

Conldye come back la me Mrit.Craik, 812 

Conldst thou in calmnes!> yield Jfw« Colerid(je. 325 

Coura><:e, my soul I now Icaru to wield Marveil. 112 

Crauraer, Sonnet on Sir A.de Verc. 393 

Creator Spirit, by whose aid Dryden. 117 

Crcmiwell, our chief of men Milton. 99 

"Crude, pompou!", turijid," the reviewers said Faiccett. 930 

Cupid and my Campaspe played Lillp. 4*' 

Cjriac, this thrcc-years-day Mittun. loO 

"Damon and Pythias," Scene from lianim. 505 

Damon, let a friend advise you WUr/ey. 15G 

Darknc:;9 was deepening o'er the seas Mi>*i* Pardoe. 6£0 

Durlint^s of the ftirest Mrs. Cooke. 819 

Dnstilni^ in bij; drops on the narrow pane Burleigli. 705 

Day-dniy d'»ne, I've idled forth Mrs. Prenton. 837 

Day follows day; years perish llayne. 849 

Day, in melting purple dyinp Mr». Itrooh*. 475 

Day is dying! Float, O sonj^ Mrs. Ciom, 771 

Diiy on the mountain Strain. 6S5 

Day-^tnrs 1 that ope your eyes //. Smith. 354 

Days of my youth, ye have [glided away ..Tttrker. 23S 

Dear as thoo wcrt, and justly dear DaU'. 499 

Dear child, whom sleep can hardly tame Sterling. C19 

Dear fiiend, is nil we gee a dream? tietl. C()9 

Dear liiile hand that clas^ps my own L. Morris. S54 

Dear noble snul. wisely thy lot C. A. Dana. T5G 

Dear Thomas, didst Ihou never pop Prior. 123 

Deur Tom, my brave, free-hearted lad Kenney. 629 

Death, be not proud, tbou^ti some Dimiie, 42 

Death is a road Hunt. 372 1^ 

Death of the Stroui; Man IVair. 155 

Death ^tand!( above uic, whisperiug low Lntulor. 329 

DealbIe^}t principle, arise Toplady. 224 

Deceivint; worlil, that with nlluring; toys It. Greene. 19 

Deep calleth unto deep Synwnds. 911 

Deep in the wave is a (:(»ral ;;rove Pn rival. 4S2 

"Deflnitlons," Couplets from W.J. Linton. 703 

Detached passaijcs from the Plays Shaknpeare. 33 

Diaphenia, like the datTadowndilly Constable. 40 

Die down, O dir^mal day />. Grai/. S>9 

Distichs liarten It'dyday. 59 

Do and suffer naught in vain K Hfliott. 361 

Do I regret the piist Stiuthey. 323 

Do you know ymi hnve a^ked Mrs. ttroicniwj. 670 

D»i^t ihini idly ask to hear..^ Bryant. 467 

Dost thou remember that autumnal day Mr*. Whitman. 5S:t 

Down In my colitude under the enow Mins (Jould. 630 

Dowii on the Merrimac Kiver O. l/ttnt. 62! 

Dow'a Flat. That's its name Uartf, 87T 

Drink to me only with thine eyes Jonmn. 45 

I)ulc* il is and dernrtim Clough. 754 

Duucan Gray cam hero to woo Durns. 260 



Each leaf upon the trees. 



nith. S35 



rAom 

Each Orpheus must to the depths descend M. Fuller. G7S 

Eiirth has not anything lo show more fair Wordsworth. 293 

Karih holds no fairer, lovelier one thau thou Pcrciral. 4S2 

Earth is but the frozen echo Uai^man. 932 

Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood Slietiey. 433 

Earth swoous, o'erwhelmed ...Kimball. S53 

Eaith with its dark and dreadful ills A. Cary. 763 

E'en silent night proclaims my soul immortal Yoiinff. 13ti 

Elegance llonts about thee like a dress .V. P. Witlitt. 625 

Enamored architect of airy rhyme Aldrich. S6S 

Enjoy the present smiling hour Dryden. MS 

Epigrams from the German Lytlon. 607 

Ere bin could blight or sorrow fade Coleridge. 309 

Ere the last stack is housed U. Oray. 8S9 

Ere the moru the East has crimsoucd Calvertey. 8*4 

Eternal and omnipotent Unseen //. Smith. 354 

Eternal Spirit! God of truth PoUok. 516 

Eternal spirit of the chainless miud liyron. 404 

Even as a nurse V^aughan. inS 

Ever let the fancy roam Keats. 493 

** Evil, be thou my good "—In rage Merieale. 343 

Eyes that out^juiiled the moru Mrs. Uoopcr. 876 

Fainter her plow step falls Mrs. Xorton. 647 

Fair as unshaded light, or as the day Daiwnant. 87 

Fair daffodils, we weep to see iJfrriek. 54 

Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair Ihtniet. 21 

Fair is thy face, Nantasket Miss CUmmcr. SiH) 

Fair lady with the bandaged eye Drake. 473 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree llerrick. 55 

Fair stood the wind for France Drayton. 24 

Fair summer droops \a*h. 39 

Faith, Hope, and Love were qucsUoued ilyrom. 153 

False world, ihou liest Qnarles. 57 

Fantasies of Drunkenness Ueywood. 36 

Far greater numbers have been lost by hopes Uutler. 104 

Far in a wild unknown to public view Parnelt. 132 

Far out at sea— the sun was high 537 

Farewell awhile the city's hum Mrs. Gihuan, 458 

Farewell ! but whenever M»f^re. 347 

Farewell, Life, my senses swim lltHxL 51 1 

Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean liamsay. 139 

Farewell, ye soft aud sumptuous solitudes M. Fuller. 077 

Father, I will not ask for wealth or fame T. Parker. 690 

Father of all. in every age Pope. 146 

Father of earth nnd heaven, I call thy name 7*. Korner. 542 

Father, thy wonders do uot singly stand ■ Very. 713 

Fanstus, Deal h of. Marlowe. 25 

Fear no more tbe heat o' the suu Shakujyeare. 29 

Few kiHiw nf life's beginnings J/i'^w Landon. 577 

P'ierce raged the combat Mrs. Osgood. 707 

First at the dawn of lingering day Luttrell. 297 

First, find thou Truth, nnd then Shurtleff, r».%6 

Fine bumblebee ! line humblobee Emerson. 592 

Five yt'ars have passed : Ave summers Wordsmtrth. 2SS 

Flagiif my country, in thy folds H'. /*. Lunt. 613 

FIi>w gently, sweet Aftou Horns. 261 

Flutes in the sunny air Ilrrrry, C02 

F'ly fro ihe press and dwell with soothfastness Chanrrr. 3 

Foi.l ! I mean not Darley. 379 

Forbid. O Fate, f.irbSd that I Mrs. dice. 569 

For England when with favoring gale 533 

For one long term, or eer her trial came 275 

For Spring, and flowers nf Spring K. Kllioft. 860 

F'lr sure iu nil kinds of hypncrisy Grrviile. IS 

Fur the dead and for the dying liloitd. S97 

For the strength of the hills \\e bless thee.... J/r«. Ucmans. 450 

Ftir thirty years secluded from mankind Southey. 275 

Km ever gone! I am alone, alone Conrad. 611 

Fi»rever thine A. A. Watts. 619 

Forever with the Lord Montgomery. 303 

Forget thee, if to dream by nlgbt MtniUm: 515 

Foul canker of f.dr virtiiuns action Mnrston. 41 

Freedom I beneath thy banner Tuekermnn. "15 

Fresh clnil from henven in robes of white l^ainb. Z^' 

Fre*h from Ihe f.iun tains of the wood J. II. Iln'ant. 636 

Fresh morning gusta have blown away all fear Keats. 492 



948 



IKDEX OF FIRST LIXFS, ETC. 



TAGB 

Friendship, like love, is but a name.. Gay. 15-2 

Friend of my soul, foi- us no more E. Armstrong. 913 

Friends ! I come not here to talk Miss Mitford. 3S2 

From all that dwell beneath the skies /. M'atts. 131 

From Greenland's icy monntains Hehcr. 3(14 

From head and heart alike Mrs. McCord. tJTG 

From heaven what fancy stole Lytton. <ioe 

From her own fair dominions Trowbridge. S20 

From merciless invaders 160 

From the climes of the sun Gillespie. 331 

From the deep shadow of the still fir-groves 306 

From the moist meadow to the withered hill Thomson. 1G)J 

From the Rio Grande's waters Fikt. 6o7 

From you have I been absent in the spring Shakapeare. 30 

Full many a glorious moruiug have I seen tShakspeare. 30 

Gay, guiltless pair Sprague. 415 

Gayiy and greenly let my seasons run Blanchard. 5S2 

Genteel in personage Fieldinp. IfiO 

Gently, gently yet, young stranger Blanchard. 53^ 

Get up, get up, for shame Berrick. 5*i 

Giu a body meet a liody 533 

Give me a sphit that on life's rough sea Chapman. 19 

Give nie more love, or more disdain Carcw. 53 

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet Raleigh. 10 

Give WW, oil give me hack the d;iys Annier. 442 

Give me, O indulgent F;ite Countess of WincheUea, 140 

Give place, you ladies all OC 

**Give us a song," the soldier cried B. Taylor. 807 

Go, forget me, why should sorruw ]Yol/c. 414 

Go forth iu life. O friend Mrs. Botta. 7T0 

Go from me. Yet I feel Mrs. Browning. CIO 

Go, glorious d;iy Miss CUnimer. 890 

Go, lovely rose Waller. SS 

Go not, happy day Tennyson. 6Sl 

Go now, ingenuous youth Mrs. Charlotte Smith. 235 

Go patter to lubbers and swabs, d'ye see C. Dibdin. 228 

Go, sit by the summer sea 534 

Go 80ul, the body's guest Raleigh. 14 

Go, then, and join the roaring city's throng Bowles. 265 

Go, triflers with God's secret R. Buchanan. 909 

Go when the morning shine th Mrs. Simpson. 700 

God bless the king I— I mean, etc Byrom. 154 

God, give us men . Holland. 706 

God gives not kings the style of gods iu vain James I. 3S 

(iod of the earth's extended plains ir. B. O. Peahody. 525 

God prosper long our noble King 62 

God save our gracious King 15S 

"Gud wills but ill," the doubter said Bennett. 772 

Gone is gone, and dead is dead Miss Dutni. S-,'9 

Gone were but the winter cold Cunningham, 307 

Good-bye, proud world Emerson. 503 

Good-night? ah no, the hour is 111 Shelley. 420 

Good-night to thee, lady ! though many Praed. 570 

Going— the great round Snn E. A. Jenks. 840 

Great God of Nations, and their Right 085 

Great is the folly of a feeble brain Donne. 41 

Grent Monarch of the world Charles I. SO 

Great though thou art, awake Lytton. 600 

Greek Anthology, From the A nstin. 041 

Green be the turf above thee Halleck. 470 

Grown to man's stature, O my little child Mrs. Dorr. 809 

Guest from a holier world Laighton. 827 

Gusty aud raw was the morning B. Taylor. 807 

Had I a heart for falsehood framed Sheridan. 237 

Had I the wings of a dove Miss Aird. 732 

Had one ne'er seeu the miracle Savage. 909 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove Lngan. 234 

Hail, Columbia, happy laud Hopkinson. 205 

Hail, holy love Pollok. 517 

Hail, new-waked attmi 52S 

Hail thon, the ever young Lgtton. COT 

H^iil to thee, blithe spirit Shelley. 423 

Haifa league, half a league Tennysmi. GS4 

Hiippi^'-'ss that ne'er \v:is fading Mrs. McCord. 075 

Happy the mau who, void of cares and strife J.Phiiips. 131 



PAGB 

Hnppy the man whose wish and care Pope. 142 

Happy those early days when I Vaughan. 107 

Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings. . .Shakspeare. 29 

Hark that sweet carol Street. 702 

Hark the bell ! it sonnds midnight Lewis. 32S 

Hark the glad sound ! the Saviour comes Doddridge. 172 

Harkl the night's slumberous air Reade. 010 

Hark to the measured march Lytton. 606 

Hark to the shontim,' wind U. Timrod. S2S 

Harness me down with your iron bauds Cutter. 722 

Harry.my little bine-eyed hoy \V. II. Timrod, 420 

Has the old glory i)assed J.E. Cooke. S3S 

Has thy pursuit of knowledge been coniiiied MeKnight. S99 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morniug-star. Coleridge. 307 

Hast thon not seen, impatient boy /. Watts. 130 

Haste ! open the lattice, Giulia Dimitry. SS6 

Hath this world without me wrought Hedge. 615 

Haven't you seen her Mrs. Preston. 837 

Have you not oft in the still wind Barley. 3TS 

Having this day my horse Sidney. 17 

He had played for his lordship's levee Dobson. 897 

He is dead, the beautiful youth Longfellow. 629 

He is gone— is du^^t Coleridge, 309 

He is gone, O my heart, he is gone Mrs. Moulton. 863 

He is gone on the mountain Sir Walter Scott. 301 

He liveth long who liveth well Tinnar. 050 

He seudeth suu, he sendeth shower Mrs. Adams. 609 

He spake, and drew the keen-edged sword Bryant. 46C 

He taught the cheerfulness that still is ours Blanchard. 581 

He that loves a rosy cheek Carew. 52 

He that of such a heiglit hath built his mind Daniel. 20 

He was a man whimi danger , iJe Vere. 393 

He was iu logic a great critic 6'. Butler. 104 

He was one of many thousand Taylor. 567 

He who died at Azau sends E. Arnold. 851 

He who loves best kimws most Townshend. 583 

Hear the sledges with the bells Poe. 662 

Hear what Highland Nora said Sir Walter Scott. 302 

Heard ye the arrow hurtle in the sky ? Milman. 417 

Heaven is not reached at a single bound Holland. 706 

Hence, all ycm vain delights Beaumont and Fletcher. 46 

Hence, loathed Melancholy Milton. 90 

Hence, vaiu deluding joys Milton. 91 

Her closing eyelids mock the light Alden. 881 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend th»e Herrick. 55 

Her form was as the Morning's Tennant. 307 

Her sufi'ering ended with the d;iy J. A Idrieh. 601 

Her thick hair is golden Gibson. T9S 

Here are old trees, tall oaks Bryant. 4C3 

Here from the brow of the hill I look English. 763 

Here goes Love ! Now cut him clear It.T.S. Lowell. 741 

"Here I anr !" — and the house rejoices 539 

Here is a little golden tress Mrs. Welby. 779 

Here's a bank with rich cowslips Barley. 37:>- 

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie Moultrie. 515 

Here, take my likeness with you Cowley, loo 

Hie upon Hielands, and low upon Tay 84 

High name of poet! sought iu every age Brydges. 264 

High walls and huge Garrison. 614 

His joyous neigli, like the clarion's strain Durivage. 727 

His steed was old, his armor worn Beers. 930 

Historic mount ! baptized in flame Prentice. 579 

Home of the Percy's high-born race Halleck, 479 

Ho, sailor of the sea Dohell. 794 

Ho ! why dost thou shiver and shake Holcroft. 229 

How are songs begot and bred Stoddard. 803 

How are thy servants blest, O Lord Addison. 129 

How aromatic evening gri)ws .• Hillhouse. 410 

How beautiful is Night Southey. 322 

How beautiful is the rain Longfellow. 631 

How beautiful it was Longfellow. 633 

How can I cease to i)ray for thee Mrs. Dorr. 809 

How dazzling wliite the snowy scene Grahame. 270 

How dear to this heart Woodworth. 377 

How delicious is the winning Campbell. 336 

How few are f.iuud (on Murphy) Churclnll. 203 

How gallantly, how merrily B. W.Procter. 3S5 



lyOEX OF FIJUST LIXICS, Etc. 



949 



/ 



How hnppy is he born nnd taught Wotton. 39 

Hnw hiirh tluis-c tones me beating J/f'** liutts. 023 

I!nw little rooks it where men die liarnj. 554 

How IiMii.', u'li'fti Ood, how luDgmiist I Sonis. 122 

How lonj; I cnilud fl. Coleridge. 497 

lluw Itnig chnll ninii's imprisoned spirit groan Colton. 352 

How miuiy blos-cd sironps this lioiir Mrs. Ilemana. 451 

How numy d;iys wiih mule iuiit;u T. Miller. (353 

How niJiny men have passed the flames A. P. Miller. SSii 

How many thousands of my poorest subjects. ...ViakApeare. 33 

How many wait alone Mrs. C'onant. S95 

How often I repeat their rai^e divine Yowifj. 130 

How pleasant a sailor's life passes 159 

How ^ehlom, friend, a good great mau Coleridtje, 30S 

How shall a man foredoomed IL Coleridge. 493 

Howchall I know ihee in the sphere Bryant. 405 

How shall my love to God Garrison. 015 

How Mhall we learn to sway Amter. 443 

How sleep Ihe brave who sink to rest Collins. ISS 

How soft the pause Mrs. Tighe. 31S 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth Milton. 99 

How stands the glass around 163 

How slill the morning of the hallowed day (irahame. 209 

How sweet the harmonies of afternoon K Tennyson. Clti 

How sweet the moonlight sleeps Shakspeare. 32 

How strange is death to life Sterling. R20 

How vainly men themselves amaze Marvell. 113 

How various his employments whom. Cowper. 211 

Hues of the rich, unfolding morn Kvble. 430 

Hush, heart of mine Sumonds. Iil2 

Hush! licr face is chill Eastmatu 739 



"I always see in dreanip," she said Frothingham. 

I nm n friar of orders gray O'Kee/e. 

I am dying, Kgypt, dying hj/tle. 

I am in Uome ', Ofi as the moruing ray Rogers. 

I nm not concerned to know /. Watts. 

I nm not tnie who much or oft delight Wordsmtrth. 

I am ! yet what I am who cares Clare. 

I arise from dreams of thee SluUey. 

I ask not that my bed of death M. Arnold. 

I ai-ked the heavens— what foe Montgomery. 

1 bring fresh nhowei-s Shelley. 

I bring the simplest pledge of love Holmes. 

I cannot make him dead Pierpont-. 

I Ciinnot— no Taylor. 

I cannot tell you if the dead Laigldvn. 

I cannot think the glciriuus world ofmiud Jjeighton. 

I care not. Fortune, what ytju roe deny Thomson. 

I care not though it be yarn's. 

I climbed the dark brow Sir Walter Scott. 

1 dare not echo thoee who say Mrs. Mason. 

I'd be a bullerfly Bagly. 

I do not believe the sad story Curry. 

I envy not in any moods Tennyson. 

I feel a newer life in every gale Pereivat. 

I All ihis cup to i>ne made up Pinkney. 

I found beside a meadow-brooklet bright McKnight. 

I hae seen great anes Elizabeth Hamilton. 

I hale that drum's discordant sound ■/. Seott. 

I have been titling ahnic M. Collins. 

I have examined, and do ilnd Katitarine Phillips. 

I have had playmates C. Lamb. 

1 have j»hips that went to frea Coffin. 

I have tuld a maiden Lueretia M. Davidson. 

I hear it often in the dark (Jantwtt. 

I know, Justine, you speak me fair Haxe. 

I know my bmly's of so frail a kind Davies. 

I know that (he world D. Barker. 

I know thou art gone Uertey. 

I know thou art not that brown mouniaiu-i*ide Gilder. 

I lang hae thought, my youlhfu' friend Ititrns. 

I lay mc down to deep Mrs. Hotcland. 

I lived with viitions for my company Mrs. Browning. 

I Itnig have been ptizzicd to gue:>s Saxt. 

I look through tears on Beauty now IL U. Dana. 

I looked upon a plain uf grecu Sterting. 



rAom 

love (and have some cause to love) QuarUs. 53 

love it, I love it Miss Cook. 740 

love to look on a scene like this X. P. Willis. 024 

lt>ve to rise ere gleams the tardy light. AnTui Setcard, 523 

loved thee long and dearly /*. P. Cooke. 736 

loved thee once, I'll love no more Ayton. 35 

'U have no gliticriug gewgaws Tobin. 275 

11 rob the hyacinth and rot^e DaiceJt. 5.S9 

11 Icll you, fi ieud, what sort of wife Frisbic. 360 

m bidden, little Mary Mrs. Southey. 3SS 

'm eittiu' ou the siile, Mary Lady Dtifferin. 671 

'ni wearin' awa, John Carolina Sairne, 271 

marked at morn the thirsty earth Mrs. Sigourney. 418 

met a man in Kegent Street Bayly. 503 

must away to wooded hills O. Arrndd. 859 

need not )>raise the sweetness of his song Lowell. 703 

ne'er could any lustre see Sheridan. 237 

never gave a lock of hair away Mrs. Browning. 671 

not believe that the great Architect S'llvester. 23 

once saw a poor fellow Bowring. 440 

own I like not Johnson's targid style WolaA. 221 

pity from my soul unhappy men Roscommon. 120 

played with yon "mid cowslips blowing Peacock. 534 

pray thee by thy mother's face Brainard. 4^5 

press my check against the window-pane Mrs Prenton. KM 

remember, I remember Hood. 5ln 

remember, I remember Praed. 517 

remember the time, thon roaring sea Mnckay. 726 

said to Sorrow's awful storm Mis. Stoddard. 3sT 

sat with Doris, the sbeplierd-maiden Munby. 684 

saw from the beach Moore. 349 

saw thee once— once only Poe. 601 

say to thee, do ihon repeat Trench. 640 

^carcely grieve, O Nature Timrod. 829 

see thee still Sprague. 416 

see them on their winding way Heber. 364 

shot an arrow into the air Long/if loir. 630 

sing the sweets I know, the charms I feel Barlow. 246 

sit beneath the apple-tree Miss Phelps. 925 

sought for wisdom in the morning-lime Penney. 570 

sought Thee round about Heyirood. 37 

sprang to the stirrup Browning. 709 

stand upon the mountain's top E.Peabody. 623 

Ihank my God, because my hairs are gray //. Coleridge. 497 

think we arc too ready with complaint Mrs. Browning. G6S 

ve a proposal here from Mr. Murray Fiere. 274 

ve heard them lilting Miss Elliot. 193 

've oflen wished that I could write a book Frcre. 273 

've seen the smiling Mrs. Coekbnrn. 194 

've set my heart upon nothing, yon see Dwight. 718 

've wandered east, I've wtiudered we^t Mothe.rvelt. 500 

wait - . Miss CU'mmer. 839 

walked beside the evening sea Cnrtis. 794 

wandered by the brook-side Mifnrit, 000 

wandered Umely as a cloud Wordsworth. 2S2 

wasafcholar: seven useful springs Mnrston. 41 

watched the swans in thai proud park Parsons. 760 

weep for Adonais — he is dead Shelley. 427 

will n()t praise the ofien flattered rose Doubleday. 413 

will sing as I shall please Wither. 51 

wish I were where Helen lies 66 

won a noble fame Tilton. 864 

would be quiet, Lord Mrs. Dorr. S*i8 

would not have believed it then Weeks. 898 

would not live alway Muhlenberg. 551 

fall our life were one broad glare 552 

fall the world and Love were young Mnrlowe. 26 

f aught of oaten slop or pastoral sung Collins. ISO 

f by any device or knowledge I^lgrave. 797 

f by dull rhymes our English ninsl be chained Keats. 492 

f dead, we cease to be Coleridge. 3*fS 

f d'Miirhty deeds my lady please IL Graham. 235 

f rlumb Ion long the drooping Muse Tiekeil. 141 

f fragrances were coliir;*, I would liken De Kay. 933 

f! had thought thou conldst have died Wol/e. 414 

fin thc'^e thmighis of mine McKnight. 8'.>9 

fit must be D. Gray. 8S9 



'XO 



I^DEX OF FIRST LIKES, ETC. 



If love were what the r,Ke is Swinburne. S73 

If man sleeps on, untaught by what he sees Vounq. I3T 

If on acliihlofNaiuie thou bestow McKnirjht. 8!19 

If, sitting with this little, woni-ont shoe. .Mrs. M. R Sniitk 915 

If stars were I'eally watching eyes ISourcliaon. »3S 

If this fair rose offend thy sight 55q 

If thou must love me Mrs.'Brownin!,'. GTI 

If thou Shalt he in heart a chihl i. Morris. B5S 

II thou Wert by my siile, my love Heber 363 

If thy sad heart, pining for human love Mrs. Whitman 5S8 

II ye have precious truths that yet remain McKmght 900 

In all the hiud, range up, range dowu Dwluman. 90S 

lu darker days and nights of storm t. /'urker. 690 

In eddying course when leaves began to Hv nrydijes' 264 

In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand. . . .' Johnson 174 

In him Demosthenea was heard again Cowper 214 

In hope a king doth go to war _4 ;,-^„,j] .2.> 

In man or woman, but far most in man Cowper 210 

"In Memoriam,- Stanzas from Tennysot^. 685 

In inids of June, that jolly, sweet seasoiin Uenryson 5 

In piiriile robes old Sliavuamon Joyce. SS'' 

In slumbers of midnight the sailor-hoy lay ".'.mmcmd. BiSO 

In spite of outward blemishes she shone Churchill' 208 

In summer when the days were long '545 

In that desolate laud and loue '. ".'.'. Lon^m'ow. 630 

In the deepening shades of iwiiigni Mrs. Thorpe 985 

In the greenest growth of the May-iime Swinburne 872 

In the hour of my distress Herrick. 55 

In the molten-golden moonlight /,.. /„,„„„. 545 

In the tempest oflife Lmermce. 62U 

In thee, O blessed God, I hope niackie. 066 

lu their ragged regimentals McMaster. 830 

In these deep soliiudes and awful cells /-ope 147 

In wanton sport my Doris Me'rivale. 344 

In winter, when the rain rained cuuUl. . . Cj 

In yonder grave a Dniid lies '^^^^ColUns. 1S9 

Iiidolenl ! indolent! yes, I am iiuhik-nt Jf,-,. Cooke 819 

Intent the conscious mountains stood Mrs. Dodge. 903 

Inla a ward of the whitewashed walls Miss Laco.ile. 915 

" Icui," Talfourd's, Scene from ' j-,. 

Is it all vanity :;;;::;z;,;«™: 607 

Is there, for honest poverty 2,„„(». 25S 

Is theie then hope that thou Symonds. 913 

Is this the stately Syracuse notiey 723 

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child llyron 395 

Is thy name Mary, maiden fair fl„;„,^s; (,55 

It came upon the midnight clear Sears. 6S0 

It chanceth once to every soul....'. MissPhaps. 925 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free Wordsworth 292 

It is a place where poets crowned Mrs. Browning COS 

It IS a spectral show—this wimdroiis world 646 

It is a sultry day ; the sun has drunk Dry'tint 405 

It is ail ancient mariner Coleridge. 310 

It is enough : I feel this golden morn Mrs. Preston. 837 

It is hope's spell that glorifies e, Bronte. 743 

It is most true that eyes are formed to serve .Sidney. 17 

It is niglit ; I am ahme Macpherson. 222 

It IS not beauty I dcmaud 54 



It is not death to die 

It is not growing like a tree 

It is not long since wo with happy feet. 
It is not to be thought of that the flood 

It is the fairest sighi 

It is the loveliest day that we have had 

It is the midnight hour 

It is the soul that sees 

It lies around us like a cloud 

It's hame, and it's hamc 

It's rare to see the morning breeze Ainslie. 442 

It must be so— Plato, ihou reason 'st well ...iddimii. 129 

It seems so lonely in the nest Mrs Tuttle 892 

It singeth loiv in every heart Chadwick. 901 

II was a friai- of orders gray p„^y_ 202 

It was a summer evening Southey. 3'>0 

It was an eve of autumn's holiest mood Pollok 517 

It was an old distorted face Mrs. Whitney. 795 

It was merely the bud Powers 810 



Bethune. 610 

Jonson. 45 

Miss Barr. 939 

. . H'ordnworth. 293 
■ C. T. Turner. 649 

Hunt. 371 

J. Wil.lon. 375 

Crabbe. 246 

. ..Mrs. Stowe. 700 
Cunningham. 366 



It was not by vile loitering in ease Thomson 

It was the calm and silent night .'...Domett 

It was the time when 'gainst the breaking day... '.'.'Fairfax 
It was the wild midnight q^^i,.' 

Jenny kissed me when we met Hunt. 

Jerusalem, my happy home 

John Anderson my Jo, John \ ..Burris 

John Brown in Kansas settled .....' ..Stedman 

Johu Gilpin was a citizen Cowp'r 

Jonsou.Ben, Ode to himself. ' 

Joy to the world I the Lord is come ........Watts 

Judge not, because thou canst not judge nrisht..Townshenti 
Julius, how many hours have we Landor. 

Keep faith in love A . P. Miller. SSd 

lien ye aught of brave Lochiel 

Know'st thou the laud 



PACK 

108 

734 

2T 

3S6 

372 
85 
260 
855 
214 
44 
131 
6S7 
329 



529 

IK. H. Charming. 079 



E. Channiny. 744 

Howard. C 

..;... Brooks. SOS 

Moir. 506 

.. .Macaulay. 5.57 
. . . Churchill. 2119 
78 



Lady, there is a hope jc 

Laid iu my quiet bed 

Land of the brave! where lie innrned 

Laugsyne !— how doth the word come back.'. 

Lars Porsena ofClusium 

Last Garrick came 

Late at e'en, drinking the wine 

Late, late, so late....: '.'. .'.'.'.'.'.'rennmon. m 

Late to our town there came a maid Perkins 089 

Laud the lirst spring daisies .....Youi 550 

Laugh on, fair cousins, for to you ...Praed 574 

Lawrence, of virtuous father, virtuous son '. Milton 103 

Laya gailaud on my hearse Beaumont and Fletcher 4S 

Leave me not yet Mrs. Uemans. 450 

Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust .'iidney n 



.J. G. Clark. 834 



Leona, the hour draws nigh. 

Let it not grieve thee, dear .'.'.".'.'.'./.'i.' ivi. 555 

Let me count my treasures ggQ 

Let ine not deem that I was made iu vain H.Coleridge 49S 

Lei me not to the marriage of true minds .S/mfcpmrp' 31 

Let no mail fear to die Beaumont and Fletcher 47 

Let no poet, great or small Stoddard. 803 

Let them go by Dowden. 931 

Let us cscaiie ! this is our holiday SImms 61S 

Let us go, lassie, go Tannahiti. 3"4 

Let us haste to Kelvin grove t,,/^ 419 

Life .and the universe M. Collins. Sir 

Lie answers "No!" Lytton. m 

Lile, believe, is not a dream C.Bronte 742 

Life ! I know not what thou art Mrs. Barbauld. 2"0 

Life is a sea ; like ships we meet C. T Brooks 71 1 

Life is unutterably dear Miss Bat4!s'. 923 

Life will be gone ere I have lived c. Bronte 743 

Lift up thine eyes, atBicted soul Montqomeru. 304 

Lift your glad voices //. irarc. 459 

Like as the armed knight .4 „,„ as^„„_ ., 

Like as the damask rose you see Wastell. 81 

Like as the waves make toward the pebbled. ....S'Ani-sjrarc 30 

Like to the falling of a star ^-j-,,,.' 59 

Lily, on li,|„id roses floating '.'.'.'^Kenyon. 360 

Lithe and listen, gentlemen ' gg 

Little charm of placid mien '.[[^"'.'^a'. 'philips. 126 

Lute drops of water Mrs. Osgood. 70S 

LiltleGietchcn, little Gretchen Mrs. Howitt 594 

Little I ask : my wants are few Holmes. 055 

Little inmate, full of mirth Mrs. Charlotte Smith. 235 

Little store of wealth have I Mrs. Dorr. 80S 

Live iu that Whole J.F.Clarke. 679 

" Live while ycui live," the epicure would sav. . ..Doddridge 172 

Lol o'erthee.irth ;,„,„^ gj, 

Lo, Yates ! Without the least finesse of art Churchill. 207 

Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day Campbell. 3.'>2 

Long swollen iu dreuchiug rain Wilcox. 461 

Long time a child, and still a child H. Coleridge. 490 

Look at me with thy large brown eyes Mrs. Craik. 812 

Look hack! a thought which Cliurehili. 207 

Look, mother, the mariner's rowing Mangan 6S9 

Look oir, dear Love Lanier. 910 



JXDICX OF FlUST LIXES, ETC. 



951 



rAOK 

Look, soul, how swiftly all thiugs onward tend.. .McKnight. 901 
Leak there ! the bcacou'e crirasou light... IK. B. 0. Peabodtj. 522 

Look up. sweet wife, ihroii^'h happy lenrs iV. liarr. S4S 

Look, WilUum, how the muruiuj; miijty Suntlwy. bJa 

Lord : come away Jercimj TayUir. 105 

Lord, for the erring thonsht IhnceUn. 87 1 

Lord, from Ihy bles^t'd Ihrone SicuU. 719 

Lord ofeiuth I Iby bouuleuus hand Grant, 373 

Lord, thon knowest rierpont. HSO 

Lord, what am I? a worm.diist, vapor, uothiiig Hall. 40 

Lord ! who art merciful as well as just Southcij. 322 

Lord, what a chan^'C Trench. WO 

Lordjj, kiii,:hls.;iiKi squires, the numerous band Prior. 123 

Loud roared the dreadful Ihuuder. Cherry. 263 

Linid wind, strong wind itrn. Craik. 812 

Louisa, did y»m never trace H'. L. O, Peabodtj. 623 

Love ? I will icH ihce what it is to love Sicain, 5S5 

Love is the happy privilege Bailey. T34 

Love, let w* htvc Bourdillon. OSS 

Lt»vc me little, love me long S3 

Love me, love, but breathe il h>w J. Milter. 914 

Love mistress is of many minds Southteell. 22 

Love not, love not Mrs. .S'ortun. G4S 

Love not me for comely grace HJ3 

Love thee. O thou, the world's. Milman. 418 

Love wtihiii the lover's breast Meredith. S2G 

Low hung the luouti, the wiud was still Miss Proctor. S3S 

Mngniiiccut creature, so stalely and bright J. Wilson. 374 

Maid of Athens, ere we part Byron. 404 

Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend Mrs. AUen. 850 

Man— the external world Townshend. 5SS 

Many a year is in its gr.ive Mrs. Ait »t in. 451 

Many are poets who have never peuncd Byron. 4*)5 

Many years have Honied by 3Irs. Conant. 895 

March, march. Ettrick and Teviotdale .Scott, 301 

Mark that t-wifi arrow, how it cuts the air Coteley. 110 

Murk vol) nid mansion frowning through Ihc trees.. Uorjcrs. 207 

Maud Mullcr, on a summer day Whittier. C34 

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings Cuirpsr. 214 

Master, they argued fast concerning thee. I)ou:dim. 932 

Maiwelion braes are bonule Douglai*. 1&4 

May nevermore a selIi^l^ wish of mine McKniijht, 900 

31ay, queen of blossoms Thurlotc. 359 

Mclhinks it is good to be here //. Knowtes. 504 

*Mid pleasures and palaces ibungh we may tonm.... Payne. 439 

'Mid (he flijwer-wreaihed tombs i stand Uifiginson. 792 

'.Mid the ihuuder of battle Macla/jan. 093 

Mild oiTppriug of a dark and sullen sire White. 377 

Milton ! thou shonldst be living at this hour... Wordstcorth. 293 

Mine eyes have seen the glm'v Mrs. lloire. 75S 

Mlue eyes— that may not pee thee smile. Ilervey. 003 

Miss Flora M'Flimsey of Madison Square Bittler. 799 

"More poels yell" I hear him say Dobmn. S'.iO 

More than the soul of ancient song Mrs. Lipftineott, 790 

Mortality, behold and fear Beanmont. 47 

Most gliirious Lord of life, that on this day Spenser. 13 

Most liilellectual master of the art Fuller-Ossoli . 677 

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, muurii HiiwUett. 191 

Mourn, O rejoicing heart 157 

Mournfnily listening to the waves' stmuee talk. ...AVWon. 052 

Much h.ive I travelled iu the realms of gold Keats. 18 

Music, and franklnrensc Fajte, $22 

Music, how stran<:e her power Street. 702 

MuipIc Is in all growing things Lathrop. 937 

My boat is ou the shore Byron. 4*i4 

My day and ni;;ht arc in my lady'd hand I'aynr. 91 iS 

My days among the dead arc past Soiithey. 321 

My dear and only love, I pray Janus Urahani. 103 

My eye descending from the hill, surveys Denhanu 104 

My fairest child Kingsley. 76S 

My father, take my hand Bobbins, 7(i7 

My frtciid, thon currowcsl ftryant. 463 

My God ! I heard (hfs day ilcrltrrt. 60 

My God, I thank thee: may no thought Xorton. 881 

My heart ache«, and a drowsy numbuct<a pains. Keats, 494 

3ly heart is sair, I dareua tell Burns. SOI 



FAOt 

My life is like a stroll upon the beach Thorean, 745 

My life is like the summer roee Wilde. 412 

My liule son, who looked Pat more. 790 

My loved, my honored, much respected friend tlnrus. 253 

My mind to me a kingdom is. Sir Edward Dyer. 8 

My oldest friend, mine from ihe hour J. H. Setrman. 572 

My only love is always near Locker. 77S 

My own, it is time you were coming 545 

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares Tychhitrn. 84 

My sister ! with iliis mortal eye M. Davidson. G46 

My songs are all of thee Gilder. 926 

My soul has grown too great to-day Mrs. Matmi. 7SS 

My soul to-diiy Brad. 780 

My soul was dark Crostrell. 004 

My spirit lougeth for thee Byrom. 153 

My true-love hath my heartland I have his Sidney. 17 

My untried muse shall no high tone assume Bloovitield. 271 

My wee wife dwells in yonder cot Ittnne. C5S 

Myself I found borr.e to a heavenly clime Wilcox, 4(JI 

Mysterious NigUt ! when our tlrst parent kuew White, 325 

Nay, shrink uot from the word farewell Barton. SCO 

Nearer, my God, lo thee Sarah F. Adams. 008 

Needy knife-grinder, whither are you going. Canning. 275 

Never, my heart, wilt thon grow old Mrs. Hall. 680 

New being is from being ceased *. ..Savage. 910 

Night of the tomb I he has entered thy portal. . .E. Sargent. 717 

Night overtook me ere my race was run Harris. 785 

No actor ever greater heights (on Qnin) Churchill. 208 

No, I never till life Bowles. 265 

No: I shall pass into the Morning Laud M. Collins. SIT 

No monument »>f me remain Ilabington, SS 

Nor can I not believe bui that hereby Wordstcorth. 294 

Nor fame I slight, nor f^ir her favors call Pojte. 150 

Nor force nor fraud shall sunder ns DubeU, 795 

Nor rural sights alone, but rural stmnds Cowper. 210 

Nt>t a drum was heard, not a funeral note Wol/e. 413 

Not as it looks will be Ihy coming state McKnifjht. 9(»0 

Not far advanced was morning day Sctdt. 29S 

Not here, in the populous towu Bourdillon. 938 

Nut marble, nor ihe gilded monuments Shaksjteare, 30 

Not, my soul, what thou bast done Ijombard. 852 

Not that her blooms are marked T. Wartnn. 204 

"Not to myself alone" Partridfic. C74 

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul Southey. 322 

Not what we would, but what we must Stoddard. 804 

Not worlds on worlds in phalanx deej) <Ak«/. 209 

Not yet :— alonir ibe puriding sky Sirs. .Mamm. 788 

Not yet, — the ll-iwers are in my path Miss Landon. 578 

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly... AUiwjham. 825 

Now glory to the Lord of hosts Macnulay. 603 

Now, if to be an April-fool M. Collins. 817 

Now it belongs not to my care Biixfer. 100 

Now Spring returns. Bruce. 231 

Now Summer finds her perfect prime Miss Proctor. 839 

Now stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height Danrin. 206 

Now Ihe bright morning star, day's harbinger iWl7^*H. UH> 

Now the noisy winds are still Mrs. Ihtlije. 1*05 

Now, trumpeter I for Ihy clothe Whitmaiu 7.'>5 

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room- Wordsxcorth. 2itl 

Nurse of the Pilgrim sires, who sought Elliott. 301 

Nymph of the rock Mrs. Charlotte Smith. 2SG 

O Imim, when I am dead Buchanan, 907 

<> beauteons Soul hiand O' Beilhj. 922 

o blesy^d morn, whose ruddy beam IT. Wdnon. 670 

o ble>4^ing and delight Ilallam, 095 

O blithe new-comer I I have heard Wordmcorth. 282 

O brooding spirit W. B. Hamilton. 613 

(> brother, who for us T. Parker. 689 

O clouds and winds and slrenm? Mrs. Bolta. 770 

O curfew of the setting sun 1 O Bella of Lyuul..£/o/ifi/V//r.ir. 6.T4 

O Day I he cannot die E. Hmnte. "43 

O dear Sky Farm E. Goodale. 941 

O Domlne Dens ; spcravl hi le Marii Stuart, 677 

O fair binl, singing In the woods L.Morris. 854 

Ofiicud! whose uamc is closely bouud Miss Bates, 923 



952 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES, ETC. 



PAGtt 

friends, with whom my feet have trod Whittier. 638 

O God ! if this indeed be all A. Bronte. 744 

O God, the giver of all Linton. 704 

O God, thou faithful God Frothingham. 44(i 

O God! whose thon^^hts are brightest light Faber. 733 

O God, whose thmidur shakes the eky ChnttertMi. 243 

O happy glow ! O siui-bathed tree ! Mrtt. Webiiter. 913 

O keen, pellucid air C.T. Turner. G49 

O lady ! we receive but what we give Coleridge. 309 

O Law, fair form of Liberty Cutler. S4G 

O Love, come back Marston. 916 

O Love Divine Huntington. 7G0 

O loving God of Nature A. P. Miller. SS5 

O meiancholy bird Thurlow. 359 

O mistress mine, where arc yon roaming. Shakftpeare. 33 

O messenger, art thou the king or I Mrs. Jackson. S43 

O mother, wait until my work is done Noi/es. 934 

O mnrnuiriiig waters Lady Scott. 740 

O my hive's like a red, red rose Bitrns. 261 

O mystic, mighty flower Mins Barr. 939 

O Nature ! all thy seasons please the eye Grahame. 270 

O only Source of all our light Clough. 753 

O perfect Light, which shaid away Hume. 35 

O Power, more near my life Lowell. 764 

O reader, hast, thou ever stood to see Soidhey. 321 

O river Beautiful Plimpton. S33 

O sacred star of evening, tell O. W. B. Peahody. 524 

O saw ye bonnie Lesley Burns. 259 

O soul of mine Chadwick. 902 

O spirit of the summer-time Atlingham. S25 

O Stella ! golden star of youth Walker. 4(;[> 

O still, wliite face of perfect peace D. R. Gnodale. 942 

O strong soul, by what shore M. Arnold. 7S4 

O summer-time, so passing sweet Miss Pfeifcr. 926 

O suns and skies and cUmds of June Mrs. Jackson. S44 

O sweet and fair ! O rich and rare 535 

O sweet wild roses that bud and blow Gilder. 924 

O Switzerland ! my country ! 'tis to thee JohnNeaK 44:t 

O thou eternal One ! whose presence bright Bnwring. 439 

O thon great Arbiter of life and death young. 137 

O thou great Beiriir ! what thou art Bnrns. 256 

O Thou great Friend T. Parker. 6S9 

O thou, so early lost M. Davidsoji. 644 

O thou that rollest above Macpherson. 222 

O Tliou whose image in the shrine Clough. 753 

O time and death ! with certain pace Sands. 521 

O Time ! who know'st a lenient hand to lay Bowles. 265 

O truth of the earth Whitman. 756 

O vale and lake Mrs. Hemans. 449 

O weary heart, there is a rest Mrs. Klh-t. 749 

O weel may the boatie row John Fwen. 224 

O wild and stormy Lammermoor Lady Scott. 740 

O wild, enchanting horn Mellen. 525 

O wild west wind, thou breath of autumn's being. . ..Shellcij. 425 

O Willie's gane to Melville Castle 160 

O winter, wilt thou never, never go D. Gray. SSS 

O world ! O life ! O time ! Shelley. 427 

O ye dead poets who are living still Longfellow. 632 

O ye uncrowned but kingly kings .4.iken. 552 

Occasions drew me early to the city Milton, 95 

Odors of Spring, my sense ye charm Mrs. Tighe. 317 

O'er meadows green Home. 581 

O'er wayward childhood S.T. Coleridge. 309 

Of all the girls that are so smart Carey. 165 

Of all the human-helping songs Wentz. 903 

Of all the myriad monds of mind Lowell. 764 

Of all the thoughts of God Ibatare Mrs. Browning. 669 

Of idle hopes and fancies wild Mrs. Hall. 5S0 

Of old, when Scarron Goldsmith. 200 

Of Nelson and the North Campbell. 338 

Of these the false Achitophcl was first Dryden. ITS 

Of this fair volume which we World do name. ..Druinmond. 49 

Oft has it been my lot to mark Merrick. 1S5 

Oft have I walked these woodland paths Laighton. 827 

Oft in the after-days Fane, 822 

Oft. in the Btilly night Moore. 346 

Oil, a dainty pin at is the ivy green Dickens. 706 



VKC.K 

Oh, Artevelde H. Taylor, 066 

Oh, beautiful the streams J. WiUon, 374 

Oh, blest of heaven Akennide. 188 

Oh, breathe not his name Moore. 346 

Oh, bright presence of to-day Tapper. 691 

Oh ! by that gracious rule Mrs. Southey. 3S9 

Oh, could we do with this world of ours Moore. 347 

Oh, darling of the year, delicious May T'ownsheiuJ. 588 

Oh, did you see bim riding down Miss Perry. 921 

Oh, ever skilled to wear the form we love Miss Williams. 262 

Ob, fair shines the sun on Glenara Joyce. 8S3 

Oh, for my sake do you with fortune chide Shakspeare. 31 

Oh, fear not thou to die Mrs. Southey. 392 

Oh, how canst thou renounce Beattie. 21S 

Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous Shakspeare. 30 

Oh, how the Swans of Wilton 544 

Oil, is there not aland Mrs. Barbauld. 226 

Oh, it is great for our country to die Percival. 481 

Oh, it is hard to work for God Faber. 733 

Oh, it is pleasant with a heart at ease Coleridge. 

Oh, leave thyself to God. Burbidne. 

> Ob, let me alone Key. 

Oh ! listen, man ! a voice 11. H. Dana. 

Oh listen to the liowling sea Curtis. 

Oh I lives there. Heaven, beneath thy wide Campbell. 

Oh, loosen the snood Haljrine. 

Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home Kingsley. 

Oh, Master and Maker. Clarke. 

Oh, may I join the choir invisible Mrs. Cross. 

Oh, my bosom is throbbing with joy M. Davidson. 

Oh, never did a mighty truth Talfourd. 

Oh, not in vain Linton. 

Oh now, my true and dearest bride Barnes. 

Oh, saw ye the lass 

Oh, saw you not fair lues Hood. 

Oh say! can you see, by the dawn's early light Key. 

Oh, say not so ! a bright old age Barton. 

Oh ! say not thou art all alone A. A. Watts. 

Oh say not woman's heart is bought Peacock. 

Oh, say, what is that thing called light Cibber. 

Ob, sweet Adare ! oh, lovely vale Grijfin. 

Oh, sweet is thy current H. Ji, Wallace. 

Oh, that I were the great soul of a world Kennedy. 

Oh, that the desert were my dwelling-place Byron. 

Ob, that those lips liad language Cowper. 

Oh, the rharge at Balaklava Meek. 

Oh, the days are gone, when Beauty bright Moore. 

Oh, there's a dream of early youth 

Oh ! thou bright and beautiful day Simms. 

Oh, thou conqueror Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Oh I.hon great Movement of the universe Bryant. 

Oh, Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear Moore. 

Oh ! vex me not with needless cry W. Smith. 

Ob, waly, waly, np the bank 

Oh, water for me F.Johnson. 

Oh ! what a marvel of electric might Miss Bates 

Oh, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms Keats. 

Oh, what will a' the lads do Hogg. 

Oh, where, tell me where Mrs. Anne Grant 

Oh, wherefoi-e come ye forth Macaulay. 

Oh, who shall lightly say that Fame Miss Baillie. 

Ob I why should the spirit of mortal be iirond Knox. 

Oh ye wild groves, oh where Beattie. 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west ScotL 

Oh, to be home again Fields. 

Oh, weary heart! thou'rt half-way home Willis. 

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man Greene. 

Old things need not be therefore true Clough. 

Old wine to drink B. H. Messinger. 

On a night like this how many Broivnell. 

On Carron's side the primrose pale Langhorne. 

On Leven's banks while free to rove Smollett. 

On Linden, when the sun was low Camjibrll. 

On lips (if blooming youth Mrs. Conant. 

On parent knees, a naked new-born child Jones. 

On that deep-retiring shore Milnes. 

On the deep is the mariner's danger Brarnard. 



747 
343 
383 
794 
340 
S33 
765 
6T7 
771 
644 
472 
704 
C73 
527 
510 
342 
368 
518 
034 
127 
5S0 
74G 
520 
397 
212 
721 
349 
655 
618 

46 
467 
349 
555 

S2 
553 
924 
491 
281 
247 
561 
26G 
410 
219 
29S 
748 
625 
57S 
753 
693 

21 S 
192 
335 
895 
232 
660 
484 



IXDEX OF FIItST LlXliS, ETC. 



953 



On ihcfleUl in front of Finstenz J, O. Sargent T»3 

On ihy fiiir l)i.«>m,tilvi'r lukc Pereival. 462 

On wh;il fouu(I;ition (Jtaiuls ihu warnor's piide. .S.Johiiiion. ITS 

Oucc lit the jin^'ehis (t-rc I wjis detul) liobson. 897 

Oncu in the fliiiiit (»r a;;es pnst Moiitgttmert/. B03 

Once in the Kufy prime of Pprlii}; Fieldtt. "i-iS 

Once, Inokin-; from n window on a linid (iiUU-r. 924 

Once on my nuiilier'si brcjisl Ilom-llit. 871 

Once this suft nirf, iliis rivnlci*s t-ands Bryant. 4G6 

Once upon a midnii^ht dreary Po^. 003 

One day, nitrh weary of the irksome way Speimer. 11 

One more nnfnrtnuate Hood. 508 

One mtirn, what time ihe fickle 'y;nu to play liryitnen. '204 

One uicht came on a hurricane Pitt. B32 

One of the .-rairs to head to heaven Linton. 703 

One caith **The world's a stnjje" Sffmondtf. 912 

One ewcelly ttDlemn ttuniLrht /*, Carij. 769 

One Wind it* ti»o tiflen profaned Shcllei/. 427 

Only a baby (»mall M. Darr. S4S 

Only n »>hellcr fin- my head I gonL;ht Lilian Clarke. 67S 

Only the beanti fill is real Linton. 704 

Only wntlin;; till the shadows Mrn.Macc. 807 

Onward forever llnws the tide of life Si/mondn. 911 

Onwnrd! throw ail terrors oflf /Joirrim/. 440 

Oslera 1 spirit of spring-time Mrs. Mace. SCO 

Our bugles pani; truce Campbell. 33G 

Our penile Charles has parsed away Taf/onrd. 471 

Our ?nde man cam' hame at e'en 101 

Our life is liken cloudy sky Dacif. 342 

Our life Is twofold Iti/ron. 401 

Our native land— our native vale Pi ingle. 408 

Our oats tiley arc howed. and our barley's i enpcd 1.S7 

Out from cities haste away. ISennctt. "72 

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass Miss Otgood. 90ft 

Out of the Deep, my child Tennyson. CSS 

Out of thine azure depths Puirers. SIO 

Outtiiide the open trate a spirit stood Meredith. 826 

Over that Pdlcmn pa<zeant mule Milvian. 417 

Over the billows and over the brine Hood. ftl4 

Over the hill lo the i)oor-honse CarUton. 92S 

Over the nnmntains and under tlic waves 75 

Over the river Ihey beckon to me Jfr«. Wakefield. S61 

Pack clonds away, and welcome day Ucyimod. 37 

Passing fnmi Italy t<> Greece, the tales Ford. 40 

Passions are likened be^t to floods and streams Raleigh. 15 

Paute in)t to dienm of the future before us Mra. OsgtMfd. 70s 

Peace to all t-iich ! but were there one whose fires Pope, ifll 

Pedants shall not tie my strings Wither. 51 

People have tensed and vexed me Martin. 740 

"Philip Van Arteveldc," Kxlract from II. Taylor. 506 

Phillips 1 whtf-io tourh harmonious H. Johnson. 179 

Pibroch of Donnil iJhn, pibroch of Donuil Srott. 301 

Pilj;rim, burdened with thy sin ..Crabbe. 245 

Pipe, little minstielfi of the waninp year Mism Kimball. 857 

Piped the blackbird on the beech wood spray. . . . Westtntod. 730 

PipiiiR down the valleys wild Itlakr. 251 

Place we a stone at bis head and biB feet Kennedy. 520 

Pleasuies lie thirkeHt where lUanehard. 682 

Pleasures of I machination Akenttide. 187 

poet and saint ! to thee alone are given CowUg. Ill 

Pool, if oil a la-ting furae the bent Titnrod. 829 

poor lit r le Willie Mamey. 820 

Poor lone Hannah MisM Lareom. SI4 

Poor soul, the centre of my Hinful earth Shak^peare, 31 

Praise of the wise and pood itn/dgn*, 2r4 

Prepare Ihce, coiiI. to quit this fpot Ueratid. 619 

Prt'serve thy hlph-. iinlhrifiy pirl Itareymnt. 87 

Pride of the IJrItish stape Campbell. 337 

Pride, sclf-adorinp pride l*idlok, BIG 

Princet*!— andyoii mowt valnmu" Dobnon. 896 

PMSoner! within these gloomy wjdis cIobc [tent... fiarnnon. 014 

Prune thou Ihy words /. //, Seirman, 571 

Pshaw: away with leaf and berry Ilootl. 613 

Queen and hnnrress,chn«lc and fair Jonnon. 44 

Qneeu of fresh flowers Ueber. 365 



rAdK 

Rarely, rarely comei-l Ihou Shelley. 426 

Ueed of the stagnant waters tliggiiuton, 792 

lielleitcd in the lake I love Totrnshcnd. 5SS 

H«'J<»'cc, ye heroes Talfourd. 47n 

Religion, which true policy befriends Mrs.PhitlijiH. 119 

Remember IbeeV Yes, while there's life Moore. 347 

Itemotc, unfriended, melancholy, slow. . Ooldnmith. T.'9 

Keiire :— the wiirld shut out Vouug. i;w 

Rise, rise t Lowland and Highland men Iinlah. 520 

Rise, then, Aristo's sim, assist my Muse Henry More. I(i5 

River is time in water; as it came Holgday. 59 

River! river! little river Mrs. Snuthry. 3SS 

Rock of ages, cleft for me TopUidg. 224 

Rocked in the cradle of the deep Mrs. Widard. 3S4 

Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river Mangnn. 590 

Roll on, thou ball, roll on Gilbert. 871 

Rt)se-cheeked Laura, come Campion. 85 

Roy'a wife of AldivalUtch Mrs. (.rant. 225 

Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade Holmes. 054 

Sad is onr youth, for it is ever going De Vere. 728 

Sad soul, whom God, resuming what he gave. . W. C. Roncoe. 787 

St. Agnes' Eve,— ah, biiler chill it was Keats, ^^o 

St. Philip Xeri, as old readings say Byrom. 153 

Saw ye my wee thing 3(acneiU. 23n 

Say there! P'r'aps Bret Bartc. 87S 

Say, What is Freedom? What the right o[»o\\U,H. Coleridge. 498 

Say, why was man so eminently raised Akenside. 1^6 

Science may sneer at Faiih Hall. 571 

Scion of a mighty stock .4. //. Eterctt. 412 

Scorn not the sonnet, critic Wordstcorth. 292 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled Hums, 257 

Sea-king's daughter from over the sea Tennyson, GSI 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulnesg Keats, 495 

Sealed one day at the organ Miss Procter. 8<i6 

See how the orient dew ..Marrell. 113 

See 1 how with thundering ti<My feet. . . T. Taylor. 251 

Seeing our lives b}" Nature now are led Me Knight. iHHl 

Seek not the spirit if it hide Emerson. 592 

See the chariot at hand here of Love foiutnn. 43 

Self-taught, unaided, poor, reviled (iarrison. 014 

Seicne I fold my arms and wall linrrongh^. S72 

Shakspeare, Detached Passages from 33 

Shalt he whose birlh, maturity, and age Beattie. 220 

Shall I compare thee to a suratner's day Shakspeare. 29 

Shall I tell you whom I love Wni. Bromie. 63 

Shall I, wasting in despair Wither, 52 

She bounded ()er the graves Mrn. iiilman. 46S 

She comes, she comes ! the sable throne behold /'ope. 151 

She died in beauty! like a rose SUlrry. \X\\\ 

She is not fair to outward view //. Coleridge, 496 

She of whose soul if we may say 'twas gold Ikmne. 42 

She paspcd up the ai^Ie on the arm of her sire Loekrr. 777 

She pulls a rose from her rose-tree Piatt. 804 

She stood breast-high amid the corn Hooil. 513 

She walkfih up and down the marriage nnut 530 

She walks in beauty, like the night Byron. 4(0) 

She was a phantom of delight Wordsirorth. 283 

She was indeed a pretty little creature Barker. 372 

She wore a wreath of roses Bayly. .'►02 

Shed no tear! Ob, shed no tear Keats. 493 

Shining sickle, lie thou there MeOee. 805 

Should anid acquaintance be forgot Bums. 250 

Shrink not, O human spirit 688 

"Shut, shut the door, good John." fatigtieU I said Pnpe. 144 

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more Shakspeare, 28 

Silence angmenteth iirief. Orerille. IS 

Silent companions of the lonely hour Mrs. .\orton. 64s 

Silent nymph, with curious eye Dyer, 170 

Since, dearest friend, 'tis your desire to see Covtey, 110 

Since Nature's works be good, and death doth ^crvcSidney. 10 
Since there's no help, roine let us kiss and part . ... Ihagtim. 24 
Since trifles make the sum i>f human things. .//(innuA .More. 2:to ' 

Sing again the song you sung Curtis. 7'.'4 

Sing aloud ! His praise rehearse Henry More. 100 

Sing lullabie'', ns women do Oaseoigne. 9 

Sink to my heart, bright evening ^kieB — Peikins, 688 



954 



lADEX OF FIEST LINES, Etc. 



PAOE 

Sir Marniadukc was a heaity kiiii^ht George Colman. 203 

Slave of llie dark and dirty mine Leijdcn. 32G 

Slayer of the winter, art. tlum here again W. Morrin. SG2 

Sleep breathes at last fruiu out thee Hunt. 3T0 

Sleep, little baby, sleej) Mrs. Southey. 391 

Sleep, love, sleep Mm, Judson. 74T 

Sleep sweetly in your humble ;;raves Timrod. 8'iS 

Sleec, and hail, and thunder.. Hood. 513 

Slow toiling upward from the misty vale Holme-i. Gb4 

Slowly along the crowded street I go C.A. Dana. 757 

/ Slowly England's siiu was setting Mrs. Thorpe. 935 

Soft; be thy sleep as mists that rest Mrs. Brook*!. 475 

Soft on the sunset sky E. Goodale. 942 

So here hath been dawning Carlyle. 476 

Softly woo away her breath U. W. Procter. 3S(3 

Soft on this April morning T. Hill. 752 

So grieves tlie adveuturons merohaiit Carew. 52 

So many years I've seen the eun Gambold. 53S 

Some day, some day of days Nora Perry. 921 

Some ot their chiefs were princes of the land Dryden. US 

Some love the verse that like Maria's Hows Gifford. 240 

Somewiiere on this earthly planet Timrod. S'iS 

Songs are like painted window-panes Bowring. SIS 

Songs are sung in my mind Citrtiif. 794 

So now my summer task is ended, Mary Shelley. 434 

So pitiful a thing is Suitor's stale Spenser. 13 

So sweet, so sweet the roses in tlicir bU)wing...A'ora Perry. 92i) 

Soul, get thee to the heart Lanier. 910 

Sonl of my soul, impart E. Sargent. 717 

Sonl, The high-born Akenside. 1S7 

Soul's Aspirations, The Davies. 45 

Speak, fur thy servant hearetli Mrs. Howe. 75S 

Speeeliless sorrow sat with me Mias Kimball. 857 

Spring flowers, spring birds, spring breezes. ... Montgomery. 304 
Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's ])leasant kiiig...A*aa/t. 3S 

Spring, with that nameless pathos iu the air Timrod. 82S 

Square and rough-hewn Pickering, 362 

Staffa, I scaled thy summit hoar Sotheby. 249 

Stand up— erect ! thou hast the form Gallagher. 051 

Stars, that on your wondrous way Jane Taylor. 365 

.Stately as bridegroom to a least Thornbury. 824 

Sleer, hither steer your winged pines Wm. Brotvne. 54 

Step iu, pray, Sir Toby, my pieture is here Lewis. 328 

Stern daughter of the voice of God M'ordmvorth. 2S3 

Still here— thou hast uot faded Hal/am. 695 

Still sighs the world for something new Iloyt. 672 

Still to be neat, still to be drest Jon.'ion. 45 

Still young and line Vaughnn. 107 

Stoop to my window, thou beanliful dove Willis. 625 

Stop, mortal, here thy brother lies Elhott. 362 

Stop on the Appiau Way Mr». Stoddard. S04 

Storm upon the mountain Westirood. 720 

Strange looked that lady old, reclined Simvious. 700 

Strange, strange for thee and me Phcebe Cary. 760 

Strength of the beautiful day T.Hawthorne. 929 

Strength, too ! thou surly, and less gentle boast Blair. 155 

Strew all their graves with flowers Very. 713 

Strive; yet I do not promise Miss Procter. 806 

Strive not to say the whole St.ory. 752 

Struggle not witii thy life Mrs. Kemble. 694 

Suicide: From "Ethelstan" Darley. 37G 

Sure, to the mansiiius of the blessed Adams. 535 

Swans sing before ihey die >?. T. Coleridge. 555 

Sweet Auburn 1 loveliest village of the plain Goldsmith. 105 

Sweet bard of Eltrick's glen Mrs. Inglis. 324 

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes Herrick. 56 

Sweet Corrin I how softly Si^nmons. COS 

Sweet day 1 so cool, so calm, so bright Herbert. Gl 

Sweet Emma Morelaud of yonder town Tennyson. 6S0 

Sweet evening hour Lyte. 445 

Sweet flowers ! that from yonr humble beds Giford. 24S 

Sweet is the pleasure itself cannot spoil Dwight. 717 

Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies Mrs. Barbauld. 227 

Sweet letters of the angel tongue Dallnu. 772 

Sweet maid, if them wouUlet charm my sight W. Jones. 232 

Sweet tyrant, love ! but hear me now J.Thomson. 531 

Sweet-voiced Hope, thy tlue discourse Wasson. 797 



Sweeter than voices iu the scented hay Bourdilhm. itSS 

Swift o'er the sunny grass Mrs. Dodge. 904 

Swift through some trap mine eyes Lanier. 917 

Swifter far than swallow's flight J. Aldrich. 601 

Take back into thy bosom, earth Simmons. 690 

Take back tliese vain insignia of command. .l&■^^•^4.rfc Vere. 394 

Take, lioly earth, all that my soul holds dear Mason. 103 

Take, oh take those lips away Beaumont and Fletcher. 47 

Tangled I was iu Love's snare Wyatt. 

Teach me. my God and King Herbert. CI 

Tears, idle tears, I know not Tennyson. 6SS 

Tell him I love him yet Praed. 575 

Tell me, friend — as you are bidden Clarke. 678 

Tell me not, sweet. I am unkind Lovelace. 109 

Tell me, now, my saddened soul Greg. GOl 

Tell the fainting soul in the weary form Barker. 742 

That sou of Italy who tried to blow M. Arnold. 7S4 

That which her slender waist conlined.. , IVaHcr. 88 

That which makes us have no need Crashaw. 101 

The air is white with suow-flakes clinging Payne. 91S 

The Assyrian caine down like the wolf on the fold. . . Byron. 403 

The autumn time is with us Gallagher. 052 

The awful shadow of some unseen Power Shelley.^ 435 

Tlie bird that soars on highest wing Montgomery. 305 

The birds are singing by Avon bridge Bell. 609 

Tlie birds must know : who wisely sings Mrs. Jackson. &43 

The blessings which the weak and poor may Taf/ourd. 471 

The blue waves gently kiss the strand Eenner. 779 

The boy stood on the burning deck Hcmans. 44S 

The bread of life we bring Wasson. 7SG 

The breaking waves dashed high Mrs. Hemans. 44S 

The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by Verg. 713 

The bud is in the bough H.Smith. 354 

. 'J'hc bud will soon become a flower Vert/. 712 

The callow young were huddling in the nests ,4. Smith. 835 

The ceaseless hum of men, the dirty streets Burleigh. 705 

The city's shining towers Mrs. WakeJiM. SGI 

The clouds are scudding across Bayard Taylor, 807 

The color from the flouer is gone Shelley. 427 

The crimson sun was sinking dowu Sir Aubrey de Vere. 393 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day Gray. 182 

The curved strand Chadwick. 902 

The day is cold and dark and dreary Long/dlow. 631 

The diiy is ended : ere I sink to sleep Miss Kimball. 858 

The day still lingers though the sun is down Xoyes. 934 

The day was dark, save when the beam Elliott. 362 

The days of youth I The days of glad \\ic-'^MU..Mc Knight. 800 

The dead leaves strew the forest walk Brainard. 4S4 

The dead leaves their rich mosaics .S'- LonpfellQv\ T66 

The Death of Faust us Marloice. 25 

The deep affections of the breast Campbell. 330 

/The despot's heel is on thy shore Randall. 692 

The dew is on the summer's greenest grass Xicoll. 720 

The evening star rose beauteous Callanan. 469 

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame Shahspmre. 31 

The faithful helm commands the keel O'Reilly. 922 

The feathered songster chanticleer Chattertnn. 239 

The forces that prevail eternally McKnight. 900 

The garden trees are busy with the shower Hallam. C95 

The glories of our blood and state Shirley. fiO 

The gloom of the eea-frouting cliffs Dowden. 931 

The goddess gasped for breath Hirst. 7!S 

The good— they drop around us /. Williams, 549 

The gray sea and the long black land Browning. 710 

The groves of Blarney Milliken. 272 

The hands of my watch point to midnight Conant. 8S0 

The harp that once through Tava's halls Moore. 340 

The heath this night must be my bed Scott. 302 

The high-born soul disdains to rest Akenside. 187 

The honey-bee that wanders all day long Mrs. Botta. 770 

The hours are past, love Mrs. Kemble. 694 

The hours on the old piazza Story. 762 

The island lies nine leagues away R.H. Dana. 384 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece Byron. 308 

The jackdaw sat on the cardinars chair Barham. 405 

The joy-bells are ringing in gay Malahide Gri^n. K6 



/xY/)£X OF FinST LIXES. Etc. 



955 



The kill!? Bits lu Diiiifurnilhie town cn 

The lake lay \\U\ f n misi, niui m ilic eaiid MO 

The l:irk is tiu^'liif; in the bliiKliiii^ sky A. Smith. SliS 

The III tie comei t* comlii;; A ird. ttSO 

The Hitle giUc was reached at last Lowell. 7ii2 

The lopped tree iu time may grow nKaiii SouthweU. '23 

The Lord my pasture jthall prep;ire iddisim. 12S 

The lojst days of my life until to-day liuHHctti. S'iti 

The htvL'd . If early days U. Milter. (i'Jl 

The mellow year U haniin^ to its close //. Coleiidfte. 497 

Themiiihiiej-t of ihc Hebrew seei-s lirijant, 463 

The moriiini: breaks bonny o'er motintalii Tfii»n, 4(>9 

The mu>o. disi^Ui-tL-d at an avjc and clime lieiketey. 130 

I'hc name of C'ommoiiwt^allh is po^Land gone Ili/run. 3*J!) 

The nli:ht ha^ a th(»U!-and eyes liounlillon. 933 

The ni-rht is come: like to the day .Sir T. tJioinie. 87 

The old mayor climbed the belfry lower Minn Ingeloxc. S40 

The opal-hued and nniny-perfiimed morn SSG 

The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded Canipbell. 333 

The «>lher shape, if shape ir mi>;ht be called Stilton. 90 

The pilgrim fathers, where ore ihey Pierpont. 379 

The ]ioetry of ennh Is never dead.. Keats. 493 

The rain has ceased, and imniy room Aldrich. 803 

' The rain is o'er: how dense and bright Sortun. 'i^\ 

Tlie rain's come at ln!?t S31 

The reasoning faculty, and that we name Merivale. 344 

The qti;t1iiy of mercy is not strained Shakxiieare. 32 

The scene was more l)eanliful, far, to the eye Januii. 365 

The sea, (he sea, the open sea Procter. 335 

The shades of nii^hl were fulling fast iMnff/ellow. 633 

The silver moon's enamored beam ./. Cunningham. 2ti4 

The sky is bright— the breeze is fjiir Moore. 350 

The slui:;:ish smoke curls np Thorcau. 745 

The soul leaps np to hear Ibis mi;j;hiy sound Calvert. WH 

The soul of man is liri;cr than the sky. U. Coleridge. 4ft7 

The spacious Armament on high Addvton. 128 

The spearmen heard the bugle sound Spencer. 295 

The splendor falls on castle walls Tennynon. (JS3 

The spring is here— the delicate-fooled May Willis. C25 

The stars shed a dreamy light IJosmer. 731 

The sallry summer past, September cunics Wilcox. 4C2 

The summer sun was sinking Ayister. 442 

The sun descending in I he wcsU Blake. 250 

'i'he sun has gane down TaunahiU. 324 

The sun is careering iu glory and might Miss Mit/ord, 3S2 

The sun is up. and 'lis a morn of May Hunt. 371 

The sun is up betimes A.C. Coxe. 750 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear Shelley. 422 

The sun sank low ; beyond Uie harbor bar Collier. (tl7 

The sun sets iu night Mrs. Anne Hunter. 225 

The sunshine of thine eye?" Lathrop. 037 

The sweetest flower that ever saw the light Al/ord. 692 

The tattoo beats, ibe lighu» arc gone If. Jt. Jackmn. 773 

The Ihoughts are strange that crowd into my Urninnrd. 435 

The time will come full soon Mrs. Moulton. !>63 

The trees are barren, cold, and brown D. Jt. Goodnle. 9-12 

The turf shall be my fra^'rant shrine 3toore. 340 

The twilight hours, like birds flew by Mrs. Welby. 779 

The very pulse of ocean now was still fCSa/gent. 710 

The vicomle Is wearing a brow itf gloom Durivage. 727 

The voice which I did more esteem Wither. 51 

The waters are tljishlug Shelley. 423 

The waves came moaning up the shore Collier* 9IS 

The waves oflighl are drifting Jtobbins. 707 

The weather-Ieerh of ihe lop-miil shivers MitrhHl. si3 

The wind came blowing out iif ihc West Unrney. S5.t 

The Wind one mornin;: sprang np from (deep lluiri/t. 4S3 

The world is too much with n^ Wordsirorth. 292 

The w.»rld may chnn^o tntm old to new Mrs. Adams. 000 

The world of luatier, wlih its various ri>rms. Young. 137 

Then hate me when thou will ; ifever now Shaksjyeare. 30 

Then Shnkfppiire rrt^e .Sprague, 415 

Theu the ma.-ler, wlih a gesiure of command. . .i*ii*^r//oir. 0»9 

Then welcime. Death I thy dreaded harbingers .young. 137 

Tliere arc no {l|<t bnt what we make C. CoUon. 114 

There cnme three men onii,rihc West 7ft 

There came to the beach Campbell. 387 



There hangs a sabre, and there a rein Dnrivage. 727 

There have been pnels lluit in verse die>phiy.../i. Coleridge. 4'.'7 

There is a garden in her Hice .-I Hmh. 23 

Tliere is a glorious ciiy in the sea Jtvgets. 20S 

There is a happy laud A. Young. C5S 

There is a saucy rogue well known Conant. s.sii 

There is May iu books f!)revcr Ilnnt. 37! 

There is no death ; the common cml Wmtz. 9i)3 

There is no remedy for time misspent I)e Vere. 893 

There is no unbelief 556 

There is nut in the wide world Moore. 345 

There lives a young lassie ..ImUih. ftVO 

There sat an old man on a rot-U Lmllmr. s^i 

There, too, our elder sister plied Whilticr. OiiJ 

There was a jovial beggar 157 

There was a lady lived at Leilh Maginn. 441) 

There was n season when the fabled name Keats. A'J-l 

There was a slumberims silence in the air llnrne. 5>1 

There was a sound of revelry by night iiyron. 390 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and . . . WurdsKortlu 2su 

There was never a castle seen Uay. S94 

There was not on thai day a s))eck to slain Sonthey. 321 

There were three sailors of Bristol city Thackeray. 090 

There were iwa sisters sat iu a bow'r 77 

Thereof it comes that these fair souls which \\\\\c..S}ienaer. 13 

There's a good time coming, boys Mackay. 725 

There's a grim one-hurse hearse SoeU 527 

There's never an always cloudless sky Savage, 910 

These are thy glorious winks, Parent of good Milton, 97 

These as they change, Aluiighty Father, these.... r/ioni«on. 167 

These songs of mine, Ihe be^t that I have sung Stoddard, 8U3 

These times touch moneyed worldlings Wordsirorth. 2iMl 

They are all gone into the world uflighL Vaughan. 107 

They are flown, tjeautiful fictions Carringtun. 341 

They gave mc advice and counsel Ueine^ byMarliiu 740 

They grew iu beauty side by side Mrs. Ucmans. 447 

They sin who tell us love can die Southey. 320 

They speak uf never*witliering shades Mrs. ItaihaulJ. 227 

They tell me first and early love IJeddcncick. 729 

They tell us, love, that you and 1 547 

They were two princes doomed to death Mrs. Piatt. S05 

They'll talk of him for years to come Mahony. 599 

Things of high imp(M*t s<>und I in thine cars E. Peabiniy. 623 

Think in how poor a prison thou didst lie Donne. 43 

Til ink me not unkind and rude Emerson, 593 

Think not that strcugih lies in the big J, A. Ab'xander. 667 

Think upon Death : 'tis good to think //. Coleridge. 498 

Think you I choose or that or this losing Dotcden. 933 

This day bey(md all contradiction Prard. 076 

This figure that thou here seest put Jonson, 44 

This gentleman and I Ufyirood. 36 

This is her picture as she was JioMctti. 822 

This is my little sweetheart dead Sora Perry. 920 

This is the ship of pearl Holmes. 054 

This motley piece to you I send J/, dreen. 1M 

This only grant me. that my means may lie Cotrley. Ill 

This royal ihnme of kings, this sceptred isle. ..Shakajteare. 82 

This sweet child which hath climbed limf.f. S5» 

This world a bunting is Drumtuond. 50 

This world I deem Whytfhend. 701 

Thnu art the resi, the hniguor sweet Mrs. Conant. S95 

Thnu blossom bright with autumn dew Hryant. 407 

Thmi must not nndervatne what thou haet Chapman. 19 

ThiMi say'Hf, my friend (Sonnet) B. Sargent. 717 

Thou slill uiiravir^hed bride of quietness Krats. 4;»5 

Thou who didst deny lo ine Vaughan, ins 

Tho'j whii didst put to flight young. 1S5 

Thcnigh hard surroundings, like unsparing Utea.. if e Knight, S^ 

Though short ihy space Canning. 276 

Though when I loved ihee thou werl fair Sfnulef/. 114 

^Thought is deeper than nil speech Cranrh. 714 

Those evenirii; bells! those evening bells Moore. 34" 

Those we hive truly never die <»'Heitiy. 022 

Thou art come from tlic spirits' laud Mrs. Hrmnns. 449 

Thou art my morninL', twilight, noon, and eve tMthrop. 937 

Thou an. O God, Ihe life and ll^'hl Moore. .'143 

Thou art plucking spring roses, iJenic Mrs. Fletcher. 5GS 



956 



IXDEX OF Finsr LINES, ETC. 



PAGE 

Thou happy, happy elf Hood. 513 

Thou lingeiiug star, with lesc^euin^' lay Burns. '159 

Thou sny'st, '-Take up thy cross" Palfjrave. T9G 

Thou siiigest by the gleaming isles Ahirich. SOT 

Thou that drawest aside the curtain A lice Gary. 709 

Thou wilt never grow old Mrs. Howartk. 54T 

Thou wouldst be loved?— then let thy heart Poe. 005 

Three days through sapphire seas we sailed Droivnell. 773 

Three fishers went sailing away to the West Kingsley. 705 

Three, only three, my darling 532 

Tlueeecore o' nobles rade up the king's ha' 554 

Thi'ough every age AkenaUie. 1S7 

Through love to light ! Oh, wonderful Gilder. 924 

Throughout the world, if it were sought Wyatt 

Throw thyj^elf on thy God Herschel. 441 

Thus doth Beauty dwell Akenside. 1S7 

Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme H. K. White. 377 

Thus it fell upon a night Guwer. 3 

Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream Lotjan. 234 

Thy cheek is o' the rose*s hue Gait. 330 

Thy memory as a spell ...Macnish. 573 

Thy smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays Walker. 409 

Thy will be done. Almighty God Mrs. McCord. C74 

Tiger, tiger, bui'niiig bright Blake. 250 

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back Shakspeare. 31 

/ Time moveth not ; our being 'tis U.K. White. 377 

'Tis a fearful night iu the winter-time Eastman. 738 

'Tis Autumn, and my steps J. H. Bryant. 627 

'Tis gone, that bright and orbed blaze Keble. 437 

'Tis ratirn : the sea-breeze seems to bring Prentice. 57S 

'Tis not every day that I — Merrick. 54 

*Tis not for golden eloquence I pray F. Tcnni}son. 617 

'Tis strange what awkward figures Hood. 511 

'Tis sweet to think the pure, ethereal being Barham. 407 

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six J. Smith. 330 

'Tis the last rose of summer Moore. 34S 

'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night Drake. 473 

'Tis the part of a coward to brood Hayne. 849 

'Tis time this heart shtmld be unmovcri Biiron. 400 

'Tis Winter, cold and rude Coivper. 212 

To bring a cloud upon the summer day Taylor. 507 

To-day, what is there in the air ^..Marzials. 926 

To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name Jonson. 43 

To France trudged homeward two grenadiers, .f. T. Brooks. 711 

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds Bryant. 464 

To learned Athens, led by fame Mrs. BarbaiUd. 227 

To leave the world a name is naught Mangan. 590 

To London, once my steps I bent Lydyate. 4 

To sea! to sea! the calm is o'er Beddoes. 591 

To thee, fair Freedom, I retire Shenstone. 182 

To the ocean now I fly Milton. 100 

To the sages who spoke, to the heroes Sprarjw. 415 

To wake the soul by lender strokes of art Pope. 150 

To whom our Saviour calmly thus replied Milton. 9S 

To whom the winged hiernrch replied Milton. !>3 

To thine eternal arms, O God Hiqyinaon. 791 

To yon, my purse, and to none other wight Chattcer. 2 

To you the beauties of the autumnal year Southey. 323 

Toll for the brave Cowper. 214 

To-morrow, didst thou say JV'. Cotton. 175 

Too feebly nerved for so severe a trial.. .Sir Robert de Vere. 393 

Too soon so fair, fair lilies Mr-n. Webster. 913 

Too lovely and too early lost O. W, B. Peabody. 524 

Too late I stayed,— forgive the crime Spe7iccr. 295 

Too young thou art to read Mrs. McCord. 676 

Touch, for your life, no single viand costly Mias Preston. 919 

Touch once more a sober measure Lockhart. 453 

Touch us gently, Time B.W. Procter. .SSG 

Tonssaint, the most unhappy man of men Wordsworth. 2!>3 

"Traitor?" I go— but I return Croly. 358 

Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! II. B.Saryent. 778 

Tread softly— how the head Mrs. Southey. 391 

Triumphal arch, that fiU'st the sky Campbell. 339 

True happiness had no localities Pollok. 517 

True it is that clouds and mist 540 

True poet!— Back, ihon dreamer Linton. "04 

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel Tennyson. tiS4 



'Twasamid a scene of blood Charlton. t22 

'Tvvas April ; 'twas Sunday J. F. Clarke. b7S 

"J'wiis at the royal feast for Persia wou Dryden. 115 

'Twas the day when God's Anoint eil Hedye. G13 

'Twas morn, and beauteous on ihe mountain's Bowles. £65 

'Twas nicu'u : the rising splendor rolled Croly. 357 

'Twas the day beside the Pyiainids Thornbury. 824 

'Twas the night before Christmas C. C. Moore. 351 

'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas Miss Fanshawe, 530 

Twelve years ago, 1 knew thee, Knowles Lamb. 327 

Twelve years are gone since Matthew Lee Ji. U. Dana. 384 

'Twas needful that with life of h»w degree McKnight. 900 

Two armies covered hill and plain Thompson. 7S9 

Two went to pray ? Oh, rather say Crashaw. 102 

Under the stormy skies, whose wan Miss Barr. 939 

LTnder this stone doth lie ViWers. 502 

Underneath this sable hearse Jonson. ^5 

Unfading llope I when life's last embers burn Campbell, 340 

Unlike those feeble gales of praise Moore. 34S 

Unmerciful ! whose (tffice teacheth mercy Knoivles. 457 

Up from the meadows rich with corn Whittter. 636 

Up from the South at break of day Bead. 781 

Up I pilgriui and rover, redouble thy haste Croswell. 603 ■ 

Upon GoJ's throne there is a seat for nie Crauch. 714 

Upon the hill he turned Bayly. 501 

Upon the white sea-sand Frances Brown, 741 

Vane, young in years, but in sage counsel old Milton, 99 

Various and vast, suhlime in all its forms Crabbe. 245 

"Venice Preserved," Scene from Otway. 121 

Venomous thorns that are so sharp Wyatt. 6 

" Virgiuius," Knowles's, Scene from 450 

Vital spark of heavenly flume Pope. 140 

Wake from thy azure oceaD-l>ed 54S 

Wake not. O mother ! sotmds of lamentation Heber, 303 

Wake now, my Love, awake; for it is time Spenser. 10 

Walk with the beautiful Burrington. 551 

W'as ever sorrow like to our soirow Lady Wilde. 842 

W:ives, waves, waves ! If. ^4 lexander. 797 

'W;iy down upon de Swannee Ribber Foster. 810 

We are b<nn ; we laugh; we weep Procter. 3S6 

We are living— we are dwelling A.C. Coxe. 750 

We are two travellers, Roger and I Trowbridge. S20 

We be soldiers three 104 

We break the glass whose sacred wine Pinkney. 573 

We count the broken lyres that rest Uohnes. €56 

We every-day bards may ^^ Anonymous*^ sigu J- Smith. 330 

We have met again to-night Everett Peabody. 522 

We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair Siiivbur7w. 873 

We knew it would rain, for all the morn Aldrich, SOS 

We know not what it is, dear Mrs. Dodge. 904 

We live in deeds, not years Bailey. 735 

W'e sail toward evening^s lonely star Mrs. Thaxtr. 802 

W'e sleep and wake aud sleep Tennyson. CSS 

We see them not— we cannot fear Hawker. 5S5 

We talked with open heart and tongue Wordsworth. 285 

We watched her breathing through the night .Hood. 514 

We were not many, we who stood Ho f man. 617 

W'eary of myself, and sick of asking M. Arnold. 7S3 

Webster's "Duchess of Malt5," Scenes from 34 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower Burns. 257 

Wee Willie Winkie W. Miller. 692 

Weep not for me J. H. Xewman. 572 

Well do I love those various harnnmies McLellan. 693 

Were I as base as is the lowly plain Sylvester. 23 

What action wouldst thon wish to have in hand..C/fa;)7»an. 19 

What can a poor man do but love and pray H. Coleridge. 498 

What constitutes n State Sir Win. Joneji. 232 

What dost th(Ui bring tome Mrs. Dorr. 809 

What dost thou see, lone watcher on the tower Mackay. 724 

What dream of beauty ever equalled this Howitt. 483 

What heartache— ne'er a hill Lanier, 917 

What is hope? A smiling rainbow Carlyle. 475 

Wliat is that, mother Doane. 51S 

What makes a hero?— not success H. Tay/or. 565 

What needs my Shakspeare for his honored boucs. ..Milton. 99 



IXDEX OF FIRST LIXES, ETC. 



957 



What nothing enrlhly gives or can deplroy Pope. 147 

What !«acrirtce of (Imnk.- lieaumout and Fletcher. 4S 

What fhati 1 do le^t life in hilence pas-s W9 

AVhat shall I tloto be f.-rever known OoWft/. 110 

Whal'ei hallowed ground f lias enrlb n clod CampMl. 3:J3 

Whni'tt Ihis dnil Mwn to me Lady Keppd, 220 

What vXum Iinve fiidcd fiom oiii' cky C. 0. Cox. 737 

What ihon^'h I ^in^' no ollter i=onf; Winter. STO 

What lhont.'h,VaitIusa, ihc Tond bard be fled Ittmsell. 266 

When all i;* done and t>aid Lord Vaux. 7 

Whon :tll Ihy mercies. O my God Addiium, 127 

When Britain tlrsi, at Heaven's command ThoiiiHon. 169 

When Ciddness wraps ihis MiffiMin^ clay lit/ron. 404 

When Delia on the plain appears Li/ttelton. Ill 

Whene'er with h:igi;;ird »'yes I view Catining. 2Tfl 

When Fiiith and Love, which parted from Ihee never.. Wj7(«m. lOO 

When !ir>I, des^cendini; from the moiirlands tt'ordmrortli, 291 

When Kalhcring clonds are darkly ronnd Mrs.Seicatl. '.%S 

When I nra dead, no pageant tridn E. Everett. 4S9 

When I a verse !<hall make Herrick. 57 

When I beneath the cold, red earth om 8]eeping..Vo(/ierirf(/. 5nl 

When I consider how my light is spent MUton. 09 

When Israel, of ihe Lord bel.ived Scott. 301 

When I wus hound apprenlice 15G 

When I was still a youthful wight Goethe. SIS 

When icicles hang by tlie wnll Shakujteare. 29 

When Lettic hnd scarce parsed her thu'd glad year. . yitriwr. C50 

When Love with nncnnthied wings Lovelace. Iu9 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young CoUiuH. liiO 

When I'hiloctetcs in the Lvmnian isle Wordstcorth. 293 

When Kobin Hood in the greenwood lived 79 

When ''hall we three meet again 15S 

When the Itrilish warrior-queen Coteper. 211 

When the grass stiall cover me M2 

When the humid shad4»w8 hover Kinncfj. SI I 

When the hunter's moim is waning Mis. Mace. SCO 

When (he sheep are in the fauld Anne liarnard. S^iO 

When to any saint I pray l'arHon». ".%9 

When !<► my Charles this book I J^cnd Leteis. 32S 

When t'» the sessions uf sweet silent thonght...*i'/iaiyf/wrtrtf. 29 

When we two parted Byron. 403 

When wlii-pering strains with creeping wiiyl Strode. 01 

When Yankees, skilled in martial rnle Truothnll. 2?A 

When youthful faith halh lied Lockhart. 4W 

Whereas In ward full oft I would Jamrs I. of Scotland. 5 

Where is the sea?— I languish here J/r«. Ueoiantt. 451 

Where the bee sucks, there suck I... Shak^jt-are. 2S 

Where now, where, O spirit pure Craneh. 715 

Where the rocks are gray Mis» Pa<jc. &>" 

Where did you come from, baby dear Macihnald. "9" 

Where dost Ihou careless lie Johiuton, 44 

Where the remote liermtidas ride Marvel/. Ill 

Where waitesl thou E. Arnold. t52 

\\'heie, where will be the birds that ^lng H'. tl. Urotcn. 546 

\Vliere. then, shall Hope and Fear S. John/ton. 179 

Wherever I wander, up and ab<nit Unchanatu 907 

Which I wish to remark Ilarte. 879 

While ro-cf* are so red J/i>w Itometti. 834 

While thee I seek, protccling I'ltwer J/i>i*i tt'dlianiH. 2C2 

While-capped wuves far round the ocean Clarke. C7S 

Who killed the girls and thrilled the boys TenntjHon. 605 

Wht»e*er she be Cratthaw. 101 

Who cari's for nothing alone is free inii/«-. SfiO 

Who is Silvia? What is she Shakujtearr, 2S 

Who is the happy wanioi-y Who is he Woidnworth. 2S4 

Who seeketh Andtj: what shall be his relief Shairp. 708 

Who will say the worhl is dying KinijHlaj. 705 

\\ ho will tell me the secret, the cause Dc Ka]i, 9H3 

Whose [nip art thou, with dimpled check Minn liaillie. 26C 

Why are yiiu wandering here, I pray Kcnneij. 369 

Why art ihon slow, ihtui rest of trouble. Death... J/a«*i'H^r. 43 

Why does yonr brand sac drap wi* hinde 83 

Why doubt, then, the glurions truth to sing Younff. 137 

Why hhonld I, with n mmirnful, morbid Hplccn Uaijne. S4S 

Wliy should valii mortals tremble at the sight of Silrti. 223 

Why should we faint and fear to live nlune Kchle. 4»S 

Why su pale and wan, foud lover Suckling. 103 



AVhy thus longing, thns forever eigbiog Mrs. SeieaU. 75T 

Why weep ye by the tide, ladle i>cott. SOO 

Wild rose of Ailoway 1 my thanks Halleck. 47S 

Will you walk into my parlor Mari/ liowUt. 597 

Winds of the north ! restrain your icy gales Ifarwin. 2uO 

W'inged mimic of the woods Wilde. 412 

Wings have wc— and as far as we can go WorOsnurth. 294 

With deep affection and recollection Mahony. 51t9 

Willi sacrifice before the rising morn Wordsworth. 287 

With ships the sea was sprinkled Wordnicorth, 292 

Willi silent awe I hail the sucred morn Leydcn. 326 

Within the sober realm of leafless trees Head. 782 

Without your showers Freman. 244 

Word was brought to the Danish king Mrit. Sortmi, 04S 

Would that thou wert more strong Grijin. 604 

Would you be young again Haroness Xairne. 271 

Wouldst thou hear what man can say /onstm. 45 

Wile, who in thy deep devotion Jioct7ctfl. C-»8 

With alt thy country's blessings ou thy hcad.,.Vr«. Stockton. 549 

With fingers weary and worn HihmI. 5i>9 

With thine compared, O sovereign Poesy Tuicntthend. &88 

Within a thick and spreading hawtborn-bnsh Clare. 452 

Within the garden of IJeaucaire Stedman. SM 

Wiiiumt haste, without rest C. C. Cox. 7:S7 

When spring comes laughing fJob«on. Syii 

When Erin flrst rose from the dark, swelling flood. />rci»iic/i. 543 

Wheu I attain to uller f*ulh in verse Mrs. lirowniivj. 07n 

When I consider, as I'm forced to do Weeks. &9S 

When the vast heaven is dark Fane. S22 

When the old flaming Prophet Cartiervjht. 5.^0 

Where art thou loveliest, O Xatnre, I ell tiarnen. 673 

W'here is Miss Myrtle, can any one tell i'raed. 574 

\\ hen I was a bi-y— I'm an old man now Miss Vandyne. 94li 

Where art thou, wood-dove i>f Hesperian climes Uosuier. 731 

Wheu last the maple bud was swelling. Gaila'jher. 651 

W'hcn a' ither bairnies arc hushed Thum. 409 

When evening spreads her shades around.. .L. M. Davidson. 643 
Wheu first I looked into thy glorious eyes. . . Mrs. Whifman. 5S3 

Wheu Freedom from her mountain height Drake. 472 

When on the breath of autumn breeze Mary Hoiritt. 69S 

When Vulcan cleft the laboring brain H'. li. Uami'.tun. C13 

Whence dost thou come to me Pcrcival, 4S3 

Who is it knocks this stormy night lifood. 897 

Who was it that so lately said Trench. ©41 

When that Phmbus his chair of gold so high Chaucer. 1 

When the mild weather came K. Sargent 7IC 

Where are ye with whom in life I started 541 

With diamond dew the grass was wet Winter. S69 

With his gnarled old arms H. U. JackmtK 770 

With no fund sickly thirst for fame Mrs. E. O. Smith. CIO 

With all their misery, with all their sin Gilbert. S7l 

With the same letter heaven and home begin Very. 712 

Woods, waieis, have a charm to soothe the ear Simvis. 013 

Worn with the battle, by Stamford town Cotlycr. 793 

Why should /sing? The scenes which nmscd. .M.Davids'n. 645 
Wouldsl thou not be content to die ,...Ovnie. 920 



Ye banks and braes and streams around /itirtut. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doou'. Jjtirns. 

Ye braves of the Ancient League Mr Master. 

Y'e crags and peaks, Pm with you once again Knotrtes. 

Ye distant sjiires, ye antique towers tira;f. 

Ye gentle birds, that perch aloof Ilaid'ti. 

Ye gentlemen of England — Parker. 

Ye glasse was at my lippc Lriohton. 

Y'e golden lamps of heaven, farewell ik-ldridr^. 

Ye hasten to the dead I what seek ye there 

Ye heavy-hearted mariners W. B. ' 

Ye marincns of England '---,' 

Ye orbs that tremble through infinity Totrnf^hnid. 

Ye eny they all have passed away MrM.Sigi/um'-y. 

Ye sous of Columbia, who bravely have fought Paine. 

Ye stari*, which are the poetry of heaven Byron, 

Ye wht> think the tnith ye sow 

Ye who would save yonr (fcatnres florid U.Smith. 

Yc whoi*e hearts are beating liigh Keblc, 

Yes, happy friend, the cross was (hlnc WiMams. 



2f>S 
201 
S31 
457 

v.:o 

\M 
7S5 
171 



419 

3IS 



r.3i 

358 
43H 
707 



958 



IXD£X OF FIRST LINES, ETC. 



PACK 

Yeg, ?till I love Ihce ! Time, who sets Dawes. 5S9 

Yes, visions of his future rest O. H'. B. Peabody. b'Si 

Yet I confess in this my pili;rim;i<;e Wither. 51 

Yet Hope, cast back on feeling, iir-^iies thus Hi/jnonds. 912 

"Yet life," you sny, *'is life" WordHivnrt/u 294 

Yet once more, oh ye laurels, and once more Milton. 93 

Yet one Braile more, departing, distant snn Bryant. 463 

Yon car of fire, though veiled l)y day G. hunt. 621 

YcindLM- is a little drum, haniring on the wall Jcrrold. 5S4 

Yuii liave uutrun your fortune Lytton. 606 



Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn Lover. 5(i7 

You meaner beauties of the night Wotlon. 39 

You bid me try. Blue-eye^ to write Dohson. S06 

Y'our lower limbs seemed far from stout J. Smith. 329 

Your poem must eternal be Coleridge. 317 

Y'outh, iliat pursue^-t with such eager pace Milnea. 650 

Y''outh,thoa art fled, but where are a 11 the char nis.H.Coierirff/e. 497 

Y'oii know we French stormed Katisbon Browning. 710 

You might have won the Poet's name Tennyson. 6S2 

You've woven roses round my way Mrs.Osgood. 708 



THE END. 



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